Grandmother Lovely By Skye Woods Maria Alvarez's heart slammed against her chest after she watched two police officers shoot an innocent African-American teenager. The teenager who suffered being killed was a thirteen-year-old honor roll student. The young man was a hero because before being killed by the police he had just saved a little boy from being hit by a car while walking to school. Instead of being thanked by the child’s mother for his heroic actions, the teenager ended up getting shot to death by two racist police officers, who thought he was reaching for a gun. The teenager got into an altercation with the two policemen, when the two officers said that he fit the profile of a wanted suspect. The policemen killed the teenager, even after they witnessed him saving a child’s life. Maria felt outraged after witnessing the two policemen shoot an innocent thirteen-year-old boy to death. When Maria woke up in the morning, she somehow knew that two cops would shoot an innocent teenager right in front of her house. Sometimes she could see the future and she knew that the policemen would kill the teenager because the child’s Nubian black skin color made him a threat, even after he saved a two-year-old baby from being struck by a car. Maria knew that the two policemen would shoot the teenager, and she also knew what it felt like to have a bullet inside her. One night while Maria was at a gas station, an attacker tried to rob her and he ended up shooting her multiple times in her back and in her chest. But Maria didn’t even have to go to the hospital that night after being shot eleven times by the carjacker. She ended up killing the carjacker when he attempted to steal her SUV with her four-year-old grandson still in the backseat. The carjacker threatened to shoot Maria’s grandbaby if she attempted to stop him from stealing her car. The carjacker underestimated Maria thinking she was an average helpless old lady. Maria broke the carjacker’s neck with one arm and she dislocated the man’s arm before officially killing him. Maria killed plenty of criminals over the years, and the carjacker was one of many. Maria was a sixty-three-year-old woman who used to be a rock musician, and she looked younger than her age. She had spiky silver hair that had a purplish tinge. She wore earrings shaped like skull heads and she also wore a silver ring in her nose. Since Maria was a huge rock fan and a former rock artist herself, she had the logo of the rock band Van Halen tattooed on her right arm, and she tattooed the young face of rocker Jon Bon Jovi on her left. Maria was a very attractive old lady and her clothing style was gothic. She loved wearing her black dresses and her black leather motorcycle jacket. Maria’s gothic fashion blended well with her very shapely and well-sculpted breasts and hips. She found it funny that at her age she still would get asked out on dates by younger men who were old enough to be her grandsons. Maria would have to reject the advances of younger men because number one, she was too old for them, and number two, she wasn’t ready to enter the dating scene again. The last man Maria dated was her husband. Maria had to watch her husband die all because she refused to do a job for a London crime lord, and she also refused to do a job for the boss of an underground Japanese crime syndicate. Maria had a dark past that went with her. She used to be a former rock musician, but her rock career was only her part-time job. Maria used to be an agent for the CIA, and she was one of the best operatives the CIA ever had. But Maria ended up getting laid off from her job because of government budget cuts and new CIA recruitments who were far younger than her and could do the job longer. It didn’t hurt Maria when she lost her job, but she tried to search for a new job that demanded her skill set, which was killing people. When Maria first joined the CIA, she didn’t start out as a killer, but a hero. It was fun at first when she had to execute a terrorist leader or a corrupt politician, but things took a dark turn for Maria when she had to carry out assassinations that required killing innocent people. Maria was an efficient killer, and she could execute using anything as a weapon. She once killed a man ten times her size using a screwdriver and when she had a gun in her hand, she had a special gift at shooting with deadly precision. One time she had to assassinate five men who were terrorists, and she ended up killing all five of the men using one handgun that only had two bullets. She killed three men using one bullet, and she killed the other two men using her hands instead of the gun. Maria loved using knives and swords. She perfected the art of knife throwing and her favorite sharp weapon was a sword. She remembered after getting hired as an assassin; Her boss gave her a contract to kill a rival London crime boss. After Maria lost her job with the CIA, she began looking for a job that paid and she knew that becoming a contract killer wasn’t the best option, but she did it because working as a cashier at a local Walmart wasn’t paying enough. Maria remembered the night she had to kill the London crime lord. She remembered how he was a burly and rugged man who collected Samurai swords and displayed them on the wall of his office inside of a nightclub he owned. Maria remembered the look on the London crime boss’s face when he tried to shoot her using his machine gun. The man watched in shock as Maria slapped down every single bullet that came out of his machine gun. She even sliced some bullets in half using one of his Samurai swords. The London crime lord never thought he’d see an old woman do something that was impossible, and he also never thought a beautiful old lady would end up chopping off his head using one of his Samurai swords. Maria remembered what she was wearing the night she chopped the London gangster’s head off. She remembered how his blood splattered all over her black leather jacket and the white sleeveless dress she wore beneath it. Maria never forgot how she carried the London crime lord’s head with one hand while using the Samurai sword in her other hand to slaughter thirty of the London crime lord’s bodyguards. Maria remembered how she turned a South East London nightclub into a war zone using the sword to execute one man after the next. Young men and women were on the nightclub’s dance floor, moving to the sound of hip-hop and electro dance music. The young men and women were oblivious to Maria who was running and flipping across the nightclub’s floor avoiding gunfire and chopping off heads, arms, and legs using her sword. This was the night that Maria discovered she had supernatural powers. While fighting inside the nightclub, Maria ended up getting shot thirty times. But the bullet wounds would heal in a matter of seconds, and Maria couldn’t feel the pain of the gunshots. The nightclub became vacant when Maria started shooting explosions of white fire out of her hands. All the young men and women who were dancing to the club music ran from the nightclub. Maria was alone standing in the middle of the dark club holding a London crime lord’s head in her hand and looking around at the sea of dead men’s bodies that surrounded her bare feet. It was a night to remember for Maria. She thought about how she was racing through the streets of London on her motorcycle, holding a man’s severed head and realizing that she was the world’s most dangerous assassin at fifty-nine-years-old, which was her age at the time. Being an assassin at first felt good for a moment, but Maria soon grew tired of killing people. She didn’t mind executing criminals, but she had a problem with killing innocent people. Maria had to find a way out even though she knew there would be consequences. Becoming a contract killer gave Maria a one-hundred-thousand-dollars a year, and Maria enjoyed the money, but she felt that she was losing her soul. There was an underground secret society for contract killers that Maria was a part of. The only way you could leave the society was by sacrificing a loved one. Maria didn’t want to lose her husband, but it was the only way she could get out of the game. Her husband, Frank, even agreed to have himself killed so that his wife could be free from being a member of the underground world of assassins. Maria remembered how her husband blew a kiss at her before getting shot in his head at point-blank range. This story could have ended sadly, but just because Maria watched her husband get shot right in front of her doesn’t mean he died. Maria soon discovered that she had the ability to resurrect the dead, and that’s what she did to her husband. Maria never forgot how she almost gave her daughter Jenny a heart attack. When Jenny went to visit her mother, she almost went into shock when she saw her father sitting at the dining room table after just attending his funeral a month ago. Maria had a lot of explaining to do to her daughter and even after explaining her supernatural gift to Jenny, Jenny couldn’t believe it. Maria tried to explain to her daughter that after she became a born again Christian, she felt something enter her body. It was something that Maria never felt before like a supernatural charge running through her veins. Maria also told her daughter she was a former assassin and that she used her God-given gift to resurrect all the innocent people the government sent her to kill. It was a hard thing to explain to her daughter, but God helped her. Maria was a goddess or at least that’s what she felt like, thanks to the God she believed in. God had given her powerful gifts and now every criminal who lived in the state of Texas feared Maria because she had become a new assassin. She was an assassin who now worked for God instead of working for a crime boss. Maria had a smile on her face when she first woke up in the morning. She did not know that she would walk out on her front porch to witness a child get shot to death by two trigger-happy police officers. Before she saw the policemen shoot and kill the teenager, Maria could hear the boy shouting at the two policemen. “Man, fuck y’all! I was just walking to school, and I ran out into the street to save this baby from being hit by a car! Now y’all gonna try to arrest me and I didn’t even do nothing!” That’s what Maria heard the black teenager say to the policemen through his tears. While arguing with the policemen, the teenager reached for his smartphone in his back pocket so he could call his mom. When Maria walked out on her front porch, that’s when she saw the teenager reaching for his phone, and that’s when she witnessed the two policemen open fire on the child, assuming that he was reaching for a firearm. It enraged Maria to see that after the two policemen discovered that the teenager didn’t have a weapon, to exclude themselves of committing murder, the two policemen planted a small twenty-two caliber pistol in the dead teenager’s hand, to make it look like the child was armed and that the officers were only defending themselves. This angered Maria. It angered her so much that she crushed in her hand a hot cup of coffee she was drinking. Maria looked down at the blood and the broken pieces of glass in her hand that used to be a coffee mug. The gothic grandmother watched as the bloody cuts in her hand healed up in an instant. Maria’s body transformed into a state of invincibility and she was a sixty-three-year-old woman who now had bulletproof skin, thanks to God. Through her years of working for the CIA, Maria witnessed countless acts of racism. She realized that the U.S. government was the biggest racist organization in the world. Maria was glad that the CIA ended her employment after she secretly discovered a top-secret government program that involved killing off all African Americans. The government planned to release a bioweapon into the drinking water that ran through inner-city neighborhoods and places heavily populated with blacks. Besides corrupting the water filtration plants near inner-city neighborhoods, Maria also discovered how the government was using law enforcement to kill off young African Americans. But what Maria discovered was only the tip of the iceberg. There were darker government secrets, and one of them involved a top-secret program called Operation Nightfall. The Operation Nightfall program involved creating a neuro-gas that was colorless and odorless and could only affect the minds of people of African American descent. The name of this neuro-gas was X714. Once X714 becomes inhaled through the nose and mouth of an African American man, woman, or child, it triggers chemicals in the brain such as Serotonin that causes deep depression and suicidal tendencies. The government planned to not only use X714 to kill off African Americans in the United States but they also planned to use their bio-weapons throughout the world, especially in Africa and in Haiti. X714 would exterminate every starving baby, every mother, every father, every African tribe and all African families who lived in every African continent. X714 would cause every person of color to fall into a deep depression and commit suicide, along with every black person living in the U.S. and across the world. X714 would affect African American celebrities and even an African American woman who was the president of the United States. It was the rise of a deadly bio-engineered disease that would cause an already oppressed race of people to kill themselves, and soon the African race would become extinct. X714 was in its early stages of development. The government released samples of the weapon into the air over parts of Chicago such as the Southside, and in parts of California, such as Compton, Los Angeles. The government still had to work a few bugs out of X714, because instead of causing suicides, it would cause black on black crime, race riots, and irrational violence and anger with African American young men. Black people were still destroying themselves through poverty, drugs, criminal activity, and gang violence because of X714, but it wasn’t the way the government wanted blacks to kill themselves. Committing suicide was a much cleaner and efficient way of destroying a race of people. It would take years to make X714 perfect so that the bio-engineered chemical weapon could do what the government designed it to do. At first, the government considered bringing slavery back, but they felt that eradicating black people altogether was a better plan. X714 would be the answer to a racist white person’s prayer. There would not be any more prejudice towards black people and fear towards black people thanks to X714. The little mind of a racist white man or woman would be at peace because they didn’t have to worry about their sons and daughters marrying a black person or worrying about black families moving into their neighborhood. Thanks to the U.S. government, X714 was on the rise and Operation Nightfall was starting its process of destruction. But the U.S. government and their brilliant team of military scientists had a problem. That problem was Maria Alvarez. A grandmother who was a former rock musician, a former CIA agent and a former assassin who would cause the U.S. government a world of trouble because of her God-given supernatural abilities. Maria would not stop and she was a powerful and relentless killer. Imagine the fictional action movie hero, John Wick, only if John Wick was a beautiful Hispanic sixty-three-year-old woman with short spiky hair and supernatural gifts. It was all going to crash and burn for the U.S. government. Maria stood on the steps of her porch watching the two policemen who were standing over the black teenager’s body mumbling to each other and speaking into their police radios. Maria felt herself becoming more infuriated while listening to the conversation between the two policemen. They were talking as if they were at a restaurant. Maria could see that one policeman was far younger than his partner. He had blonde hair and a clean-shaven face with a medium build and pale white skin. Maria thought the younger policeman had a boyish face. He looked like a nerdy little boy with a man’s body which irritated Maria. From his looks, she could tell that he was a rookie. The much older policeman looked ruggedly handsome in the face. He looked like the cowboy type, sporting a thick gray mustache, a three-day beard and experienced wrinkles in his square-shaped face. Gray peppered his hair, and he was balding a little at the top of his head. The older cop had a bigger and bulkier body compared to his younger partner. The older policeman also wore dark aviator sunglasses that concealed his lifeless eyes. Maria began to saunter down the steps of her home while listening to what the older policeman was saying to his younger partner. “We’re not getting in trouble for this,” the older policeman stated. “Yeah, but he didn’t have a gun.” The young policeman said. “That’s why we planted the gun on him to make it look like he had one. We want this execution to look legitimate to the public.” The older policeman gave his partner a confident smile. “It felt good firing a gun for the first time.” The younger policeman chuckled. But he was looking around to see who was watching the two of them. “Yeah, it always feels good firing a gun for the first time. Now we shot this boy, but we shot a black boy which is a good thing because we’re only doing our jobs as government officials. We’re doing what our government wants us to do. We’re supposed to annihilate some of these black folks, but make it look subtle and accidental,” the older policeman told his partner through his Southern drawl while gently nudging the black teenager’s dead body with the tip of his cowboy boot. “We shoot unarmed black kids all the time because we’re supposed to. That’s our job now given to us by our government. Once we report this to the organization director, we’ll go grab something to eat.” The older policeman patted his partner on the back while turning his head and looking to see Maria, who was approaching them from behind. The older policeman at first didn’t know how to react to Maria, who was creeping up towards the residential street where the two cops were standing. “What’s the matter?” The younger policeman asked before turning his head and seeing Maria approaching them. “You want me to stop her? It looks like she’s coming over here.” The young policeman didn’t even wait for an answer. He turned around and began telling Maria to stay back. “Excuse me, ma’am. We’re gonna need you to stay back.” The younger policeman spoke calmly as he began approaching Maria with his hands out in front of him, trying to stop her. When the young policeman placed his hands on Maria’s arms, it was the worst thing he ever did. The young policeman screamed when Maria took hold of one of his hands and began crushing it like it was a soda pop can. The young policeman screamed out in pain as he heard the bones breaking in his hand, which sounded like tree branches getting snapped in half. “I’m sorry,” Maria hissed out her insincere apology to the young policeman while crushing his hand down flat like a pancake and balling it up like it was a piece of paper. The young policeman screamed for his partner to help him as he watched his hand get turned into mush. The policeman wanted to reach for his gun, but he was in too much pain. Maria made things even worse for the young policeman when she reached down and grabbed the area where his penis and testicles were. The young policeman stopped screaming because the pain of feeling his penis and testicles getting crushed made his vocal cords lock up. After feeling the pain of a fist pierce through his torso combined with the earth-shattering pain of getting his genitals crushed, the young policeman’s heart stopped beating. Maria lifted the young policeman’s two hundred pound body off the ground by his throat after removing her fist from the police officer’s stomach. While Maria was mutilating the young policeman’s body, she was getting shot at by the older policeman who became overwhelmed with terror by what he was seeing. The older policeman was already horrified after watching Maria punch her fist straight through his partner’s stomach, but he was even more horrified because he couldn’t kill Maria no matter how many times he shot at her. The older policeman ended up unloading his gun on Maria. He watched as the bullets passed through Maria’s body and he saw how the bullet holes disappeared on her body, leaving behind not a single trace of blood. The older policeman dropped his gun on the ground with his body full of desperate fear. He watched Maria hurl his partner’s body into the air. The young policeman’s dead body landed on top of the hood of his squad car putting a huge dent in its hood. The older policeman thought the world was ending as he looked into the cunning hazel-gray eyes of a beautiful old Hispanic lady, who was approaching him with fire shooting out of her hands. Maria’s shapely hips were rotating beneath her tight-fitting denim blue jeans. Her wide breast bounced beneath her black sleeveless blouse and her skull pendant earrings were wildly swinging back and forth on her ears from every hard step she made towards the older policeman. It seemed like everything was moving in slow motion for the older policeman as he took off his sunglasses and dropped them on the ground while watching a blast of white fire head towards him. The pain was beyond excruciating. The older policeman went into shock as he felt his skin burning and melting away. He never thought he would experience getting burned alive, and it was an experience that Maria forced him to endure. The fire had engulfed the policeman’s body, and it made him look like a walking, screaming human torch. Maria folded her arms while watching the older policeman’s burning body slowly stumble down the street before collapsing to the ground like a burning pile of rubble. Maria could smell the fire cooking the policeman’s flesh, which reminded Maria of the smell of hamburgers cooking on a grill. After destroying the two policemen, Maria laid her eyes down on the body of the teenager who was lying on the sidewalk a few feet away from her driveway. While kneeling down on the ground beside the teenager’s body, Maria looked around to see people standing outside their homes and on the sidewalk watching her. Maria waved and smiled at her shocked neighbors while holding the African American teenager’s body across her lap. She took her attention off the shocked faces of her neighbors and put her eyes back down on the teenager’s face, with her fingers stroking through his well-trimmed afro. Maria could feel the blood leaking out of the bullet holes in the teenager’s body. While stroking the child’s head, she began healing all the bullet wounds on his body. Even his blood that stained the fabric of his blue basketball jersey was disappearing. While bringing the thirteen-year-old back to life, Maria admired the young man’s handsomeness. She admired his Nubian dark skin and his strong but baby-like facial features. She could see how his puberty was setting in from the peach fuzz beneath his nose, which would soon become a full mustache once he reached his twenties. A silver necklace hung around the teenager’s neck and it had a pendant hanging off of it which were two diamond-encrusted letters. The letters that hung from the necklace said JD, which were the child’s initials. Maria caressed her hand across a bullet hole in the child’s left arm. She also waved her hand across a bullet hole in the teenager’s neck. After removing twelve bullet holes in the teenager’s body, it was time to wake him up. “Wake up, baby,” Maria whispered down to the teenager with her hand caressing his face. She adjusted the child’s body across her lap before restarting his heart causing the thirteen-year-old to wake up gasping for air. The young man began taking air into his lungs and coughing as he opened up his eyes and looked up, to see a sweet but edgy faced old lady looking back down at him and giving him a loving smile. The teenager studied the silver ring in Maria’s nose and the silver stud pierced in her lip. He looked at her shimmering skull head earrings and he also noticed that Maria had a missing eyebrow. The teenager could see that Maria had a slight purplish color in her silvery short hair, and he admired her pretty but edgy facial features. The teenager had never seen such a cool looking old woman, and he had never seen an old lady with tattoos on her shapely arms. “Wow! Who are you?” The teenager asked Maria while looking at her through his cocoa-brown eyes filled with confusion and wonder. The young man watched as Maria slowly leaned down to kiss him on his forehead. Maria never answered the teenager’s question. The grandmother only smiled at the thirteen-year-old boy while gazing down at the lost expression on his face. She held the teenager in her lap while gazing down into his eyes for a good long time and stroking her fingers through his soft mini afro.


1117 words Rated PG; violence, blood, unsettling imagery Prompt: Write a cautionary fable about someone who always lies. Gather ‘round, those old and young. Come closer, and ye will be met with worlds of mystery. Sit at the stream, drink the sweet nectar within, and be reborn as is the phoenix from the ashes of the fire of the night. Stay at my shoes, and ye will be compelled to go forward with nothing but the stick of virtues and the sly hand.

Our story begins when the moon shone above the world, moving downwards, perhaps contemplating crashing into the earth. The village was old. So old that Elder Mcallen could become one with the cracks on the buildings built near the river. The water had begun to chew on the land and spit it out as punishment for the farmers who did not wear belts on their waists.

The folks would stop on their way through a town, not unlike that of the river, and use their forearms to reach the stall that was worth the suffering. There were two who never had to do this because they were already tending to the stand. It was the merchant and her husband.

Their product was one thing of intrigue: a plant. This plant had a top that was reaching for the sun. The bottom looked like a child’s toy that spun with magic. It was so good that the merchant and her husband would only sell to those who wanted legumes with this fantastical plant. The merchant and her husband would jingle as they walked because of it. Every 6th sunrise, the two of them would take a mare and a carriage, and go to harvest their mystical plant. They would be gone until the moon cast shadows in the water lilies for the second time. The merchant and her husband always returned with burlap sacks about to burst, ready for the coming days. The folks wanted to find the magical clouds where these plants fell from. They tried to follow the merchant and her husband into the trees that lapped at the North end of the village. They tried to be mice, to not be spotted. They tried to be snakes, wiggling among mud and root. They tried to be squirrels, pulling themselves up on branches and scurrying. Alas, to no avail. A fog covered the merchant. A mist covered the husband. Their tracks were taken with the wind. Not a soul could find the fabled spot. Those who searched would return with noses, ears, and eyes dripping red. Their hands would have disappeared. Their irises were soulless black husks that might have been portals to the underworld. Those who returned screamed in agony

The nights were never peaceful. For whom the screaming was for was never clear.

This was, at least, was rare. Most did not return at all, but were lost to the everlasting wood, which most likely only ended when the merchant saw fit. There were rumours that she who could not share a secret was a witch. She might need to be burned to leave the village to its tasks. The issue was that the harvest she and her husband provided was too important to the town, so she was left to do as she pleased.  The merchant’s long hair was covered by a dirt coloured cloth that never moved. Her skirts were always stained by grass. Her face had not been washed in moons, yet she carried elegance. The villagers would cry out to her. How did she find the wonderful roots that could feed an angel?

She would never let a word slip past her tongue. It was of no consequence the people who would plead, the length of their groveling, or how often they would fall to their knees and mumble into her filthy boots. The merchant had never opened her mouth to anyone who was not her husband. Even the husband was not one for canards. His small hands would be wiped quietly on an apron that was no longer white so he could touch his products. He would only speak of prices, which would always be wrong. Not one thing he said was ever the truth.

The village was always frustrated by this pair. They had come here once upon a dawn and would leave twice the whisper of the night if the time ever arrived. Most would only interact for the food to give their family, and no more. A blessing from above must not be asked questions. Other whisperers did not agree. They would clench their teeth and breathe small rumors that had no base in any facts.

When the sun left no shadow, a person in a ragged shawl and nothing more approached the stand. The husband and the merchant were speaking silently. The only indication of conversation was the small movement of broken lips. When the person came close, the pair turned toward them slowly. “What will you be needing?” The merchant’s husband demanded. The person, the stranger, did not offer a response. They instead focused on the husband. They traveled down his light yellow hair to his blue shirt. They lingered on a pendant, which might have been glowing with green sparks. The chain it was attached to swung off of the husband’s neck. “What will you be needing?” The voice was louder. The stranger smiled. “The plant you carry so close to your heart.” The husband reached out the skilled hand he always used and picked up the special roots which made lips smack and eyes open. He picked a half dozen and laid them down on the smooth counter. The stranger shook their head. The shawl spun wildly. Their irises sparkled with knowledge. For the merchant’s husband was always one to lie. “You have lied to me.” The stranger purred. “I am asking for the plant that you carry close to your heart.” The merchant’s lips dipped downwards. She glanced at her husband. He returned the special roots to their basket. He next wrapped his fingers around an ear of corn. He lifted it and offered it to this peculiar customer.

The corn was beautiful. The bland day could not reach the smooth bumps on the vegetable. It shone like the butter in the stall to the right of the merchant and her husband. It was very clean, and you might see a reflection on the yellow surface.

The stranger was still not satisfied. They waggled their fingers in disapproval, and a grin showed yellow teeth. The stranger had come prepared for this trick. “You have once again hidden the truth from me. What is closest to your heart, dear man?” The merchant rose from her seat. She cupped her tanned hand and leaned down to advise her husband. He listened quietly and nodded. They exchanged a glance like crystals. The merchant fell back on her stool once more. Puffs of dirt rose from her skirts. The husband knitted his eyebrows and was now ready. “I have not an idea what you speak of.”

The stranger threw back their oval head and laughed into the sky. “You have lied three times, my dear. Once more, a-” The folks who were in the area gasped and stumbled backward. The stranger was now lying on the ground, with a forehead of violet. The merchant’s husband shook out the hand which had been in a fist. Blood fell from his knuckles and dripped on the corn he had placed on the wooden counter. He did not bother to wipe it. It was of no value from this point forward. It would be cooked in a stew once the day fell. The merchant stood once more and embraced her husband. The perfect start to a day of profits. Moral: never pretend you can defeat the merchant and her husband.


I have lived a thousand lifetimes. Oh, not exactly a thousand; I lost track long ago. And I won't even try to guess how many years I've lived; trying to refer to a calendar isn't exactly straightforward. You see, I'm something of an immortal. Every time I die I open my eyes and I'm being placed in my mother's arms, a baby opening his eyes for the first time. Every time the world is reset, everything exactly how it was except for me. I have all of my knowledge, all of my memories, everything. I am a constantly changing constant, while everything else gets rewound and rerun. I still remember my first life most clearly. There was nothing particularly special about me - on the short side of tall, a bit overweight, enough brains to do well in school but not enough self-discipline to do great. I had an OK life and muddled my way through like most everyone else, and then I died. And then I woke up. I was a baby again. And it was the worst thing I've ever experienced. Everything that I loved, everyone that was precious to me, it was all gone, and no one could understand or would even believe me. I cried like a baby, which wasn't all that odd because, of course, I was one. That second life was a haze of confusion, both for myself and those around me. I still had to learn how to see, how to move, how to walk, how to control my bowels and bladder - my, wasn't that embarrassing - but once I did I could walk, talk, and try to tell people what had happened to me. They were amazed at this impossibly gifted infant, but they never really believed me. They never have, in fact, all the times I've been through it. And I didn't really believe it either, that first time. I had all of these memories, could even tell people about things before they happened, but I was always doubting that it was real, that it wasn't some fever dream or head wound or delirium. So I went through my life, muddled through the best I could - this time making a bit more money in the stock market - and then I died. And then I woke up. And then I believed. I tried, those first cycles, I really did. I tried to understand what was happening to me, tried to make sense of this madness laid atop an already crazy world. But there is no explanation - or if there is I haven't found it. I just keep on keeping on, functionally immortal and just starting over again and again. I am so, so tired of starting over again. So yes, I have lived a thousand lifetimes, give or take. I have been rich and poor - and let me tell you, rich is better. I have lived short lives of hedonistic debauchery, and spent a century living the life of an ascetic high in the mountains of Tibet. I have grown financial empires out of the seeds of a child's weekly allowance, and used them to try to remake the world. I have prevented tragedies only to see other ones take their place. I have suffered horrible diseases, punishing myself on the thought that I was being punished in some afterlife and could hasten the end of the punishment. I have been an incarnation of justice, punishing the villains of the world for crimes sometimes not yet committed in that lifetime, and through the process become the villain. I've even walked on the moon, if you can believe that. It took lifetimes of study and memorization, working with people way smarter than I am, but pushing them a little farther each time to make their discoveries a little bit faster, and all the while they were thinking I was the genius. Hah! But it worked, and I pushed humanity to the stars. And then I died. And then I woke up. I have been a doctor, a scientist, a politician. I have been a bricklayer, a garbage man, a soldier, a fighter. I have been a billionaire and lived as long as medical technology could take me, and I have died young from the search for the next adrenaline rush, or the sheer weight of despair. I have lived in every country and every culture in the world, and I've forgotten more languages than I can speak right now. I've been ordained in every religion that exists, and even started a few of my own. I have cured cancer and the common cold, and I have brought down governments and remade the world. And none of it matters. And it's all for nothing. Because every time I die. And I wake up. And I know I can never get what I truly want. Oh, don't get me wrong, I've tried. I've tried to move on, I've had hundreds of wives and hundreds of children, and I have loved them all. But they never quite manage to fill that hole, to satisfy the nagging curiosity of whether that first lifetime went on without me, and what happened to my wife and my daughter and my sons. And I've tried to recreate that first lifetime too, letting tragedies both great and personal proceed as I remembered, suffering indignities and abuses, even rescuing the same cats at the same animal shelters, anything to try to recreate the conditions of that first life. I've married the same woman hundreds of times, and she's just as wonderful and just as endearing. But life is a random thing my friend, and you and I are the products of very small odds. Sure, the odds of having kids might not be that rare, else we as a species wouldn't be there. But the odds of having one specific child? Or three very specific children? It would take more lifetimes than have existed in the universe during my strange cycle to get even one of those combinations. A very specific egg, a specific molecular structure in one specific sperm out of millions, affected by all the choices and experiences of a life spent to that point - this is what makes an individual, and any little change will result in a different individual. All I want, really, is the end of this cycle. I want to open my eyes and see my wife next to me. I want to see my daughter's beautiful brown eyes and be there to see what she makes of her life. I want to see my twin sons and meet the men they grow into. I want to meet their children, and I want to grow old as a part of that family. And I want to die knowing that their lives will keep going after I'm gone, that something I've built will outlast me, that I've actually made an impact on the world. But until that happens I will keep living. I will muddle my way through the best I can. And I will die. And then I will wake up.


\*\*An Interest in Waterboarding\*\*  “I’m interested in waterboarding. And not in any sort of masochistic way. At least as far as I’m aware. I had already sort of been fascinated by it, but I’ve sort of been taken by the notion that you can never really know someone, you can just have images of them. I think that illuminated the path to that, admittedly, rather strange desire.  “Before, I thought that I thought it was interesting because a lot of the time I feel like I’m drowning while also being fully aware that I’m not. And I figured there was some deeper need to experience a real, physical manifestation of that feeling. Like if I could experience real drowning, it would put my daily miseries into the proper context. If I’m experiencing drowning at like a 6 because I’m tired of my job but have specialized myself into a corner where I won’t be able to pay back the money to achieve that specialization unless I continue. And my baseline of drowning is like a 3, I feel like I’m drowning twice as much as normal. But if I got waterboarded which would be like a 30 or whatever, that would sort of make it feel small in comparison, right?  “But now I’m thinking that if we only have images of other people, isn’t that true of ourselves too? We have really a very small range of experiences most of the time so we have some reasonable expectation of how we’ll react. But how many people will really, actually be tortured in their life? And it’s depicted in movies all the time isn’t it? I think people have some idea of whether they’d give in and reveal the location of the secret base or whatever. But you can’t know, can you? And waterboarding is supposed to be torture without the damage. At least physical anyway, I’m not trying to minimize what I’m sure can have a lasting psychic trauma associated with it, especially when repeated I’d imagine. But my feeling is that because mine would be a voluntary ordeal I could do it if someone I know was trained to do it.  “I read about this terrorist who would laugh and count down the seconds that they were legally allowed to waterboard him for. I think secretly we all think we’re that guy, you know? It’s really sort of a masculine thought. Like I kind of understand now why guys drink themselves into the ER thinking they’re Andre the Giant or something. We feel like we can take it, you know? I used to think of all the biological variables that go into alcohol tolerance and just pity these ordinary looking people for thinking they could possibly be extraordinary in that totally useless way. Isn’t it better to have a low tolerance anyway? Like it’s cheaper and doesn’t take as long.  “But anyway, now I think my fascination with waterboarding is more about revealing that dark corner of my self portrait. And now that I’m explaining it this way, I’m kind of realizing that the way we know ourselves isn’t actually different to the way we know others, it’s really just different in degree, and so maybe you can really know people? Or does it mean you’re just a stranger to yourself?”  The man across the table blinked and said “I meant interests as in like… podcasts.


He sits in his usual place in the tavern, downing his usual amount of ale. The empty tankards collect on his table as the people collect around him. His face is covered in ancient scars. He can tell the most marvellous stories. Whether they are true or not, no one can tell. He laughs. If it is free of misery or full of regret, no one can tell.

You know, I used to be much younger. Good looking too. What, will no wench give me a kiss now? ’Tis alright. The glass tells me the same thing ye see. But it did not always show such a face, such limbs. I used to be the epitome of strength. Ye laugh. Well, listen to a story, will you? Of course ye will. But ye will not believe me. Imagine for a moment, if you will, the king’s court. King Gustav the Third. He sat on his lonely throne, haggard and old. The musicians and jesters and dancers did not come any more. They had given up. When his daughter burned, so did his smiles. She had taken his laughter with him into the land where none can follow.

There was talk of a dragon afoot. That was why I had been summoned. We were to kill it. Other groups had gone and failed. It seems this dragon was like any had ever faced before. But every dragon must have a chink in its armour, and if enough archers were sent at once, one was sure to find it.

It was a long march. We trode between fields, through thick forests, over green plains that extended to the horizon. We travelled a complete fortnight. I, being an impulsive youngster, asked why it was a threat, so far outside our borders. Of course, as a youngster, my question was ridiculous. No dragon stayed in one place for very long. Once it had burned everything within sight, it would travel to decimate greener regions. We were going to meet it before it could kill our people.

When we reached the area it had been spotted in, there was nothing to greet us but barren earth. Occasionally the charred stump of a tree was visible. I made the mistake of touching one once. It crumbled to ash underneath my fingers, letting out a cloud of black dust that coated me for days.

The only advantage we had over the dragon was our numbers, and those could be extinguished if we stood in a group, so the whole fortnight I was within sight of my companions, but not a whit closer. None can blame me when I began to speak to the lone birds that flew overhead, the lizards that scurried under blackened rocks, and occasionally the rocks themselves. So when the dragon came, I spoke to it.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

We were approaching a green forest. In a day we would have to turn and walk along it, looking for some break where the trees were still hot and smoking. Then I seen the smoke. I nocked an arrow to my string, but did not draw. I could not see the dragon. Then the fire came. It exploded around Melvin. His bow was empty, his hand drawing an arrow from his quiver, but he never got the opportunity to nock it. Even from where I was standing, I seen the flames consume him. The burnt shaft of an arrow fell beside his corpse. But I also seen the dragon. It swooped low, its scales glistening gold in the light of the flames. At first I thought it was coming at me, but it passed overhead and disappeared over the forest. I chased it.

Now, don’t look at me so incredulously. As I said, I was young and impetuous. And good-looking. So I chased the dragon.

I ran as fast as I could underneath its shadow. The shadow grew larger, and for a moment I did not understand. Then the ground gave way beneath my feet, and I tumbled down a ravine. It landed just in front of me. It was facing away from me, so I slung my bow from my back, but my arrow clacked against the quiver. The dragon spun around, its tail lashing my feet. I flung out my hands in landing and lost my weapons. The dragon reared, the firelight flooding in its belly and rushing up its neck. I instinctively shielded my arms with my face.

The fire did not melt the flesh off my bones. In fact, it did not singe one hair on my head. It did not come. I brought my hands down, realizing how little they would help me. The dragon’s fire had bated, though it still glowed a warm bronze colour. It stared at me, blinking once, twice. It looked at my bow, which I made no move to touch. Fear had frozen my limbs. The dragon watched me.

I opened my mouth, and the dragon tensed.

“I’m sorry.” After having spoken to the creatures around me for weeks on end, the words came smoothly, as did the realization.

“You won’t burn me unless I shoot at you. Like Melvin did.” The glow faded from the dragon’s scales. A hiss sounded, and a shot of steam went up from one glossy eye.

“Melvin,” it said.

Aye, the dragon spoke. Now, just ye wait. Ye might as well hear the tale to the end! Where was I? Ah, yes. The dragon spoke in clear tones. Its sweet voice was laden with sorrow. I spoke back to it.

“Aye, that was his name.”

The dragon’s scales faded further, reflecting the dusk. “I am sorry I burned him.” “Then why did you?”

“He shot at me.” “He thought you were a threat.” “Because I am a dragon.”

“Aye.” I crossed my legs then, positioning myself more comfortably. If this dragon was going to kill me, it would do so whether or not I had a weapon. But if it did not, I told myself I would get a good story out of it. And here I am! The dragon lay down in front of me. “What is your name?” “Willem. What is yours?” “Do you not know, Willem?” I felt that I had heard that voice before, but my thoughts were distracted by a flicker of light rising up the dragon’s thought. She— for it was a she— let out a gentle breath and set just one tree, a few away from me, ablaze. The warmth was calming after so many nights sleeping out in the open. I turned towards it. The dragon did too, resting her great head on her clawed forefeet.

She had chosen the tree well. None of its neighbours caught. We watched as the flames licked along the branches, dropping them to the ground. Eventually only the stump was left, a pile of coals, glowing first orange and red, then grey, and finally white, drifting with the breeze. Then it came to me. I knew why her voice was so familiar. I had watched her, many times, lying in front of a dying fireplace, watching the flames the way she was now.

I jumped to my feet and bowed. “My Princess!” She turned to me, and if ever a dragon has attempted a smile, she did. Only it was a sad smile. “What is my name, Willem?” I was confused, but I answered. “Joanne.”

She arched her back, fire shooting through her body and out of her mouth, then fell to the ground. I heard her scream as she writhed. I called her name again, and she turned to face me, but the flames she belched out caught my body.

I ran for the pool I had passed before and dove in. The water was bliss itself, but I could not remain. I climbed out.

A cloud of ashes floated toward me. I stood still as it approached. They took on the form of a lovely young woman with a delicate crown on her hair.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Then she kissed my cheek just as a gust of wind came along and scattered her ashes.

When the other men found me, I was in the same place. They asked if I had seen the dragon, but I could not speak for days. The search was given up, and I resigned my place among the king’s archers. Why, you ask? The answer is this. Once your heart has been burned, nothing can ever heal it again.

He sits in his usual place in the tavern, downing his usual amount of ale. The empty tankards collect on his table as the people collect around him. His face is covered in ancient burns. He can tell the most marvellous stories. Whether they are true or not, no one can tell.


Keith Mitchell awakes to the sound of a ringing bell. As it has been since the accident, there is a second of confusion at waking up somewhere that is not his mother’s house. It doesn’t take long for him to remember where he is - the Haxton Regional Rehabilitation Centre. He repeats the words to himself and that helps to clear the fog of sleep. Then, he turns to sit at the side of the bed, winces at the pain in his head and lifts the leg that is still in a cast to join his other uninjured leg. He’s become used to the dull, itchy feeling below his knee and is certainly grateful they didn’t need to amputate it. He reaches out to grab his crutches and starts to limp out of his room and down the long hallway that leads to the dining room. It took a little time, but eventually he started to get used to communal living. It wasn’t much of a choice - his mother was in her 70s and couldn’t provide the support he needed. He limps to the serving area and sees the broad back of Belinda, the cook. Keith is fairly intimidated by Belinda, not because she is mean, but because she is very particular about how food is served. Keith can hear the TV now from down the hall - some sitcom is on and he can hear the laugh track.

Belinda turns and he smiles, says: ‘Good morning.’ Belinda’s features, as usual, seem to be carved from stone and she gives a grunt of recognition as she piles his plate with rubbery eggs and hashbrowns. He limps over to the table and digs in. The food isn’t great, but he can’t really complain. He and his mother don’t have much money, and his father didn’t leave them much after he died, so the idea of a private facility was out of the question.  Keith hears approaching footsteps and turns to see Marcus, a friend he had made since arriving. Down the hall, the audience cheers, probably for the entrance of a character that was a fan favourite. Keith smiles at the coincidence and he and Marcus exchange pleasantries. Soon, they are sitting beside each other eating.

‘I mean, could they at least get some seasoning on these hashbrowns? They taste like the bottom of the skillet.’ Keith shakes his head: ‘You gotta stay positive, Marcus. Just try to look on the bright side.’

Marcus chuckles: ‘I admire that about you, man. You always stayin’ positive in this place. ‘Specially after what you went through.’ From the TV audience, a chorus of awwws.

‘Well, I’m just happy to be here. It could have been worse, you know. Like my mother always says, gratitude is always the answer. ’

Marcus looks at him for a second and then continues to shovel the breakfast into his mouth. They eat in comfortable silence until they are finished and have returned their plates, appeasing Belinda’s iron stare.

Marcus stretches and winces - Keith wasn’t sure what injury he was dealing with, but figured it was something with his back that he didn’t want to talk about.

‘So, what you wanna do today? You know you gotta get out and get some sunlight. Come to the gym with me. You can spot me, right?’ He asks the question with a polite look to Keith’s cast.

‘Of course I can. There’s nothing wrong with these babies,’ he says with a flex of his arms. The audience from the TV down the hall laughs and they set out towards the gym.

* After the gym, they head for the TV room. Marcus grabs the remote as Keith limps into a seat. He clicks around a bit until he lands on the opening credits of a show. Keith recognises the song immediately: ‘That’s Daydream! By The Loving Spoonful. I used to listen to it all the time. It’s a good trivia question, too. Most people know the song but not the band.’

Marcus smiles and nods his head in apparent amazement.

‘Damn, that’s good trivia. It’s a nice song, too.’

They listen as the opening credits roll. In big letters the words Blink and You’ll Miss It fill the screen. In typical 90s fashion, there are a series of montage-like shots that introduce the characters. The first is a young man, probably in his 30s - he is shown with his head in the hood of a car until he looks at the camera and smiles. Next is an older woman sitting at a kitchen table cutting out coupons - she cuts one too narrow and crumples it up, then looks at the camera with feigned outrage. Next is a father and daughter - they walk through a field and he holds her hand. The snippet of the song ends with the famous whistling before it fades to black.

The opening scene is a typical suburban living room. The older woman sits at a table cutting coupons - this must be a recurring thing for her character , Keith thinks. The door opens and the young man walks in. The crowd cheers. The man is blonde and slightly pudgy and wears a ridiculous uniform, all bright red and white checkers from some kind of fast-food chain.

‘How was your day at work, dear?’ the mother says.

‘Same as always. Why do people like chicken so much anyways?’ The audience laughs at this and so do Keith and Marcus. The man sits on the couch and looks at his mother. ‘What’s with the coupons all the time?’

‘What, you think we are the Rockerfellers?’ Audience laughter. ‘Besides, it wouldn’t hurt you to be more cautious with your spending. You never know, you might meet a girl someday and you’ll want to be able to take her on a nice date.’ The mother smiles now, imagining a future where her son would not be single and living in her basement. The audience laughs but the son looks angry.

‘Mom, I told you, I just need some time. After Alice and I…’ The audience lets out a chorus of awwwws, indicating that a previous episode would have dealt with the break-up. ‘I need to get changed. I’ll be back up for dinner later.’

The man goes downstairs - he clearly lives there. There are clothes and empty bottles of beer strewn everywhere. On the wall, there are photos of a woman, presumably Alice, that have been ripped and scribbled on with permanent marker. The man opens an ancient fridge, grabs a beer, sits at a desk and opens up a photo album. There are more photos of Alice and him and he stares at them longingly. The audience awwwws and so do Marcus and Keith. Then, the man lowers his uniform trousers and reaches his hands into his underwear. The audience lets out a series of gasps and there is a crescendo of excitement.

Keith looks at Marcus: ‘Wait, what? Is this from the 90s? This is… pretty messed up.’

Marcus shrugs: ‘I guess they were trying to push the envelope. Seinfled did the episode on masturbation, right? So this guy is a little sick. But he clearly just misses his girl, right?’

Keith turns back to the TV - the man is now vigorously masterbating and the camera stays close to his face. Sweat drips and lands on the photo album - Keith can hear the droplet land and the grunting but can’t look away from the man’s eyes that now seem hopelessly angry. He moans repeatedly until he climaxes and the audience cheers. He wipes his hands on the photo album and, alerted by a bumping sound, turns towards the stairs.

‘What’re you doing down there?’ the shrill voice of the mother asks.

‘Nothing! Just doing some work - working on my drawings.’

‘I just hate that I can’t get down these stairs anymore. You know, if you just saved a bit more money, we could get one of those stair-lift things.’ The shrill voice fills the basement and the man puts his hands over his ears. ‘Fine, fine!’ he shouts back.

A minute passes with the man sipping his beer and looking at the photo album. Eventually, the shrill voice: ‘Dinner!’

The man downs the beer and trudges up the stairs and the screen fades to black before going to a commercial.

* The commercial is for a tow truck company. A man in overalls stands in front of images of destroyed cars being lugged around but Keith isn’t listening. He turns to Marcus: ‘You wanna watch something else? This show is pretty… weird.’

Marcus shrugs: ‘Ah, just give it a chance. It’s trying to be - ah, shit, what’s the word? Subversive or something.’

The tow truck commercial is over and the next one starts: a man in a suit stands in front of a white background.

‘Have you sinned?’ he says in a deep voice. The man keeps talking but Keith isn’t listening - a loud bang has distracted him. He looks behind him, towards the kitchen, expecting to see the cause of the sound, but sees nothing.

He turns to Marcus: ‘Did you hear that banging sound? Sounded like it was from the kitchen.’

Marcus shrugs: ‘Nope. You a bit jumpy today though, man. You gotta take it easy!’ He claps a hand on his shoulder, smiles and holds his hand there for a few seconds. The commercial with the man speaking about sinning is over and the show has resumed. The set is darker now and the camera starts at the top of the stairs. Slowly, it descends into the basement but keeps the focus held in front of it. There is no more laugh track and Keith feels his chest tighten.

‘I thought this was a sitcom? I’m not a fan of scary stuff.’ Marcus’ eyes are wide with excitement: ‘It’s experimental, bro. Subversive. C’mon, keep watching.’

 The camera gets to the bottom of the stairs and pans slowly towards a chair in front of a television. The blonde, pudgy man - the protagonist - sits and stares ahead vacantly. The TV screen is blurred but he is not and his bloodshot eyes gleam in the darkness. In his hands he holds a bottle of whiskey, drunk nearly to completion. The camera zooms slowly towards him and for a second, it seems like he is going to break the fourth wall and look back into the camera, but he doesn’t. He stares at the blurry TV until he stands up. He moves to the photo on the wall, gently caresses and kisses it. He grabs a set of keys on the table and goes upstairs.

There is a jump cut to the man driving. The perspective is his, and the white line in the middle of the road disappears and reappears as he swerves. The man is crying and when he goes to dry his tears, he nearly misses an oncoming car. The car honks and Keith feels his heart pumping.

‘I don’t like this, Marcus. Please, can we watch something else?’ He hears the banging from the kitchen and could swear that someone is watching him. He turns but sees nothing.

Marcus doesn’t take his eyes from the TV: ‘Just stick with it, bro. This is some grade-A filmmaking here. See how he puts the camera where the guy would be looking? Amazing use of perspective.’

The driver, keeping the car straight for the time being, seems to remember something. He reaches down and starts to dig around through a pile of trash and when his hand closes on a half-full bottle of vodka, he looks up to blinding headlights. The screen goes white and there is a dissonant sound of screeching violins and thumping timpanis. Fade back in and the camera lingers on the wreckage, the metallic carnage; the moon above shines indifferently. The scene jumps to a courtroom outlined in wood-panelling. As much as he wants to, Keith can’t look away. The camera cuts to a shot of the defendant - he now wears a rumpled suit instead of a fast-food uniform. His head is bandaged and he has been crying. Another cut to a wide shot as the judge enters the courtroom. The bailiff speaks but it sounds muffled - like Charlie Brown’s teacher, thinks Keith as he tries to ignore the banging sound from somewhere behind him.

The camera cuts again to the little girl from the credits. She sits in the audience section and wears a sling around her left arm. There is a space beside her that is empty. Her eyes do not leave the back of the main character’s head.

The rest of the scene plays out with a surreal sense of action - the dialogue is too muffled to hear, but it is clear that the protagonist is on trial for something. Eventually, the jury members stand and leave the courtroom.  Then, the theme song from Jeopardy plays. Keith and Marcus laugh, enjoying the incongruity of the moment and the music, a temporary release from the tension. It plays for five minutes and the camera holds the wide shot of people fidgeting in their seats and nervous looks being exchanged and the protagonist is shown from the chest up and the girl still stares at him until the jury comes back in.

Marcus reaches to Keith with his eyes wide: ‘Oh shit! Shit’s about to get real!’  There is a sparkle in his eyes that Keith doesn’t recognise - a glimmering of some kind. When the foreperson of the jury stands, her dialogue is still unintelligible, but based on the reaction of people cheering in the audience and the protagonist hanging his head in shame, it is clear that he has lost. The little girl stands up and walks towards him. Her dialogue is intelligible and stands out above the din of reaction: ‘You should have died. Not him. You deserve to die. Not him. You should have died. Not him. You should have DIED!’ And she turns to the camera before it fades.

Keith looks at Marcus but Marcus doesn’t look back at him. The banging from behind him is louder now and he turns to see two dark eyes looking at him, piercing him, but they disappear quickly.

He looks back at the TV and the setting has returned to the suburban home. The mother is cutting coupons - she has been crying. The phone rings. She picks it up. She nods. Nods again. She cries. She howls in anguish and pain, like a dying animal, like a dying god weeping for a world of death and sin and knowing that there is nothing she can do to help, that her world will be nothing but pain now and the only thing she can still do is cry.

 Then, she stops. Grabs her chest. Falls out of her chair. There is no music, only a faint static sound. The camera zooms in on her face as she takes her last breath. One of the coupons falls from the table, swirling in the air until it lands on her face. The screen goes black and the whistling from that Daydream song starts again.

Marcus stands up and exhales: ‘Shit! That was a good one. I mean, really, really well done. Don’t you think?’

Keith looks at him and then looks at the TV which is now showing a rerun of some other sitcom. Something doesn’t feel right. Marcus doesn’t… seem right.

‘Look, I should call my mother. I usually call her around this time of day anyway. She’ll be worried about me.’

‘Sure, bro. Be my guest. The world is your oyster!’ he shouts and laughs and his laugh is deeper now, echoing, almost guttural.

Keith turns and walks quickly back along the hallway and slows down, expecting to see Belinda. Instead, a smaller figure is standing where she normally would. Turning to him is the girl from the television. Her eyes are flaming and she screams: ‘It should have been you! It should have been you!’

Keith runs away from her and sprints towards the lounge, where the phones are. The door - which is usually open - is locked. He hears the banging sound again, and it is louder now. He looks behind him and the girl is staring at him.

Keith, now firmly convinced that this whole thing has been a bad dream, stops. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Waits for sleep to take him somewhere else. For him to wake up in bed, quietly, so that he doesn’t disturb his mother sleeping two floors above him.

But when he opens his eyes, he blinks. The room around him changes first: what was once cosy and relaxing is now metallic. Sparse. Menacing. The tables and chairs in the dining hall are now long benches. He looks at himself and sees an orange jumpsuit with letters and numbers across it. He looks to his leg - the one with the cast. He falls over once the reality of his amputation is absorbed into this new reality.

The door in front of him opens and two men in lab coats step in and help him up.

‘Ah, Mr. Mitchell! Got started a bit early today, did we? Well, you know this would go a lot better if you just stopped watching that TV. It’s an instant reaction as soon as you click that thing on.’

The other man is reaching in his pocket and bringing out something sharp. Keith looks at them and says: ‘I’d like to call my mother. There has been a misunderstanding. Where’s Marcus?’

The man with the needle smiles a smile of sadness at him but it is really just pathos, emotion brought on at the sight of the most truly pathetic and worthless of God’s creatures.

He holds Keith’s arm gently and inserts the needle, pushes the plunger and Keith’s world goes dark once again.

* The next morning, Keith Mitchell awakes to the sound of a ringing bell.


They say dogs care about their masters more than themselves. I suppose that's true, considering I am a dog after all. All dogs are loyal, to the bitter end. I'd run on broken glass barefoot for my master. I'm not like other dogs, I have human level intelligence. None of my family has my gift, or does any other dog on Earth. I guess I'm special. My name is Boston, and I'm a Border Collie. After years of being abused, I was finally adopted by a kind human called Charlie. For once in a long time, I was happy. Charlie was my everything. He adopted me after I thought the whole world left me behind. He gave me a home, a reason to live again. I loved him, and he loved me. I was his dog, his friend. Finally, I found a home for myself. But life has a bad habit of turning nasty. One day Charlie was going to the store like always. It was supposed to be a normal day, God damn it! I was sleeping in a ball on the couch, Charlie walked out putting on his shoes.. "I'll be right back, Boston. I'm gonna get some milk." Charlie said, rubbing my head. I was dead asleep, not paying attention. I heard the front door open and Charlie turning on the car. I slept for a while, I dreamt Charlie was scratching my stomach. He was scratching just the way I liked it, but something felt wrong. Charlie's hand suddenly turned ice cold, he was scratching harder than usual. The air around us turned thick and heavy, a sudden rush of dread washed over me. Charlie scratched me hard, breaking the skin. I whimpered a little, suddenly looking up. What I saw wasn't Charlie, it wasn't even human! It was a mass of eyes and lips, writhing and squirming in a grotesque fashion. It's flesh was pink, it had tendrils oozing out of its many hairy folds. "C-charlie?" I asked, terrified. "I AM GOD!" The creature roared, pining me to the couch. I couldn't move, it held my arms and legs firmly in place. I was horrified, I never felt so powerless before. I tried biting the tendrils, but it coated my tounge in a thick layer of slime, it made me feel sick. "TIME TO JOIN PARADISE, BOSTON." It screamed, extending it's tendrils around my neck. They slithered in my mouth, forcibly opening my maw wide. They were so strong, the slime and ooze stung my mouth. A thick tendril shot down my throat, extending down to my stomach. It caused me to choke, I couldn't breath. I felt it writh in my stomach, it hurt like hell! I thought I was going to die. Then I woke up. I was still on the couch, except it was dark. I caught my breath, gasping for air. My eyes were watering, it felt so real. My mouth had a sour taste, I licked my gums, an ooze was between my teeth. I looked around the room, Charlie wasn't there. I couldn't have been sleeping for more than an hour and all ready it's night? I got up and walked into the kitchen. Somehow it was even darker than the living room. On the microwave clock was 1 PM. I was even more confused than before. Was there a power outage? Surely not otherwise it would have a flashing 12. I went back to the living room and turned on the light. The light illuminated the dark and empty cabin. I then opened the curtain, an oppressive sea of black stared back at me. I had more questions than answers. Why was everything so dark? What the hell was my dream? But the most important question ate away at my mind. Where's Charlie? Charlie should be home by now, how long does it take to get some milk? My mind was racing. Nothing made sense, it's like I woke up in a nightmare. Nightmarish thoughts raced through my head. What if Charlie was hurt, or worse? No, it couldn't be. Charlie was safe and I'm gonna find him. If it's the last fucking thing I do. I walked to the front door and turned the knob. The black void in front of me called me, beckoning me to join it's maw. I took a deep breath and stepped one foot outside. I'm coming, Charlie.


"We were the same thing once," she had told you one day, so early in the morning it seemed like only the forest was waking up around her. You had only known her for a few days then, and you were still coming to terms with it. The first time you saw her you wandered too far into the forest, too enchanted by golden feathers and a too human voice. You thought she was a fairy. Or perhaps some kind of flower, the leaves obscuring her small golden body just enough so that you could've guessed what she was. Except, there's something about her that makes you feel as if you've met her before. “How could you have known that?” You answered with a cocked head and crossed arms. She had only given you her smile, the smile that you somehow always knew she was doing around her gentle golden beak. Her response came in the fluttering of dragonfly wings. In the fingertips of cold that suffused your body with shivers. I know from stories making metaphors out of metaphors, she says. I am older than this forest itself, she says. You blink and she's gone. (Momma called bedtime early. You didn't want to go back home but it was getting dark and you can't sleep without a nightlight.) She talks like she has existed before the fruits grew turgid and rich with sugar water. Like she will exist after your salvaged remains will lie dry on the forest floor, picked clean by mushrooms and bugs and beetles. You asked her about her feathers once. (Were they really real gold?) She had turned around and plucked one from her plumage, sewed it right into your sweater. Said you could keep it, said she would be around with you forever. Then you asked about forever and after that, you asked about photosynthesis, about rocks and about water and about time. About everything possibly in the world and like a promise, she answered all of them. It was later that she told you the risk she took in talking with you. That creatures like her weren't supposed to talk to creatures like you. It was even later then that you realized the consequence of her actions. It started with a feather, then two. Then all of a sudden a deluge of gold and magic and pretty soon she wouldn't have any feathers left. “Do you ever look up at the sky wishing you could be part of it too?” You were the one who spoke first this time, having woken up in a somewhat sentimental mood. At this time her feathers were already falling out in clumps, gold mixing with the detritus of leaves and gravel coating the forest floor. "All the time" she answers, though no longer with dragonflies and autumn breezes. The raw pinkness of her skin lays in incongruous patches next to brilliant gold. You smile back at her, but this time it is more somber. Like the shallow puddles children splash in before they are gone the next morning. You stayed longer than usual that night, telling yourself because of the weather, and because the bugs that light up aren't out yet and because, because, because... The days blur on and you talk so much and then not at all. New feathers grow in the puckered garden of her skin, dirty brown like the forest floor. She is so quiet now, stopping around her words tentatively like an outdoor cat who can't remember the directions back to her owner’s house. Sometimes you can't even recognize her from the clusters of birds around her until you get closer and the rest fly away. You sit in silence now. When she got quiet you used to pick up the conversation for her, collecting the pieces together awkwardly in the palm of your hand. You used to ask questions, about the universe and about gods, but now it would be hard hearing anything less in return. She says nothing at all. The gold is completely gone now, the brown covering any that would have ever grown back. She's not quiet anymore, instead pinching the air with chitters and empty meanings. Sometimes it feels like she's trying to tell you something, but other times it sounds like she's saying nonsense, saying nothing at all. Her eyes, which used to match her feathers in vivid gold, have turned an opaque deep black. Covering any recognition she could have held for you. She used to tell you stories about the moon, but now she just squeaks. The feather stays woven in your sweater, wrinkled with use. You wore it almost every day, hoping she would ask about it and you could tell her all over again the day that you first saw her. So when she asked, you could return it to its rightful place. But too much time had passed. Perhaps she forgot that she had left it for you in the first place. One night you return to the forest, suddenly desperate to find her. There's a flock of sparrows dotting the upper branches of a tree and a pit forms at the bottom of your stomach because none of them seem to look at you. You stumble on a branch and something in the forest cracks and all the birds are leaping from their perches into the horizon-tinged sky. You wait. For what, you have no idea but nobody looks back at you. She is gone. You exhale, slow and shadowed, sliding back down to the forest floor and back down to earth. Around you, the sky burns the darkness off to white, white, white and it starts to snow.


I had been lost and alone for a year and a half. Depression, abuse, the premature death of a loved one, and job hunting all seemed to hit me like punches in a boxing ring where I wasn't even wearing head gear. The weeks were the loneliest to get through but each Friday and Saturday brought alcohol's warm and gentle embrace rocking me to sleep. Sometimes if I got lucky, I might even find a warm body to fall asleep next to. Unfortunately, most girls left by the time I woke up. Worse still, the ones that stayed were always different from the way I remembered the night before. On the surface I was a well read, 29 year old man in his prime, but behind closed doors I fought hard with my demons and didn't dare ask friends for help. I didn't want them to think of me as weak because I thought of myself as strong. The friend who has been through a lot, who always overcomes obstacles and whatever life throws at him. Yet each Monday morning I woke up more tired. I lost a bit of my fight every Sunday that I regained consciousness. Hungover, lonely, and anxious about the week to come until I was drifting, directionless. More nights alone, feeling increasingly lost, more punches coming from the world, until I lost the last of my will to fight back. It was that day I saw the boy staring back at me in the mirror. He was me, or a version of me. He looked...smaller? Angrier? Or even weaker? Some days he hurled insults, throwing words at all the places he knew would hurt the most. "You'll never make it past the first round of interviews, you're too dumb for this job." Some days he would laugh at my attempts to style my hair, or the 5th shirt I'd tried on getting ready. "It doesn't matter, not like you're going to impress anyone today looking like that." Other days he didn't even look me in the eye, just at the ground dejectedly. "You should just go back to bed, don't bother trying to do anything today. Its all hopeless. It won't ever get better for you." The worst days were when he stared straight at me, wide eyed with hate. The days like this one. "Nobody will ever love us, love you. I don't care how many miles you run or how many books you read. I don't care if you have 6 pack abs, rippling arms, or boulders for shoulders. I don't care how great your job is or how much you get paid. I don't care where you volunteer, or what new hobbies you take up," he sneered with contempt. "I don't care if you discover that there really is a God and a heaven you end up in. I don't care what exotic places you vacation, which city you move to. ***I will always be with you. Because I know. I know that no matter what, it will never be good enough and neither will you."*** Every ounce of intensity of the anger I held back every day screamed, "I HATE YOU!". Still, my anger remained. I stormed out of the bathroom away from that damned mirror, then ripped another mirror off my bedroom door, and I paced back and forth in my room. Within 30 seconds I had changed into running shorts and I ran out the front door. The heavy metal was blaring through my headphones as I ran, trying to hurt the ground by striking my feet into it as fast as I could. By the time I came back down I was finishing an 8 mile loop. I walked inside, tore off my sweat covered shirt, and I laid on the ground. I stared at the white ceiling until exhaustion overtook me. I woke up the next morning on the wooden floor, shivering. I picked myself up and got into a hot shower, sitting down in the tub until the hot water ran out. Afterwards I got into bed and didn't move for the rest of the day. I felt empty and exhausted, yet there was something else there. Something small and intrusive. It reached out to me as if I were hearing a whisper from a great distance or a single breeze in the otherwise still air. I had fought back. It's been 2 years since that day I fought back. I didn't fight back every single day after that. Some days the boy in the mirror won, sometimes he even followed me on my runs. Some days I saw him in my dreams, or in the faces of friends that were having a joke at my expense. I heard him in all the rejections personal and professional. I saw him in each failure. But other days I won. I fought back, ignored him, beat him, or silenced him even if for a few hours. I met a girl, I fell in love, we moved in together. I got a new job I actually liked doing, and they paid me pretty well. I read everything I got my hands on and even published my own novel. I volunteered to pack lunches for the homeless. I ran a full marathon. I traveled to new and exciting places sometimes alone and sometimes in good company. But none of these things made the boy in the mirror go away. One day as I was getting ready I noticed something. The boy in the mirror hadn't opened his mouth in over a week, he just sat there looking weakly at the ground, his knees tucked to his chest. He looked skinner than normal, malnourished. Should I feel victorious right now? He did look like me after all, and he looked so sad. So alone and in need of a purpose? Something to do? A friend? And so I sat down. He still refused to meet my eyes. "I.." "Shut up. Just shut up okay? I don't need your pity. I don't need you or your help or anyone. I never did and I never will, so leave me alone." "Well, you never left me alone so it only seems fair." "..." "You know you've been following me around for years making me feel like shit, and I don't even know your name" "I don't really have *one*." "Everybody has a name, even asshole reflections." "I have a *few*. Some people call me Tim, others Anx, or Furo." "What the hell kind of names are those?*"* "They're Latin, and they're short for stuff. Timor, Anxietatem, Furorem." I rolled my eyes, "In English?" He glared back, "Fear. Anxiety. Anger." "...Why did you say those things anyway?" "Because I hurt. And I wanted you to hurt too. I wanted someone else to feel this." We sat there for a few minutes, neither one saying anything, both looking at the ground until I finally croaked out, “I'm sorry." "You-*what?* Sorry? **Sorry??**" His eyes glowed with hate. His fists balled up. "I'm sorry. I know that its hard. Its not fair, and sometimes it feels so bad that the only way to make the bad feel less is to give some of it to someone else." The hate faded, tears welled in his eyes, and his knuckles relaxed. I continued, "So I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you had to carry that all these years. I'm sorry that it made you tired, and hopeless, and sad. I'm sorry that its easier to be alone by rejecting people before they reject you. I'm sorry that sometimes you even push people away that you want to stay. But most of all I'm sorry that you felt you had to do it alone." The boy in the mirror started to fade. He looked down at his hands, terror in his eyes. More tears started to well in them. "What, no! Wait! Stop it please! Please don't leave me!" He cried as he shimmered and faded away. I looked into the mirror, into my eyes, and said, ***"I won't leave you. I never will and never could. I will carry you and sometimes you will carry me. Because I know. I know that no matter what it could get better. I know that one day it might be good enough, and so will you.


THE LONG WALK It an effulgent day, with an edgy sun and few puffy clouds hovering about the sky. But this connatural backdrop contradicts your dusky temperament. With your suitcase in hand, you head for the station. You are about travelling to Akwa Ibom from Abuja, where you spent your Christmas holidays. The holidays had been less favourable to you. Maybe it had been favourable to every other persons you cared less about at the station, but surely it treated you worse. The reason you keep looking searchingly for familiar faces around the bustling station, someone to lift your spirits up. You growl when you found none, and lazily you join the line of chattering passengers qeueing onto the lovomotive train. You exhale at last when the train chauffs and it speakers announces it departure, your departure from a forgettable holiday. Each passing moment you cast a glance at your wrist watch, but in pretense of keeping yourself busy than checking it correct time. The male passenger by your side tries to incite a conversation by asking about your holidays but you ignore him, instead choosing to stare out of the window at the lanky cattle rearers on the open fields, by the sides of the train tracks. Throughout the rest of the journey you are strictly quiet which makes you dooze off to sleep. The train stops at the next station and it wakes you up. You become annoyed when you realise you are not to alight there. As the train resumes it journey again, you try to silence out the metal clankings emanating from the train's engine room. It added more rhythm to the chatterings of other passengers. You realise you have been the only that has been quiet throughout the journey, so you wake the sleeping passenger beside you. You apologize for having ignored him earlier. You strike a conversation pertaining to the sunny weather and the poor state of the train. You realise you shared an opposing view to the passenger's, so you grow quiet with time, ignoring all his efforts to get you back on the conversation. The train stops at the next station, your destination. You alight with a few passengers, and choose not to look back at the departing train. It still bore memories of the miserable days you spent at Abuja. You walk briskly out of the train station, with your luggae slung over your shoulder. You halt the next cab that drives up to you. It driver drives off with you when you notify him of your destination, the bus stop at Uyo. You alight at the bus stop, where wisps of silver-grey smoke, curling out of vehicles mingles with pungent smell of decaying dumps littered around, causing passersby to twist their nose and spit their distaste. But you are untroubled with it. You are about to board a bus from Uyo to Ikot Ekpene. A Toyota Camry with a worn-out body and a fading red colour halts across the road. It driver waves energetically at you, you returned the gesture nonchalantly. ''Oto my man, Oto Oto!'' The driver cries out. He steps out of his car and takes off his cap, revealing his bald crown. He walks up to you with a grin. You silently wished you could reach out and slap off his grin, but you are civilized. He is an old friend from the past, old friends in college. You exchange exchange greetings and make inquiries affectionately. Your friend is a banker; happily married and life treats him fairl, which is visible with his bulky shape and rich attire. Yours is quite the opposite. You relate your life's ordeal to him; your vigourous work as a teacher, the mistake of travelling to Abuja for your holidays, a domineering principal at the school where you teach and the distances you had to cover everyday to work. ''It's life for you. Be a strong man.'' He speaks out loud and confidently. Perhaps, he is God and must have shaped every man's destiny, including yours-once his closest friend. He offers to drive you down to your destination without charges. Coincidentally, he is actually heading for the same destination as you. You excitingly hop into his rose-scented car, like a man Dangote had just willed his wealth to. En route, he suggest a few bottles of liqour, in celebration of an untimely reunion.

Let's drink like old days. He offers, you are in congruence with it. After all the bills are on your companion. The sun disappears over several empty green bottles of liqour in a bar and over you and your drunk friend. Your companion runs out of cash to pay for all the drinks. You are a guileless man and your conscience is knocking on your door. So you open your door and decide to help him out with the last amount you had as your transport fare. Afterall, he offered you a free ride home. The journey continues with both of you sitted in intoxicating silence. Your companion strikes off a conversation pertaining to football, but his views belies yours. Your companion is infuriated and slams his brake. The car stops violently same as your heart, but you are not death. You are shocked and confused. ''Get out of my car, man. Same old you, greedy and a lover of free things''. His words fall like bags of prickles on you. Pride comes in, you obediently and annoyingly step out of your companion's car without begging. Instead, you slam the door violently and walk off with your rumpled clothe and your luggage slung over your shoulder. Your friend drives off blasting black rings of smoke from his car all over you. You curse as his car drives out of sight. The cruel realisation knocks you like a million punches from your favourite kick-boxer. The puzzles fit in; your transport fare, the drinking bar, bottles of liqour you paid for and the lurking darkness. You give up and decide to walk. A huge sign board with, ''Poverty is a sin'' inscribed on it greets you at Ekom Iman junction. It makes you cry and laugh violently at the same time. You smile at every passersby that walks by you and wave at empty red buses, while trotting like a wounded dog into the night's dark garment. Ikot Ekpene your probable destination, or madness your probable outcome. You recall you begun your day's journey with a suitcase in hand, while you headed for the station. Now, you are heading for home on your feet with your suitcase still slung over your back.


EMANATION You never knew that she had an infirmity until she struggled through the garden door. The limp only became distinct as she dragged her left foot slightly. The clumsy movement scraped her trainer and the bottom of her jeans on the floor. The constant pressure meant that the jeans were roughed up and frayed at this spot and the trainer clearly showed signs of being worn away.

Once I’d noticed the limp I could then see that the whole of her left side sat awkwardly on her body as if it hadn’t been sculpted out fully by her maker, but she clearly carried herself positively so this gawkiness was hardly discernible. And what a positive force of nature she embodied. From the minute she appeared you knew she was there. You could feel her emanating something powerful, forceful, a vibrating energy field. She was hypnotic. “So what do you want to know?” she said plunking down on the damp garden bench by the now emptied swimming pool.

The garden was strewn with crunchy, shrivelling autumn leaves, a motley yellow, brown, green flecked carpet. Her large, round face was framed like a shaggy lion with a thick, curly, dark brown mane. Her sharp blue eyes pierced. I had been finally invited to do the article because I had known her mother through work on the local paper and I helped her parents when they were left struggling with an unruly press pack in their road. I hadn’t really wanted to do the story. I’d initially walked away as I feared I wouldn’t do it justice. That I wouldn’t be able to capture the beauty and remarkable gifts this 17-year-old girl offered to the world. I’d been ordered back by my news editor and told to tell it straight. What did that mean: tell it straight. As if she could read my mind she quickly made it clear: “I don’t want something mawkish – you know – a poor me piece. No playing on my disability or being sentimental. Tell the truth. See me properly and tell it as it is. No embellishment. Take me as you find me.” I found her directiveness mesmerising. Actually, I would have been scared to do anything other than as she requested. It wasn’t an order but in its forcefulness I could only obey. I found I didn’t want to dramatize or overwrite. All I wanted was to strip my words back to their power. Allow her to stand in her truth, as she asked. And what was that truth? “I suppose I want to know what happened? How did all this start?” I replied. “I just woke up and I could see colours everywhere. Not just the usual colours that things have but layers upon layers of colours. Colour had been split into spectrums all around me. Light came out of everything. It spilt everywhere. As I put my foot down everything burst into light and colour with each step. I thought I’d entered a cartoon-land it was so bright and zappy. “I’ve never done drugs but I thought perhaps this is what it would be like. Now I’m saying this, I’m surprised I wasn’t freaked out but somehow it all felt normal to wake up and find that the world around me had gone psychedelic. “I felt that I was being held by some enormous being who’d stripped my eyes and opened them up to a new way of seeing – an alternative parallel universe. I should have been scared but in fact I felt comforted and supported.

“It was only when I came downstairs and walked into the kitchen that I realised something was wrong. My mum started shrieking and dropped the milk carton on the floor. Of course, usually I wouldn’t be coming down the stairs by myself. I’d need my mum or one of my carers to get me down and plump me into my wheelchair. So, as you can see, me lumbering around would have been a bit of a shock for everyone.”

Lazarus Girl and Miracle Maid were already names she had been called for her remarkable transformation. Her mum had told me that Miriam had been born with Cerebral Palsy and had never walked properly. CP is like a stroke at birth or in the womb when the infant is deprived of blood or oxygen, or both. Miriam’s mother never knew what had happened but was told that the birth had been uncomplicated. Medics believed that Miriam had suffered an event while in utero. Miriam’s mother couldn’t remember any shock or distress, except that the family cat had died when she was about eight months pregnant. “As I bent over to help mum clear up the milk I was struck by her crying and the tears dripping into the milk which was running across the kitchen tiles. I remember thinking ‘why is mum crying?’ I still hadn’t made a proper connection with the weirdness of me walking around.” “And now?” I asked. “Of course, I get that this must seem like a miracle. In my head life felt normal. Instead of wheels I was using my legs.  Wheels, legs, I was mobile so I hadn’t made the distinction before. Even when I was walking in my colour dream I was me. I was just getting on with life, getting around as I wanted.

“And yes, legs are easier, before you ask. And am I doing anything different? No. I suppose it’s nice to be able to come up and downstairs but it’s not like I’ve taken up running marathons,” she laughed. “I like to be able to help out more. Mum has even got cross with me for not emptying the dishwasher. That would never have happened before. I think I like her getting cross with me now. It means she’s beginning to forget that once I couldn’t do those things. She now treats me like the others, like my sister and brother.” “How do they feel about it?” “Probably glad they don’t have to hump me around and put up with me being the special needy one anymore.” I think that the world will always see her as special but decide not to say anything. Instead I wondered if she still saw the colours. “Not quite in the same way. When the Being is here, then I do.” And there it was. “What can you say about the Being? If you’d like to discuss it of course.” “Only if you tell it straight.”

I agreed. In the end isn’t this what everyone wanted to know about - the Being? “I know some people want to call it an alien being. I think they’re scared of any notions of something more divine. Mum and I call it my archangel. It seems to like that. I’m not sure if it’s a he or she. To be honest I think it’s non-binary, though sometimes it feels very flowy and feminine and other times very strong and energetic and masculine. Most times it’s just there, glowing all these colours, dynamic and mega powerful.” I thought that was a good description for Miriam. She emanated. “When I go back to the start, I recall that it was speaking in my head and telling me to get up. Now I hear it all the time. If I want to know something I just ask and I’m told.

Of course, before you inquire, I’ve asked what it is. It just smiles. I’m happy with that. Does it really matter in the end?” I say that many people want to claim her and her Being for their own cause whether it be religious, or science or psychological. She laughs, “Church groups of all denominations have called or turned up on the doorstep. Some of them are very annoying with the talk of Christ and angels or possession. We’ve had the ufologists and crop-circler types - they’re fun but the NASA and shadowy government figures are boring and just want to take me away for experiments. Mum’s got really good at dealing with them now. “Whereas the psychiatrist and psychologist bunch want to explore my higher being energies. The Being laughs at this and shows me how to get rid of them, politely of course. We’ve got techniques for not answering the questions.” She looked fierce. I was glad she was answering mine. I wondered if the Being’s powers were fearsome. “I know it doesn’t want to harm me. I know it’s here for good. Like now, it’s saying what do you really want to know?” “What? It’s talking to me?” “Yes. It says you’d really like to understand the power of this world, this universe. What stands beyond time and space.” I admitted I did. I wanted to know how this girl had already performed miracles. A deaf boy could now hear. Another child could walk. As news of her work filtered out I could understand why Christian groups were muttering about the Second Coming and that many wanted to bow at her feet and call her a Messiah.

Now she was revealing that her gifts came from channelling this entity. “Come,” she said, standing up and walking over to the family’s empty swimming pool. Below, in the shallow end, a puddle of rainwater held soddened Autumn leaves and twigs. “The force of life is like this pool of water. All we have to do is use its energy to gather in all that we need. Water has its own power. It’s the mover, the gatherer, the transformer.” As she opened her arms and moved her hands the water flowed with her actions. She opened out her left arm and made a gathering gesture with her hand. At the same time the puddle below moved and all the leaves and twigs were washed into a neat pile in a corner.

I stood in awe. I felt I was witnessing magic but I knew it was more than that. This was some stranger, deeper truth, a different kind of beauty. I found myself saying: “Wouldn’t this be amazing if we used water more constructively?” Miriam smiled, probably like her Being. “I’m glad you understand.”

At that point I wasn’t sure who was talking; in fact, I no longer cared. Instead, we stood in silence together in the custard Autumn sun and admired the gathered-in leaves.