The sun cast an eerie shadow through the windows that brisk autumn afternoon. The way the silhouettes of the leaves danced across the floor and scaled the walls, ascending to the ceiling as if weightless and carefree. The shadows offered a proper mood to the situation as Mr. Welch sat in his living room. The rhythmic tick echoing from the watch precisely fashioned around his wrist, 2:34pm. The conversation around him became nothing but white noise, the imagery from outside creating facades within his mind. The wind was consistent yet gentle, the trees and the wind seemed to peacefully coexist and become one. “Edgar, we need to figure out what happened here” as if ripped from his alternate reality by these words, they felt as if he’d been struck across the face. The man with the shiny black boots and that common pale skin tone were all that jumped out to Edgar, the contrast came across so different, but he relished in the similarities. Edgar had been known for such things, his pedigree in the fashion industry made life in a small town rather impossible. The man spoke again but he quickly became white noise, the details that scrawled across his uniform quickly flashed at Edgar, like the world’s least colorful fireworks show. The laces on the boots were tied to perfection, as if years of practice and most likely scrutiny from a nasty loved one lead to such execution. The thoughts ran a mile between the edges of Edgar’s mind, bouncing off the walls and crafting those dark and mysterious images he’d come to long for. “Edgar, your wife is missing and your story plants you at your home during the hours she would have gone missing. You have no information as to where they could be?” The question seemed to carry a supercilious tone, *quit playing dumb with us Welch, I’ll cuff and drag your sorry ass back to the station in a heartbeat*. These were the emotions Edgar imagined being tossed around underneath that tight cap of his. The badge read “M. Williams” which came as a surprise to Edgar, the officer was thin and scrawny but presumably fit underneath those increasingly bland clothes. He struck Edgar as a Samuel, or maybe even an Oliver “What does the M stand for Officer, if you don’t mind me asking” the question came across as inquisitive, but it seemed to anger Williams. He grabbed Edgar by the collar and hoisted him into the air with what felt like ease. “It’ll stand for my fucking foot in your ass if you don’t start answering my questions, where did your wife go!” This was no longer a game for Edgar, his shirt had been heaved from the waistband of his jeans and his neatly combed hair disheveled from the violent shaking. The pale face that once calmly stood before him was replaced with a bright red; his eyes quickly shifted to that of what you’d see on a wild animal. This wasn’t the behavior of your average uniform, Mr. Williams seemed to take what Edgar had done personally, as if he were the brother of his wife. “Officer, officer. All you had to do was ask. I can give you access to my wife’s office if you’d like but I simply have but a clue where she went.” This seemed to ease the aggression, his grip loosened, and Edgar’s now ruffled collar slipped from his grasp. They started down the dimly lit hallway, Janice was never one for the fancy lights and the fine hardwood flooring, she enjoyed the shadows that danced their halls in the later hours of the day. The mahogany door at the end of the hall was her office, where she met with clients and had those simply dreadful conference calls. Edgar always hated what she did, slipping out unexpectedly for hours, sometimes even days at a time to some place she never quite disclosed. He outstretched his hand for the golden doorknob, his face obscured in the spherical illusion. Edgar looked at the clock, 11:21am. The birds had finished their chirping and the frigid air seemed to reside from the trees. The coffee pot chimed those 3 wonderful beeps from the kitchen as Janice’s heels ticked across the hall. Edgar sat in his chair, placed perfectly in the corner of the living room, from this place he felt the tranquility and freedom of the outdoors while experiencing the safety and security of his home. Again, the noises around him fell to a silent hush as he focused on the world before him, the world spoke to him like nobody ever could. Amid this reposeful state, he neglected the sounds of his wife calling out to him. “Edgar, they need me to head out West for a few days again, something’s wrong with one of the clients.” She spoke so sure of her lies, but when she came to bid her final goodbye Edgar snapped from his state. *That* *scent, that familiar* *scent* he thought to himself as she started away from him. The perfume he’d bought for her months ago as a present for their 10-year anniversary. He smelt it when they made love that night and hadn’t smelt it since, unless she was leaving town. She started back towards her office to collect her things as Edgar rose from his chair. *That whore, all this time her clients* *have been nothing* *but a* *facade, an apparition to cloud me from the truth.* He knew what he had to do, there was no other way. Edgar turned the knob, but the door refused to give way. “My apologies, I left the keys on the counter in the kitchen. Would you mind grabbing them for me?” Officer Williams glanced at Edgar, confused as to how he could forget the door was locked, but feeling slightly guilty for the incident earlier he reluctantly started back to the kitchen. The keys glistened in the light cast through the windows as Williams took them in his hand. He turned to leave but something caught his eye as he walked out. The symmetry in the room was off, something felt wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He looked to the window and found the issue, sitting below the ledge was a knife block with 3 empty places. The dishwasher was opened and empty, the sink was clear of any utensils. *Strange-* he thought as he started back to Ms. Welch’s office. “Sorry I got distracted, here’s the keys” Edgar slid the keys into the hole above the knob, the lock snapped back as he turned his hand. The door opened with a violent creak and the two men entered. Janice stepped from behind her office door and checked her watch, 11:24am. She knew her train left at 11:45am and she needed to hurry. She looked up to see Edgar leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor. “Sweetie is there something you need?” his face remained cold and emotionless, his eyes piercing hers and peering into what felt like her soul. “Where did you say you were going again, darling?” his question felt as cold as his gaze, with a hint of suspicion. He took a step towards her, brandishing one of her knives from the kitchen. “See, you never wear that perfume *Janice*” *He never uses my first name… somethings wrong* she thought as he continued towards her “you see, these little surprise business trips got me thinking *Janice.* You never come home during the day, you’re always a little out of place, and you always smell like that fucking perfume” he disclosed a second blade, a butchers knife opposed to the smaller steak knife he held in his other hand. “Honey please, you’re being ridiculous” He raised his arm and threw the butchers knife at her, it connected with her torso as she let out a blood curdling scream. She slumped to the floor, her screaming continuing as Edgar charged towards her. Williams covered his nose; the stench seemingly flew towards them from within the office. He began to panic and started towards the closet on the far end of the room, he unlatched the doors and drew them. He keeled over as he felt his insides churn, Ms. Welch’s lifeless and headless corpse was slumped in the floor of the closet. The insects flew about her wounds and the area surrounding her. He turned back towards Edgar and felt a rush of adrenaline course throughout his system. He glanced down to see the 15’ carving knife slammed into his stomach, his blood pouring from the bottom of the wound onto the floor. Edgar took a step back as Williams threw a hand in his direction, tumbling to his knees. The red tint quickly faded from his cheeks as his insides began spilling out. He looked up at Edgar, a crooked smile plastered seemingly ear-to-ear on his face. “Oh Marcus, you should’ve minded your own business.” He knelt to meet Marcus’ gaze. Blood began to spurt from his mouth as his attempted to cuss out Edgar. He felt icy hands run through his hair as his cap toppled to the floor. Edgar took a firm grip and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “And you shouldn’t have fucked my wife” Edgar grabbed the handle of the knife and ripped it from Marcus’ mid section, proceeding to slash it across his throat and letting his limp corpse collapse to the floor. Edgar glanced at his watch, 3:10pm. He lowered himself back into his chair and admired the birds positioned peacefully on the banister of his porch. They chirped and nestled together to escape the cool breeze. Edgar tilted his head back and took a deep breath, that same crooked smile growing from within him as a loud knock came from his front door. “Mr. Welch. Mr. Welch, it’s the police. Open up” He lifted himself from his seat and exhaled. One final thought graced the surface of his mind. *“And the game begins again.


My mother was always a bit odd. As a child each year near my birthday she would make trayfuls of gingerbread cookies and pass them out to my classmates with a handwritten card, thanking them for being my friend. And if you had stepped into our house you would find our walls adorned top to bottom with every piece of shitty school art I had ever done. It got to a point where I would just throw my creations away before I got home. The strangest thing though was she talked to our plants. She even named them. There was Daphne the lemon tree, Carl the pomegranate tree, and Joseph the Oak, bigger than a sapling but far from a mature tree. I would often find her in the backyard having full-blown one sided conversations with them. When I told her that that was more than a bit strange she would respond curtly. “They need to know they are loved Steven!” she’d say and then she would wait until I had gone back inside before picking up where she left off. Sometimes she would insist we dress up in our nicest clothing and pose by the trees for pictures taken by her timer operated camera. I knew she was far from a normal mother, but all we had was eachother and she did give me all the affection a mother could give. When I moved out for college I made sure to stay close, because I couldn’t bear to leave her alone. She kissed my forehead when I told her this and lovingly told me that it was okay, that she had Carl, Joseph and Daphne to keep her company but I could tell she was relieved to have me near. As I grew older I saw less and less of her. Work, friends, and a love-life took more of my time and I only got to see her once every two weeks. I was at the bar with my friend when I got the call. My mother was dead. Our neighbor spotted her through the fence sprawled on the ground in our garden, a stroke. Only a few family members and friends showed up to her funeral but that was fine, it was always just me and her. She was cremated shortly after the ceremony and I took her home with me. I was given the house and all her belongings, she only had one request of me in her will and that was that I continue to take care of and talk to the trees. I took care of them sure, but I couldn’t really bring myself to talk to plant-life. One day as I was finally going through her room, I found an envelope in her desk with a cache of papers inside. I looked through them and was shocked at what I found. Three stillborn-death certificates for a Joseph, Carl and Daphne. I had never known I had siblings and had never seen any urns, but I knew already where their remains were housed. Now I take her last wish seriously and everyday I talk to the trees. I even bought a new one for my mother.


Deliver, scan 06:05. Deliver, scan 08:17. Deliver, scan 09:10. Deliver, scan 09:54. Deliver, scan 13:12. Deliver, scan 18:34. 18:52 Six newborns today to six sets of parents; a clean day, no twins would need to be separated. The last child, a boy, was delivered at 18:34 today, just making the final cut of the day before the clock struck 19:00. These six infants will wake up tomorrow out of the hospital and in new homes to their new parents. Some will be reunited with their biological parents; others will end up in completely new homes. That decision will fall on the lottery now. Once the baby is delivered, it is out of our hands, it is out of the parents’ hands; fate guides all. It has worked this way since the machines were introduced in 2025. The baby is delivered and immediately taken from the parents into an isolation room. The newborn is scanned, receives two options, and is put to be fed, cleaned, and laid down with all the other newborns of that day until the lottery begins. The newborn will always receive two options. There is ‘option A’ the good news, the option we all hope will become the truth. And of course, there is ‘option B’ the bad news, the ultimate worst. At first they were called ‘positive’ and ‘negative’, but too many parents were leaving their children in the care of the hospital, placing too heavy a connotation on the ‘negative’ aspect. We have found that providing parents ‘options’ allows them the illusion of choice. In the last thirty-nine years not a single child has procured himself an adulthood that has not proved one of the options true. The machines are foolproof in the sense that one of two will be fulfilled. However, with every machine comes a unique disparity. Our machine predicts ‘option A’ correctly 82% of the time. Not as good as other area hospitals with 90% success rates, but better than the others that can only guarantee a 64% chance. It is those lucky ones that hit ‘option A’ who run the world as we know it today. If an infant is unfortunate enough to hit their ‘option B’, well… we’re lucky enough to be operating at 82% “Doctor” the nurse called from the hallway as she walked towards the shut office door, “It is after 19:00, the parents need to be informed and the lottery must begin.” Getting up out of this chair and walking those fifty feet to where the parents await could feel as if you were walking for days. This walk that feels like days is one that takes place every day in hospitals around the world. We are always walking, always. 19:09 “Parents, thank you for your patience. You are all well aware of how we are going to be managing this system.” The speech is always the same, learned as a code, an oath, by every Doctor whom this task is given to. “A lottery has already taken place, and you know whether you are number one, number six, or any number in between. You know that we cannot inform you how the lottery system works, or which child is your offspring.” The words fall off my tongue flawlessly as my mind drifts to what is on the dinner menu tonight. “We can only inform you of what their options entail, and it is up to you make your decision. Remember, this hospital runs at an 82% success rate, so please keep that in mind. You have the choice of selecting a child, or passing, and we will not leave this room until all the parents have taken their choice. If a child is left in the care of the hospital by the end, the parents will have a chance to claim this child along with the one they have already chosen.” “Let us begin.” 21:20 The lottery always takes longer than it should. Two future professional athletes, a future diplomat, a police chief, and a successful entrepreneur were all given new homes. ‘option B’ scenarios tend to blur together as the days go by. Murders, war criminals, even those who will suffer from psychosis. We encourage the families not to hang their heads on these 18%, yet most days we end up with a child who will not have a home, and parents who will have to wait another year to try. Today was no different. Five adopted children, and one that will remain in the care of the hospital. ‘option A’ Olympian. ‘option B’ child molester, 18%. This newborn, the one who was delivered at 08:17 is now in the care of the hospital, and his options will not pan out. Those who are left in the care of the hospital are trained to become a Doctor. There is no glamour in this job as there is no pain. The ultimate neutral, the middle ground between ‘option A’ and ‘option B.’ Going through life knowing you were left there by all potential parents, the unwanted. Growing up knowing your ‘option B’ was so bad it turned everyone away. Pain. One bright side to this life of a neutral comes on your 25th birthday when you finish your training, and are introduced to the system, how the lottery works, and why the machines were brought in. The Doctors are the only ones who know, the only ones who will ever know. In twenty-five years the baby delivered at 08:17 this morning will know. He will know how the system works, and he will learn what his options were to get a feel of what potential parents choose not to select. He will have to live from age twenty-five on knowing what his life could have been, and what it became instead. We are given no names, only the title of ‘Doctor’ and enough knowledge to keep the system moving. My title is Doctor. I know how the system works. I was born with two options, as was everyone else who was born on this planet since 2025, in a hospital that guaranteed an 86% ‘option A’ success rate. All eight parents that day passed on me, and I was left in the care of the hospital. My fates were unique in the sense that they were identical. Had I not been left at the hospital, today I would be the leader of the world. My title is Doctor.


**I dedicate this story to my boy Guilou, a dog that only knows love.** Frank was special, unique and unnoticed. And Spork was it, the only one who witnessed the magic. But all Spork wanted was a scratch he always wanted a scratch. He waited; waited for Frank’s eyes to match his then he’d roll over. Frank hated this, especially when he was onto something and he was on to something tonight. “Well you know how it is, when you smell roses, you love the smell but it’s never permanent. People always dream of being permanent, I just got lucky.. lucky to smell like the roses only I’m much longer lasting. And I guess you could say that maybe winning this medal, it could possibly make me permanent.” Frank said. Frank was pacing erratically back and forth. Spork would watch from the floor, as Frank neared, he’d roll over and move his paws in a downward fashion. Frank usually would pass right by and head the other direction, but every once in a while Spork got lucky. Frank this time was near the kitchen getting ready to sit in a chair for five seconds. And then he was off to the bathroom, to stand in front of the mirror. He was talking to himself. “Being a man who worked his whole life I was lucky I got to bloom. I took an interest in skiing when I was young, very young and dedicated my life to it. It’s humbling to know that my work paid off.” He said while watering his hands and pushing his dirty hair off his forehead. It was unusual that Frank discovered his magic before eating especially on Friday, he usually was worn out. His days were long today no different, but he knew it was a mindset, and a possibility. And today that possibility was a reality. He was in the bathroom for a while, mumbling and when he finally did exit; he did so with the biggest smile. After all he was a successful Olympian gold medalist and right now he was giving his interview. It was a methodical interview, one he considered to be of fine taste, being that it was Valentine’s Day. And of course he was talking to none other than Amy Pogger, a sports reporter. She was blushing and sexually aroused. Spork was now by the front door lying in front of the glass that was on the side. He was on his back moving his paws towards his belly. He had his eyes on the kid outside, and was hoping for a scratch. The kid just so happened to be delivering food, Chinese, but hadn’t made his presence known yet. He was watching Spork, though with great amusement, until of course, he noticed Frank. “Hey honey will you be mine? How about if I win another Gold?” Frank said while pacing at an ever increasing speed. He laughed, made faces and moved about in an unpredictable fashion. He was like a Turkey walking through the forest. The man outside tried to remain discreet, and continue to observe the magic that unfolded. Frank didn’t know it but this was his first spectator. He began dancing, lifting his legs and moving them side to side, swinging his hips. He was spinning in circles and came to a sudden stop; his head was facing the door. He looked at Spork and just like that… the magic was gone. His face was now blank and he was staring right at Spork, then out the window. He couldn’t see well from where he was standing. It was dark outside. After a few seconds he turned and ran into his room. “ Awww Fuck Fuck fuck fuck god damn it, stupid fucking Olympics!” He said while stomping his feet into the ground. Frank was upset and panicked; he knew there was a possibility someone was watching him especially since he ordered food. Frank didn’t have his money ready and was weeping in the corner of his room. He couldn’t remember what he ordered pizza or Chinese. He very rarely remembered anything that was routine, it was more habit necessary for his survival. Frank’s life revolved around routine, routine was his crutch without it Frank was a loss. He was easily distracted. And today he deviated from this routine. His Fridays always started the same way he got up, ate shit, and went to work. It was physical work, work that needed little attention to detail. Then he drove home and ordered pizza or Chinese, depending which he was in the mood for. After that he'd turn on the T.V., smoke a cigar and wait to pay for his food. He always had his cash, in hand straight to the dollar which was one of two numbers $14.50 or $23.47. Once he ate he showered, fantasized about women and would go to sleep. Spork was oblivious to Frank, and hoping a hand would come through the glass and hit his underbelly. He braced himself with excitement as a hand neared the glass above him. “Ding Dong Ding dong” Frank heard the noise and slowly excited his room, and casually walked to the door and answered it. “Hey Boris you're late, you usually get here 10 min earlier.” He was looking at Boris with suspicion. Boris was half grinning trying to keep the whole grin from surfacing. “Hey man nah I was just running late you know how it is, sometimes we're busy.” “Oh” Frank said doubtingly and gave Boris the money, $23.47 to be exact. “Wow thanks man why so much this time, I guess I’ll be late more often.” Boris was smiling; he almost thought and pictured this as Frank maybe bribing him. “Just get outta here alright.” Frank said, grabbing his food. “Don’t worry man I getcha your secret’s safe with me daugg.” Boris said walking away, the door slams. \ That night was long but Frank slept well, Spork slept well too, he had a belly full of rice and toilet water. It wasn’t uncommon for Frank to forget to feed him, but when he did Spork would take matters into his own hands. The next morning Frank woke to his practically empty house. It had one chair, a bed , a dresser a table a T.V. , all the standard appliances and a tipped over trash can. He saw the trash can, looked at it and went to his recliner. Grabbed his computer, lit a cigar and started his day. Spork followed and would lie on the floor next to him. After Frank and Spork were done inhaling the smoke from Frank’s cigar. Frank got to business. He started with the internet and would read the reviews. Any review about anything would work as long as it was considered great. Today he was reading about one of the greatest books of all time. When he was younger he read some supposedly great books, and was disappointed. They were no longer great books. He learned fast however and noted that if the book was to remain great he must not read it, so that is what he did. He did this with anything and everything great. He was a man who loved the mere possibility of something being great. He loved to imagine it, he loved the hype and used these reviews to prepare himself. He was a magician or an artist waiting for inspiration to strike. The book he was reading about happened to be a book about spirituality or enlightenment. And that’s when Frank became the next prophet. He quickly put his computer on the floor and slammed his recliner shut and jumped to his feet. “You fucking aren’t good at anything you’re a gay piece of shit with a flabby ass.” Linda said to Frank. Frank really did have a flabby ass. Linda just so happened to be one of Frank’s characters, part of his imagination, she was fat and nervous. But in this instance she was saying everything to Frank that she was too afraid to say. Frank was open and unintimidating. “That is ok my dear I can be whatever you like me to be.” Frank said composed and calm while turning his left butt cheek. He was smiling and pacing again and almost laughing. “How clever, how clever.” He said to himself. “You think that’ll stop me and everybody else who hates you. You act like your better than us.” There wasn’t an “us” a minute ago, but now there was, a whole army of people. They were all displeased with Frank. “Why cant you see the truth, look to the light my friends, and you too will not be afraid.” Frank said, trying to calm this crowd down. The crowd didn’t care, they tied him up with ropes. And drug him around a campfire. “I love you all, each and every one of you and I too am not displeased.” “If you loved me why am I fat perform a miracle, perform a miracle come on perform a fucking Miracle!!” Linda yelled. Frank loved curse words; he loved them so much, he felt it added something to his thoughts, a flavor maybe, a style. Linda and her posse were furious. They continued to drag Frank around the dirt till he looked like fudge-sickle. Then Linda had the crowd pick Frank up and drop him into the fire pit. Frank was burning and cringing and all dirty. He was covered with soy sauce as he rolled around the trash in the kitchen. He looked up and saw Spork lying next to him on his back and… the magic was gone. “Nope, Spork you sick son of a bitch. Look what you did you made a fucking mess.” Frank had yet to punish Spork for his trash digging and actually hadn’t said a word about it till now. Spork though was carefree as always and got off easy. Frank was looking at Spork and on closer inspection noticed a dried Lo mein noodle stuck to his chest. He reached for it. Spork’s body oozed excitement, he was expecting a scratch. Frank grasped the noodle with the tips of his fingers and peeled it off. Spork's attention shifted to Frank's hand then the noodle, he smelled and tried to eat it. That Saturday was a good Saturday, it was a productive Saturday even if Frank didn’t clean the trash in the kitchen or feed the dog. If it wasn’t a part of his routine it didn’t happen and on Saturdays he didn’t have a routine, except for feeding Spork which usually Spork took into his own hands. However Frank slept with four girls all beautiful, was enlightened, became the president and fixed our government, only caught 2 diseases they were terrible and he was pitied, wrote six award winning books, created the new tastiest restaurant, beat up a few guys he knew for pissing him off, had more money than the pope, killed a rapist, survived in the wilderness for 30 days in the harshest of winters, fought in a war won the medal of honor, taught kids the meaning of life and parented them to be successful, and sat in his chair and enjoyed 3 cigars. He never once scratched Spork. \ Now it was Sunday Frank's worst day of the week. He woke up with a frown knowing that Saturday which had a possibility of being the greatest day ever wasn’t and therefore it was disappointing. And of course work was around the corner. He would refuse to get outta bed, in retaliation but always after an hour or two he’d get up. Spork would too. Frank would begin his day with Routine, which already made this day not the greatest day ever. He’d start by cleaning the trash. Then not forgetting the humiliation he faced on Friday. He grabbed a blanket and created a crude blind for the glass on the side of the front door. He did so by taping the blanket to the wall with some duct tape. “I hate you Spork your fucking worthless.” Frank said. When Frank talked Spork would get excited and roll over. It was still early so Frank had yet to concentrate on his upcoming work, but when he did it was not unexpected that he’d have a meltdown. His Sundays sometimes were like that, especially when he couldn’t accurately predict what would happen on Monday. Once he finished the two chores Frank sat down in his recliner, lit a cigar and turned on the T.V. He saw an ad that showed a man in poor health all due to cigarettes, so he thought to as why he smoked in the first place. And came to the conclusion it was because of peer pressure and not being in control. He saw guys at work do it, they said it was good for stress. And that’s when it hit his magic. He quickly stood once again this time uneasy. “Hey Frank, how was your weekend man?” “Well Joey my weekend was fabulous I… I …… I god dammit no no no fuck you fuck you Joey go touch yourself!” Frank yelled. Frank was upset. He was combining his magic with his routine or rather the routine he’d face in the future. He did this from time to time and he knew it was taboo and yet still a possibility. Frank was a control freak. His magic was special and worked because he controlled the outcome but today he mixed it with an unpredictable outcome, a mere possibility. “So you mean again you’ve done nothing you’re a loser boy.” Joey said. Joey was the new guy at work who always asked Frank if he had a good weekend. They worked the assembly lines together bolting wheels onto cars. Frank hated Joey but Frank hated a lot of things. And Joey would always ask Frank these questions in front of everyone else. “Joey you’re a fucking variable a fucking variable but today im ma… gonna come up with something great I did this weekend youll see.” He thought for a second and for another, hours passed. He was angry and wanted to say he did things around the house. But he said that last week. “Why can’t he just leave me alone?” He was crying, and on the floor in the fetal position. He’d been there for a while trying to sleep the day away. He rolled over and felt a lick on his nose. Spork was lying there on his back with his face next to Franks. Frank opened his eyes and just like that…. the magic was gone.


"What's your favourite colour, Amelia?" "Pink!" "Your favourite fruit?" "Strawberry!" "What do you want to be when you grow up?" "A scientist!" They asked the same boring questions, and Amelia would answer them with the same prepared answers along with her naive enthusiasm. The girls would fight her over liking pink more. Her servants would bring her baskets of strawberries, and the grown-ups always praised her for choosing to be a scientist in their abundant gatherings. "What is a scientist?" that was what nobody asked her, a good thing though because if they did this would be her answer. The scientist is that wizard wearing a long, purple robe inside a villa adorned with posters that makes one dizzy. They have the freedom to spend days teleporting to space, jumping from planet to planet, one star to the other and greeting the aliens. In longing to be there again, the scientist spends their evenings watching the aliens through their long enchanted invention as their foreign friends wave at them. “Why strawberry?” was another question, Amelia wasn’t inquired. The answer would be because they look pretty, the prettiest thing she had ever seen. She dreamt of a world in which people lived under the sky with strawberries floating above them... The little Amelia had asked her father, the King to foist people to eat nothing but strawberries for one day. Certainly, they wouldn't like the idea, but what choice did the people of Tribida have except to "enjoy" having nothing but strawberries on the first day of spring. After eighteen years this had evolved into a crucial tradition and the other ritual the people of this town had was that once the child of the King, on the line for the throne attained the age of eighteen, they shall be taken to a separate mansion for one month. Letting go of Amelia, the only child of the King was his nightmare, but rules were rules and the fanatic King would rather lose his head than his word. He kissed her farewell. She left clenching her deceased mother's bracelet onto the carriage with the white horses that led her to the pink castle, cast away. After their long conveyance, the young knight sitting behind the horsemen stepped down and opened the door for the Princess and the two maids. Amelia picked a pink rose from the flower bed on their way to the castle. She was led upstairs to the tower that was her rosy room with a view so beautiful, Amelia couldn't wait for the night to fall so she could begin stargazing. There was no need to keep the candles burning since the stars were gleaming and the moonlight fell on the wooden floor. She stood across the window, and now it gleamed her freckled face. Amelia closed her eyes, inhaled the flower she had picked and twirled it between her fingers. The rose fell from the window, exactly across the knight's feet. Amelia gasped. She looked down and yelled. "Sir! Umm... Mr knight!" He didn't move a muscle. "I'm talking to you!" the birds who were in sound sleep flew away from the rooftops. Amelia grabbed her robe and stomped to the knight. She took the rose from the ground. A few of its petals torn apart and fell in subtle motion. "Can't you hear me?" she raised her voice. His head was pointed right over her head, but was he even looking at her? "I'm going to tell my father about this reckless behaviour of yours." "I'm a knight. Princess, I'm on duty." at last, the statue spoke, softly. "I was asking you to bring me my flower." "I can't, I shouldn't even be talking to you. Please go." "Why?" "Have you ever talked to a knight before?" "No, I—" "See, it's the order of the King. We aren't supposed to talk with the princess, or with anyone at all." "But why? Don't you have thoughts? Don't you have words?" There was a pause then he said, "No one wants to hear a knight’s thoughts or a knight’s words." "I want to." "Please, leave." he lowered his voice, looking at the entrance of the castle. Amelia couldn't sleep that night. She imagined being a knight...to have thoughts but, no freedom to share, to have a tongue, but no voice to speak, to have a heart, no right to feel... "Are you alright, dear?" Asked the woman pouring Amelia simmering, green tea. "Yes, yes." Amelia twitched and averted her gaze from the window. "Martha?" "Yes?" "Why aren't knights supposed to talk to us?" "Well, they serve for the King, and it's best to keep their priority to serve." she raised her chin. "You serve for the king too, he doesn't have problems with you talking?" "No, I'm a woman. And I'm only allowed to talk to you." "Aren't men supposed to have things to say? Or feel?" "Oh, Amelia, what has got into you today? Anyway, I and Linda are taking off to the town. Is there anything you need?" "No," she muttered. The night fell, and the eccentric Amelia had an idea. "Oh, silly me, I keep losing grasp of my flowers." Amelia picked the fallen flower across the knight's feet. She sighed after looking at him standing motionless. "Aren't you going to utter anything? I'm doing you a favour. Don't you feel like talking?" Seemed like she was looking at a knight’s armour, with no soul inside it. It was difficult to see his face. He was nothing but a silhouette. Hopelessly, she went back. A single flower kept being plucked from the garden each day. This continued for ten days until he lost it. "What do you want?" "Aha, I knew you weren't dead in there!" "Princess Amelia, this is not right." "Oh, so you know my name too? Impressive..." "They will kill me!" "Who? My father? Please, he's the kindest King Tribida has ever had." "You don't know anything, do you?" he mumbled. "What was that?" "Nothing." "No, no I heard it. What do I not know?" "That I have nothing to say, I lied. I have no thoughts, nothing, really, now please, leave." "Your head armour trembles more when you fib, like now. I will leave, but only if you answer my question. One question." "Alright, go on." "What's it like to be you?" "I...it's I—" "Good, think about it. We'll continue tomorrow. Good ni... Oh," she smacked on her forehead. "Knights don't sleep too?" she fell asleep with the thought. The next morning Amelia left for the woods, without informing Martha or Linda. While singing a lullaby with her high-pitched voice, she pushed aside the bushes that came along and looked at the sky to see the crowns of the towering trees. “Just a few more minutes...” she kept ambling and lost the track of time. A strange whimper ceased her walking. The bushes beside her twitched and heavy footsteps were following her from behind. Amelia screamed after a hyena leapt from behind the bushes. She fell on her back and hopelessly crawled herself backwards. Her palms scratched with the damp rubble merged with thorns. She shielded herself with her seeping hands. The sound of its whiffs was getting closer. Amelia closed her eyes and opened them promptly after the rough thump. “Princess!” the knight put back his seeping sword. “Mr knight!” He helped the Princess to stand on her feet. “Thank you,” Amelia said, teary-eyed. “It was my duty, Princess.” On their way back to the castle, Amelia succeeded in compelling the guarded knight not only to tell about his life story, of how he was an orphan who spent his childhood napping on the streets and labouring in a bakery but she also left him chuckling more than the young knight wanted to admit. The red rose fell across his feet. After a minute, she was there, unhurriedly picking it. Amelia stood for a while. “You don’t want to answer?” his silence gave her the response. She turned around. "It's like nothing but limitations. Watching the world in four lines only, wishing for its spaces to become wider one day. It's the thirsty watching the river across him drying, it's the lover yearning and dying. Serving for the one unaware of my existence, but if I break a rule, he will order my death by calling my name he just learned. It's gleaming under the moonlight, but I'm called a knight, I'm dark and faceless. Gawking at the abyss. Still in here, dancing in my little world. It's admiring all the beautiful things, in pieces. Speaking to a weary mind, even then in hesitation, I'm nothing but limitations." Amelia wiped her tears away. "Hey, tomorrow, it's your turn. You have to answer me. What’s it like to be you?" Amelia could hear his smile through his softening voice. She nodded and ran to her tower, then cried herself to sleep. Her pillow clasped her falling tears. "Martha, we need to go to the castle today. I need to see my father." "But we can't Amelia. It's not been a month yet." "I don't care!" The basket of bread fell from Martha's hands. "Is it because of that knight?" "What?" "Too late." Amelia ran outside. He wasn't there. "What did you do to him?" She wailed. "The horseman saw him talking to you. The rest is history." "No! Where is he?" "By now, dead. We have received orders to keep you safe. The gate will be locked for the remaining days." Her teardrops splashed as they fell on the table. The girl who thought she’d found her soulmate, had found another lesson. For the next ten days, Amelia lied bedridden in her room. The moon was in hiding, so were the stars for the misty nights. Stimulated by darkness, yet she couldn't get enough of it. After ten days of silence, she whispered to his ghost, answering his question. "Dear knight, I'm anything but free, I'm a wingless bird in a roofless cage, and I'm stitching my wings just to have them torn again. My naivety has brought me to this day. I didn't even know my own father, I'm a murderer's daughter. I'm a Princess, a curse on its own. They've branded my fate, and I can't change it. Not by hopes, nor by prays. Dear knight, I'm sorry I brought you to this day. But now I see you living in your free, little world. In our ephemeral, wish I could know your name. I'm sane for my hallucinations, I'm nothing but limitations..." She spent days gardening and singing to pretty flowers, and her nights reading about stars as she embraced the gloom, clothed in a black robe. She was the goth living in a pink castle. Her favourite tale was the Chinese celebrated story regarding two stars, Vega and Altair. Vega was a weaver who made pretty clothes using the milky way. As every day passed by, a fear expanded in her fragile heart, lest she will spend her life lonely. One day, she met Altair, a farmer across the milky way and they fell in love which made Vega's father furious since both neglected their obligations. But to not break Vega's heart, her father made a decision. They were allowed to meet only once a year, which falls on the seventh day of the seventh month. When the awaited day arrived, they fathomed they couldn't cross the milky way to finally reunite. Seeing the sadness in Vega's eyes a flock of magpies build a bridge between the separated. And when it rains on that day, it is believed to be Vega's tears, since, for some reason, they have to wait for another year... Amelia's father’s great companion inquired her like he would in the past. “What’s your favourite colour?” “When tragedy strikes you, it hides you.” “Your favourite fruit?” “The acceptance reaped after sowing patients.” “What do you want to be when you grow older?” “A child.” After the demise of the King. Amelia the Queen was now responsible for her people. In her first days of taking the throne, she rewrote the entire decrees. No more sending off the about to be emperors far away. No more seizing a lofty amount of taxes from the farmers. The knights and servers were allowed to communicate as much as they liked. They would be replaced with the second shift workers during nights. Amelia was known for her uprising ruling. Her name prevailed as the most loving Queen Tribida had ever had.


The florescent light shined oppressively bright. The room was sterile, not a single speck of dirt or dust can be found. There's hardly any furniture, only two metal folding chairs and a cold, metal desk populate this small room. I've been in this room before, it never gets easier. For hours I've stared at the walls, the silent sea of white made me want to scream. There was a clock, but I chose to stop counting the time a long time ago. The ticking, it made my teeth hurt. I tapped my fingers on the desk, waiting for the interviewer to arrive. He's normally early, but today it seems he's late. Not that I cared, I wasn't leaving any time soon. After all, I was born in this lab. The interviewer finally came in. He was a short, stocky, bald man with wire frame glasses. He flashed me a cheesy smile and sat down in the adjacent chair. He was drinking a coffee, he offered me some but I declined. He was also holding a file of my profile. "Sorry I'm late, I was getting a coffee." The man said. "No problem. Can we get this moving please?" I asked impatiently. The man grimaced, but it was so fast you would miss it if you blinked. He cleared his throat. "Well, Subject 3250." "Birdy! Call me Birdy!" I interrupted, slamming my fist on the table. His coffee shook, spilling a little bit. The man sighed and moved on with his speech. "Well, Birdy, I'm here to say that you are no longer needed for Project Hellhound." I smiled. This was the first piece of good news I heard in, all my life! Since I was a hatchling, I've been poked on proded for Project Hellhound, but now I'm free. "That's great news! Finally I can leave." I said, not trying to hide my joy. Instead of being happy, the man just sighed and shook my head. I was confused. I'm free to go, right? "We're done testing for Project Hellhound, but we still need you here. Further testing is needed. I shook my head. This had to be some practical joke. "But I completely all my tests! Maybe you eggheads made a mistake with the paperwork?" I said, confused. The man continued, not even addressing my complaint. "We understand that you're upset, but we simply can't let you leave. Scientific breakthroughs are about to be discovered, we can't afford to let you leave." I started to get upset. My feathers became rigid with rage. "You can't do this to me! Project Anubis is done, what the hell do you need me for?" I asked exasperated. "You can't leave, deal with it!" The man said, frustrated. I was furious. All my life I waited for this moment, and for what? To be told no? I was silent for a moment, then I spoke again. "I'm leaving." I muttered. "What?" The man asked. "I'm leaving!" I shouted. The man's face grew red. "You listen to me, bird boy. You're aren't leaving, and that's final. What, you think you can walk outside? A disgusting abomination like you? You were born in here and you're gonna die in here. So get your bird ass back to your room!" The man shouted. I had enough. I got up, like he wanted. I grabbed the cup of coffee and threw it in the man's face, catching him off guard. He screamed in extreme pain, rubbing and wiping his face in vain. I reached down and grabbed the key from his key rack. He grabbed my hand, not letting go. In his other hand, he had a walkie-talkie. "3250 has breeched containment! 3250 has breeched containment!" He said over and over. I had no other choice. He held onto my arm and was calling in the Regulators. I reached down and bit him in the neck. He screamed loudly as I bit, breaking the skin. I was aiming for a vein, and I found one. Blood stained the sterile room, mixing red with white like an unholy fourth of July. Blood stained the hospital gown I was wearing. I let go, the man dropping to the floor dead. A puddle formed, allowing me to see myself for the first time. I had the face of a Raven, eyes, nose, and body to go with it. Instead of a beak, I have human teeth, yellow and straight. Blood covered my mouth, like I ate chocolate cake. I opened the door and walked out, the lights of the hallway greeted me as I walked. Down the hall was a guards nest. Only one guard was stationed because until this moment, I was one of the more cooperative subjects. The guard was on his phone, away from me. I walked back into the room with the dead interviewer and broke the coffee cup. I grabbed the sharp piece of porcelain and made my way to the guard. I raised the sharp piece, waiting to strike. My foot made the floorboards creek. The guard turned around, seeing me. Panicked, I stuck the piece of porcelain into his neck, causing him to bleed intensely. Before he dropped dead, he pressed the alarm. "Shit!" I yelled, closing the door. Once the alarm was on, only a senior Regulator could shut it off. I took his utility belt, including his pistiol. As I wrapped the belt around my waist, I couldn't help but notice how funny this was. All I wanted to was to be free, and no I'm actually doing it. I took off my shirt and replaced it with the guards. I took the guards keychain, using it to open the storage locker behind him. Inside was a flashlight, a box of pistiol ammo, and an MP5. I took the rifle and placed it on my back. I had a feeling I was going to need it. I pressed the button leading out of the hallway, leading into the dorm room. The lights were out because of the alarm. An errie red bathed the hallway. The other hybrids were locked in there rooms until further notice. Pounding and scratching filled the hall. I walked down for a bit until I got a cut on my foot. I was barefoot going in. I investigated the ground, discovering broken glass. They path ahead was covered in broken glass. I turned right, into another hallway. I saw blood splattered to the walls. Dead hybrids littered the floor. Apon further investigation, it appeared that someone, or something, bit a chunk out of all there heads! I heard disgusting chewing sounds. Flesh being tore, the cracking of bones. It made me sick. I shined my light ahead of me, at the end of the hallway. On the other end of the hallway was a wolf man eating the body of a dead deer girl. Shit, I thought. They brought out the pure breds! The pure breds were successful experiments conducted by Project Hellhound. They're used to police the hybrids. It looked at me, blood and drool dripped from its mouth. "Back to your room!" It shouted, throwing the deer girl aside. I didn't move, instead I pulled out my pistol and shot it in the head. It didn't work, because the wolf man charged at me. In a split second I ran into the the closet room I could find. Which so happened to lead to the children's wing. I ran through the double doors, locking them with a mop. The wolf thrashed wildly against it, applying stress to the broom. I was certain it was going to give way, allowing the wolf to rip me apart. In a stroke of luck, a half rat half man caught the wolf's attention. "Please! Help me, I've been stabbed!" He said. The wolf tackled him, mauling him. I took off, running down the hall. I entered a gym like area, but it was dark so I couldn't tell. No one was there, so I took time to breath. All of this was insane, I felt like I was in a nightmare. An endless nightmare, but no matter how many times I pinch myself I can't wake up. I heard crying behind me, I spun around ready to shoot. To my surprise I saw a little girl. She looked like a piglet. "Don't hurt me, please!" She pleaded. I put my pistol back into my holster. I shushed her. "Don't worry honey, I'm one of you." I said. The girl looked at me, calming down. "Who are you?" She asked. "I'm Brian, Brian Thatcher." I replied. "I'm Hallie." The girl said. "Where's your parents, Hallie?" I asked. Hallie started to sniffle. "The bad people killed them." Guilt ate away at my insides. I didn't know I would cause all this pain and suffering. I looked at Hallie, her innocent face looking back at me. "Hallie, I'm leaving this place." I blurted out. "C-can I go with you?" Hallie asked. A voice inside me told me to leave her, but I couldn't live with myself if I did that. "Sure Hallie." I replied. Hallie smiled widely. "Thank you, Mr Thatcher! I can't wait to see the sun for the first time!" "Just call me Birdy, ok?" I said. "Ok, Birdy." Hallie replied. This was serious now. Not only did I have to leave for myself, but I have someone to protect. I would never leave her alone. I am the feathered soldier.


Despite our advances since the first successful interstellar flight, there are still many protocols designed to steer you clear of the many dangers in space. If not followed, you risk severe consequences for you and your crew. The rules are as follows: Rule 1: Do not attempt to cross voids more than 100000 light-years across unless your ship is specially designed for such voyages. Faster-Than-Light ships or light speed ships will run out of fuel and become stranded, sub-light ships would break down long before they reached their destinations. 800 ships have been lost to the great nothing this year alone. Rule 2: do not travel within 500,000 kilometres of a world with the potential to harbour life. If you crash on such a world, detonate the built-in thermonuclear warhead when you are rescued. This will ensure that any contamination from from you or your ship is destroyed. If you have no hope of rescue, connect the warhead to a dead man's switch, which will detonate the warhead in the event of your death. If the warhead was irreparably damaged in the crash, overload the ship's reactor, this will cause a similar explosion. If the reactor is not a nuclear one, mix the Uranium plating on your ship's hull with the liquid Plutonium in the warhead. This will cause a chemical reaction that will result in massive release of ionising radiation, causing the death of even the hardiest microbes and also you. Rule 3: Do not chart interstellar courses that pass within 5 Astronomical Units of a neutron star or a black hole. Their gravity may pull your ship off course or even into the stellar remnant itself. Rule 4: In the event that you encounter alien life, contact the Department of Extraterrestrial Life and the relevant authorities at your destination so that quarantine procedures may be undertaken on your arrival. If the life is intelligent, also contact the Extraterrestrial Diplomatic Corps. If the life is hostile, also contact the Department for Galactic Security and attempt to contain the threat. If all efforts fail, attempt to neutralize the threat. If this is also unsuccessful, enable the "do not board" beacon and set the ship to self destruct. Only attempt to use escape pods if you are confident that you and the escape pod are not contaminated by the organism(s). If you break any part of this rule, you, your ship, and any escape pods will be incinerated. Rule 5: Do not set courses that pass within 3000 light years of a star that is within 100 years of going supernova. If you do, you risk acute radiation poisoning. That is, you'd be cooked alive. Rule 6: black holes and neutron stars may only be approached within 0.25 Astronomical Units for purposes of research, performing gravitational slingshots, or neutronium mining. Please see rule 3 for the consequences of ignoring this rule. Rule 7: Do not attempt to pass through an uncharted natural wormhole unless in a relevant emergency situation. Not only do you risk reappearing in normal space on the other side of the universe, you also risk getting ripped apart if the wormhole is unstable. Do not attempt to pass through a wormhole that is not at least 100 kilometres wider than your ship, as you risk spaghettification otherwise. Rule 8: Do not attempt to pass through an artificially created wormhole that has been deprived of exotic matter for longer than 10 years. The wormhole risks collapsing into a black hole if deprived for any longer. Rule 9: do not attempt intergalactic voyages unless you are piloting a ship specially designed for such a journey. Due to the vast distances between galaxies, rescue cannot be attempted, and you would be facing certain death. Rule 10: Only approach within 100 light years of a strange star if your ship is fitted with special sensors designed to detect strange quarks, for research purposes, or for emergency gravitational slingshots. If you get too close, you risk making physical contact with a strangelet, which would convert your whole ship and you into strange matter. Rule 11: Do not, under any circumstances, approach abandoned Dyson Spheres or Penrose Spheres. If a sudden emergency discharge of the building energy being held inside the structure is performed by the deteriorating maintenance computer, your ship will very likely be caught in the blast. Rule 12: Do not dive any deeper than 2 kilometers into the atmosphere of a gas giant unless your ship's hull is capable of withstanding pressures above 10000 Kilo pascals and temperatures above 100 degrees Celsius and temperatures at absolute zero. You risk being crushed by the atmosphere, melting, or freezing to death if your ship cannot withstand these conditions. Rule 13: Do not dive deeper than 2 kilometers into the atmosphere of a brown dwarf star unless your ship's hull can withstand temperatures above 1000 degrees Celsius and pressures above 10000 Kilo pascals. If your ship cannot withstand these conditions, you will either be melted or crushed. Rule 14: Do not pass through nebulae unless for purposes of research, resource extraction, or if your destination is within the nebula. By entering a nebula, you have a much higher risk of hypersonic collisions with cosmic dust, which will penetrate all but the strongest of hulls, resulting in decompression and a very likely death. Rule 15: Do not use generation ships for voyages longer than 10000 years in length, as the gene pool of even the largest ships would deplete and the entire population would die out before it reached its destination. Do not use cryogenic pods continuously for voyages longer than 200000 years in length, as our current technology cannot revive someone who has been in cryogenic suspension for longer. By following these simple rules alongside other rules which may be introduced at the ship captain's discretion, you can ensure that traversing the dark void of space is as safe for everyone as can be.


Toro gazed upon the icy lake that lay before him. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. Its waves appeared from seemingly nowhere, each rising and crashing down without any semblance of order. It stretched out far beyond any sensical measure of space, reaching out to touch the surrounding forest and weave through the ancient stones of the valley. Toro understood that this was not a lake, and yet, that is exactly how the elders had described it to him. To him he saw an enigma of a supernatural element, something that defied rationality. This marked Toro with an unmistakable sense of discomfort and a burning desire to return back through the forest and up the mountain to where he could find familiarity and the reality he knew. But despite the permanence of this feeling, he repressed it and hardened his exterior with metaphorical armour, however transparent. Toro was a boy of instinct. He never understood why this made him so different to the other children, he only knew this made him stronger. A guiding light existed within him, something that lit a path ahead that he could only dare to follow. Since when he could remember he allowed this light to take control and make his decisions. He found comfort in listening to its assertiveness. It was right. It was true. The unnerving task that Toro had been set by his elders was clear; to strip himself of his clothes, follow an abandoned stone pathway through a heavily wooded forest before finally coming to a lake some three kilometres in. The commands seemed strange to a young boy, but considering his surreal circumstances, Toro thought it best to heed the elders’ advice diligently - for otherwise he feared putting his training in peril. He especially did not understand how his clothes had any bearing on the task, but his internal thoughts deemed them unfit for further questioning. Observing the lake, Toro’s brain struggled to compute and properly receive what his eyes met, this almost induced a state of psychosis. The lake that lay before him could not possibly be real. Could it? Through the extreme cold and sheer immensity of such a body of water, Toro’s senses cried out in pain at the warning signs elicited by the water. He could only stand there in disorder. As crisis management, he looked internally. He searched for the light within but instead found a void, empty of purpose or answers. Toro - through some surge of pain - knew he needed to compel a certain aspect of his body to edge closer to the bank alongside the water. A chilling wind bit away at his exposed body, heightening his sense of vulnerability, but it was this feeling he thought better than to dwell upon. It was his training now he knew needed to prove itself. At this moment, he took a few steps forward. Careful not to physically contact the lake, Toro’s feet were now firmly planted right on the edge of the water. Chilling daggers swirled in the water, making it obvious what was now required from this point. His life felt in grave danger, yet the stars above aligned themselves in perfect formation. He closed his eyes and tried to picture strength, but instead his mind reflected images bearing fear and uncertainty. What was taking place? Where was the eternal light he usually found within? He realised this could not possibly matter now. None of it could. He was here at this moment. Something about this seemed likely destiny. With no further deliberation - Toro spread his arms like an eagle and plunged into the deep abyss. Vanquished from this earth, he began to soar. A dark ice summoned his Being and Toro finally observed the guiding light he had always followed. He thought about its meaning and about his past and future. Did the light belong to him? Or did he belong to the light? Whatever the case, it did not matter now. The two were separate Beings, but yet they had never been more at One. This was his abstraction, Toro thought. This could only be his destiny.


   Jim Roberts thought about the Church. He thought of when he and his wife had joined. That had been many years ago, when their children were small. He remembered that she had always been more active than him, "She seemed to change from being a teacher in Relief Society to being a teacher in Primary nearly every year." He wondered why he had never been as active, just a Home Teacher, who did not always visit his families, and sometimes a class president or librarian. He thought, "My job often kept me busy, but I made sure I always took my family to Church each week, and the children to Primary." He remembered having a car full of excited children, going on some outing or other. "Perhaps if I had been more active, things would have turned out differently for our children. Perhaps Mark would have gone on a mission, instead of joining the merchant navy, and as for Laura..." He did not want to think about Laura. He tried to think what he liked best about the Church. They had lived in London then.

"Well, whenever there was a choir, I was always there. I always went to the practices, whatever time they decided to have them, and I enjoyed singing in Sacrament. Yes, I think that is what I liked best, and I was more active in the choir than my wife." Then he thought about her.    Again he remembered when he and his wife were baptised. "I was so keen then, we both were. A Golden Couple the missionaries called us. It was so exciting. We kept discovering new things, and finding answers to all our questions. All those questions we used to ask ! But there was always such a logical answer, and each answer made us think of a new question. Eventually we ran out of questions, and then the excitement faded. I suppose that was when I started to become inactive. I never found that excitement again. I suppose when you have asked all the questions, and you have all the answers, there is nothing more to learn.

But my wife had the same questions, so how did she keep active ? Was it because she was always a teacher ? Perhaps she liked answering other people's questions. Maybe I would have stayed active if I had been a teacher too. Ah well, it is too late, I am inactive now. It has taken a long time, five, ten, maybe twenty years, and it is only when you stop going to Church that it shows." He thought about his wife again. "She never complained. She said it was God's will. I knew she was in a lot of pain, especially at the end, but she always smiled. She still had that smile when I saw her face for the last time."    Now he lived in Manchester with his daughter, Laura. "Oh, Laura," he thought, "how I wished, how I hoped and prayed for you. I saw you growing up, and I saw those little choices of yours, each one so innocent, but each one leading you a little farther from the Church. I knew the Church was the best thing for you, but what could I do ? As you grew older I could no longer make you do things, I could only try to advise you, and then at last there was nothing I could do to change your mind. A woman in love listens to no one. Your husband is a good man and I am grateful that you both want me to live with you. He has a good job, he treats you well, and you have two very nice girls, but there is nothing spiritual in your lives.

You need the Church, and your children need the Church, they both need Primary and Ruth ought to be starting in Young Women soon." He thought for a while and then decided, "I need a plan to get Laura and her children going to Church." That night Jim had an idea.    He had often seen the missionaries with a stall in the centre of Manchester. He had always taken a good look at what they were doing, but he had always made sure he kept far enough away so that none of them would speak to him. He heard the missionaries asking people the Golden Question.

"I know the answers," he thought. "I could give those young missionaries a hard time if I really wanted to." He saw people writing things in their diaries, "Appointments for missionary discussions," he guessed. He remembered the excitement of having the missionaries visiting him.

   Next time he saw the missionaries in town, he asked them what they were doing. He pretended he had not heard of the Church, and asked if they could tell him sonmething about it. After a few minutes the missionaries had arranged a teaching appointment. When Jim got home he told Laura that the missionaries would come, and he thought, "I do not want Laura to tell the missionaries that I was a member in London." He knew that Laura and her husband had an argument recently, so he suggested that the missionaries did not meet Laura, in case this made things worse with her husband.    The missionaries came and taught the first discussion. They were very impressed with Jim. "You are so good," they said.    The missionaries invited Jim to Church, and Jim thought, "Perhaps I will get the old excitement back." Jim was careful to hide his feelings as he went to Church for the first time in several years, and he was careful to make some mistakes so that no one would guess he had been a member before. He thought, "It has been too long. I should have continued to go to Church after my wife died. That was no excuse to stay away."    The missionaries said, "We noticed that you like our hymns." Jim said that he liked singing, and he asked why there was no choir. The missionaries arranged to have the ward choir re-started.    After a few weeks Jim was baptized, but he was disappointed that he did not feel the excitement of his first baptism. However, it was good to be called "Brother Roberts" again, and he was pleased that Laura's husband let him take the girls to Primary.

   He was called to lead the music in Priesthood. There was no piano to set the pitch, so he took his harmonica. He became popular with his harmonica, and was always asked to play something at firesides.    One evening he went to a Stake meeting with Brother and Sister Jones.

It was late as they drove home, so Jim played some hymn tunes on his harmonica to keep them all awake.

   When Brother and Sister Jones got home, they talked about Brother Roberts. "It's amazing," said Brother Jones. "sometimes new members take ages to really get used to Church ways, but Brother Roberts has picked things up so quickly. You heard all those hymns he was playing on his harmonica. We ought to sing those hymns more often."    "Yes," said Sister Jones, and then she shouted, "I've got it ! He's not a new member. Don't you realise ? Some of those tunes were from the old Hymn Book."


Brad broke up with me today. I can’t say that I’m surprised after the disastrous dinner that we had at his mother’s where everything that could go wrong did go wrong. I was hoping that we’d be able to talk it through and perhaps see the funny side but the conversation we had was so brief we never got that far. Although I have to admit that he had the decency to look a little pained and sorry about it. A small consolation. When he suggested “The Little Cup”, a rather twee tearoom in the high street, I knew something was wrong. Do you know why I think he suggested there? Because he knew that no-one that mattered would be there, other than his mother’s cronies maybe and all they’d do is report back what she probably wanted to hear: that her lovely son was having to let a girl down gently…again. You know, maybe I’ve had a lucky escape. I didn’t think that earlier in “The Little Cup” although I held myself together well. I was already there when Brad came in, drinking hot tea from a delicate china cup and saucer and sitting at a round table with a lace tablecloth. Boy, did I feel out of place! I was sat there, looking at my phone, trying to look less self conscious but quite clearly not achieving it. Two old dears were on the table next to me, having a toasted teacake and a pot of tea between them, a generic pair of geriatrics, floral and pale. They looked up when Brad walked in and he nodded a greeting and smiled at them and you could see them preen a little at the attention. And then, inevitably, he saw me. There was a moment where he glanced away and I saw him take a deep breath and then head towards the table. He didn’t even take his coat off, just unbuttoned it before sitting down. “Hi,” I said. “Hello,” he replied, a little stiffly. “How are you?” I asked, thinking that this was all a bit stilted. I mean, we were a couple at that point but neither of us hugged or reached for the other. The mood was set. “Fine. Fine, thanks for asking,” he said. I mean, how formal is that? It’s like he’s meeting an aunt in a drawing room, not his middle-aged girlfriend and lover. “So, what’s up? Why the period tearoom? Are you going all Mr Darcy on me?” My attempt at humour was ill-advised, I realise that now. Nerves always make me inappropriately humorous. He was flustered, I could see that as he said a bit too quickly and sharply, “No! I mean, no. This place just seemed neutral, that’s all. And convenient.” I remember raising an eyebrow and looking about me. “Neutral? That’s a strange way to describe this place. Do you mean like a no-man’s land in a war zone?” He flinched at my analogy and rallied. “Not at all, no. Just a nice place and not too far for you to come, I thought.” How considerate of him , I thought sarcastically. I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable now and Brad was very much starting to squirm in his seat, looking around him. I think I knew what was coming and I wanted him to get on with it but a contrary part of me wanted to make it difficult for him, even if it was excruciating for me. “Are you looking for a waitress? Because there isn’t one. You have to order at the counter.” I nodded in the direction of the lady idling behind the cake display. “Ah, no. I mean, I know but I won’t be ordering anything.” This must have given him some resolve, admitting this because he took a deep breath and said, “I may as well just say it.” Another breath. “I think that we should break up.” Silence. I said absolutely nothing, knowing that he hated silences and would do anything to fill it. “You see, after the dinner on Saturday, I just think that, erm, we probably aren’t best suited and, er, it might be better to just end it now rather than continue and find out later.” Again, silence. I could feel my emotions mounting: sadness, hurt and anger. It took an effort, I can tell you to keep control but I did. I thought that I was falling in love with this man, you see, but right then, I didn’t like him at all. The two pensioners on the table next to us were whispering quietly to themselves, having dropped the tone of their conversation considerably once they could see what was happening. There was no doubt that they were earwigging. So, how to react? I wanted to cry. I wanted to rage. I wanted to punch him. But I’m not sure that even I could act so uninhibitedly in such a delicate and quaint location especially with such a gossip hungry audience. Should I stomp out? Plead with him? Ask him why? I could have done all of these things but instead, I simply said, “Okay.” This was obviously not the response he was expecting but it was one that offered him a modicum of relief as his shoulders released their tension and his face, which had been taut, relaxed somewhat into a less serious expression. I saw something akin to tenderness then enter his expression and quickly looked away from him, before my eyes betrayed the fact that they were filling despite my efforts to the contrary. “Okay,” he repeated and then looked lost, having no idea how to end such an awkward meeting. I remained silent. I had already made my concession to the easing of this break-up. He was getting nothing more from me. He stood, clumsily, his chair scraping the floor. I was just sat, waiting for him to leave so that I could go too. It seemed symbolic of what he was doing, for him to walk away from me rather than me walk out ahead of him. And besides, I was contained while I was still but I felt like any movement might cause my emotions to slosh over, like water in a bowl. “Okay,” he said again, running his hand through his hair. “Well, I guess this is goodbye, then.” Pause. “Goodbye, Tilly.” I’d like to say I politely responded but I didn’t and as the little bell on the door signalled his departure, I gathered up my things as calmly as I could muster and once I knew it was safe, headed out. I heard the two ladies let out a sympathetic “Ah” as my hand touched the door handle and I left Brad and his break-up behind. I’m not a great one for self-analysis as sometimes you can tie yourself in knots trying to decipher why this happened or that didn’t work or how someone feels about you but you know, it had to have been that dinner. I can’t think of anything else that could have made him feel differently. If I hadn’t stained the rug in the hallway with dog turd; if I had been able to eat the food; if I hadn’t accidentally kicked his mother’s dog; if I hadn’t put almond milk in the coffee instead of real milk – so many ifs. But sometimes, it just isn’t your day and sometimes, a series of unfortunate mishaps can lead to the end of a relationship. Bye, Brad. There’s only one thing that can help me now. Or two, if you think about it. Ben and Jerry. *** I had to break up with Tilly today, which went rather well, all things considered. Mother suggested that I choose somewhere neutral and convenient for Tilly like “The Little Cup” and it seemed as good a place as any although it always smells slightly of musty lavender which is a bit off-putting. Must be the odour of its older patrons. The older odour! Ha! Eau de Older Odour! Chanel should bottle that for the olds! Mother’s friends Mabel and Doris were there when I got there. I’d just come back from visiting Mother at home, still in bed after the almond milk incident of the weekend. Poor Mother. She tried so hard to impress Tilly, pulling out all the stops but it was just a disaster from start to finish. I mean, it could have been quite comical really if Mother had let herself see it that way. I am sure that Tilly would have seen the funny side of it; in fact, I know that she would have. I can just imagine us over morning coffee, laughing at when she realised that the awful stench was coming from her! Or when she felt something on her foot and kicked out only for it to be Petal, Mother’s Pekinese! The almond milk was a little more serious as Mother could have died if not for her Epipen but still. Such a catalogue of errors is Shakespearean in its farcicalness. I’ll miss Tilly though. I really thought that she was the one. Funny, attractive, caring. It was always going to be a hurdle bringing her to meet Mother but I felt sure this time that they’d get along. I mean, it’s very difficult not to like Tilly, you know? But I suppose with all of the “catastrophic events” of Saturday, as Mother termed them, it was inevitable that Mother would feel badly. I wish that it had gone better. Tilly felt like she was made for me in some ways. We complemented each other so much, had shared interests and she had such a sexy smile… Oh well, plenty more fish and all that, I suppose. But I was sad today. Tilly looked so lost in “The Little Cup”, I almost changed my mind. I really wanted to hold her, make her feel better. But Mother was adamant and told me, “The best way to do it is like removing a Band-Aid – with determination and the right amount of force. One firm pull and away!” I followed her advice and I have to say that it went smoothly and there was no embarrassing flood of emotions from either of us but I can’t help but feel regret, like something has been left unfulfilled. Perhaps Tilly and I can be friends. I’m bound to see her around and we didn’t leave on bad terms – it was just a little distant. You know, I love Mother but I’m a grown man in his fifties and really, I need something more than my job and my hobbies and my mother. Mother has suggested that I get a dog for companionship when I am away from her, but it’s not the same. I’m not sure why she can’t see that. And a man has appetites, you know… Perhaps I’ll drop Tilly a text and see if she wants to have a walk or something in a week or so.  There’s no harm in us being friends and I’d like to see how she’s doing. Who am I kidding? She makes me feel good, like no-one I’ve ever met before and I care about her, despite how Mother feels. I mean, Mother doesn’t have to know, does she? *** When Bradley told me that he was bringing someone home, I wasn’t surprised. There had been signs for weeks of someone new being on the scene, so to speak and he was devoting a lot of the time that he would normally spend with me elsewhere so it was no great surprise when he asked if he could bring Tilly to dinner. Tilly ! What sort of name is that for a grown woman? Really! Bradley has the most awful taste in women. I mean, she looked nice enough but you can never really tell by the way someone looks what they’re going to be like, can you? For example, look at Ted Bundy. Well presented and intelligent by all accounts; a caring family man and a loving husband but also a blooming sociopath. No, I had made up my mind before she had even reached the house – she was not the girl for my Bradley. He had to see it for himself. But there was no harm in helping him along a little, was there? I always think that the measure of a couple is when they encounter difficulty, don’t you? How they master an obstacle or two, say, is where you really know what sort of partnership they’ll make. The fact that those obstacles are less than accidental and concentrated into one ill-fated evening is neither here nor there, in my opinion. Petal, my darling Pekinese is always doing her business in the same part of the front lawn next to the driveway. I’m not sure why. It must be a favourite spot for some reason. Normally, I am quite fastidious in the disposal of her deposits but on hearing of Tilly’s imminent visit, I may have become a little lax in my vigilance at disposing of those little turds. I may have parked badly, leaving only a very small space for Bradley to park, with inadequate room for a passenger to get out on the tarmac. Dinner was at 8pm, just dark enough to allow twilight to distort small lumps on the lawn. It was a shame that the Persian runner in the hallway had to be the recipient of such a tawdry coating but sacrifices are always made for the greater good and it had become a little threadbare in patches. Tilly was very apologetic, of course, but the damage was done and the scent of squashed dog turd and disinfectant was a heady reminder of her wrongdoing all evening. Bradley had already told me that Tilly had a low tolerance for salt after she couldn’t finish a delicious salt encrusted bagel that he had very kindly bought her for a lunch date one day, even with her favourite toppings so it was simple enough to slip an extra spoonful or two into her meal. I had toyed with having finger foods but when I knew that I could easily salinate Tilly’s portion in the kitchen before bringing it out, well, it was perfect. She struggled admirably trying to eat it, I’ll give her that but the salt won out. Obviously, after the poo incident, Tilly’s shoes were in need of some cleansing and I wouldn’t hear of her doing it herself, despite her protestations. I had just the thing to clean them up so that they would be as good as new and off to the utility room I went to do just that. It was the least I could do really, wasn’t it? I have to say that they were a really nice pair of shoes, if a little masculine. I could have done without such deep treads but an old toothbrush and plenty of hot water and they were pristine once more. It did aggravate my tennis elbow though and I did a lot of cursing under my breath. But I needed them to be super clean so that Tilly would feel comfortable putting them back on her feet and that spurred me on. The things we do for love! Anyway, once they were sparkling, it was only right that I applied a little polish to them and a certain special preparation of liquidised dog food, Petal’s favourite which I was able to smear in small amounts over the shoe, knowing that the smell of it under the table would drive poor Petal mad. I didn’t want to make my darling dog my accomplice and I did so hate it when she let out that awful yelp of pain when Tilly’s foot connected with her midriff. Poor little Petal Pekinese. I didn’t think that it would work so well especially when, as a compliment to my cleaning prowess, Tilly put the shoe to her nose and gave it a deep exaggerated sniff, probably in a jocular attempt to lighten the mood. I looked at her aghast and I think that she thought that it was a look of disgust as a result of what she was doing but I was actually more concerned that I was about to be rumbled. Luckily, she didn’t suspect a thing and her thinking that I was disgusted by her only made her even more ingratiating. The almond milk was a little risky, I have to admit, as I do have quite a nasty allergic response to nuts. Without the swift delivery of the jab from an Epipen, there would have been a real danger of me losing my life. My friend Mabel likes to have almond milk in her chai latte coffee when she comes around. It’s a disgusting drink but she seems to like these fancy fragrant tastes – too much for my palate. Anyway, I have a jug of it in the fridge for her regular visits marked “Mabel’s Milk” and it’s always kept on the right. Tilly, in a grand gesture, insisted on making the coffee and I thought that here was the opportunity that would surely seal Bradley’s removal of her from his life. If life has taught me anything it is to never miss an opportunity when presented. So whilst she nipped to the bathroom, I took the label off the jug that said “Mabel’s milk” and quickly switched the jugs and advised Tilly on her return to only use the jug on the left. Mayhem ensued as you can imagine but dear Bradley knew exactly what to do as I knew he would. I couldn’t bear to lose him. Anyway, Tilly is out of the picture. Mabel is my witness to that at “The Little Cup”. She reported that it had all gone rather well for Bradley but do you know that Tilly didn’t shed a tear? No emotion at all. See? Remember what I said about Ted Bundy?


I gaze around the room and sigh. It’s full of old cardboard boxes, both big and little, that seem to make the tiny room even smaller.  I walk over to the mattress beside me and plop down on it, sending a cloud of dust up into the air. It’s lumpy and covered with an unsafe amount of dust. Probably a victim from Andrews’s college years, which he claims was not that long ago but we all know different.

Andrew is my new stepfather, he’s… fine. He is a middle-aged man with a semi-large bald head and a tall body, six-foot-three to be exact. He’s obsessed with adult cartoons and even has the whole action figure set of the Simpsons, plus posters, clothing, and even three toilet paper holders, one for each of the bathrooms.

There is something odd about Andrew, other than his weird obsession, something that I can't quite but my finger on. It might be the fact that he reminds me a bit of my dad, and maybe it's just a feeling of loss and sadness. I don't know for sure but there is definitely something up with him. Andrew has three kids, Emma, Brinley, and Noah.

Emma is a 6-year-old girl, with not much to say about her other than she loves unicorns, the color pink, and pretty much anything else a typical 6 year old would like.  She also has a way of being super persuasive by simply looking up at her parents (and any other adult in fact) and smiling her missing-tooth smile to get whatever she wants or get away with anything.

She has extra long blonde hair and dark blue eyes, paired with whatever wild outfit she chooses to dress in that day. Noah is a 16-year-old boy with a love for skateboarding and surfing.  He will be outside from dawn to dusk, just skating up and down the street if you would let him.

We live only a mile away from the nearest beach, so on most weekends Noah will skate to the ocean with his closest friends and hang there for a few hours before riding back to our house, completely covered in sand.

Brinley is 14, the closest out of all of Andrews’s kids to my age.

She has short brown hair cut into a simple pixie cut and can be found wearing the trendiest and up-to-date clothing, and is the most popular girl in ninth grade.

She has a snarky, sassy, and arrogant attitude, but only around people her age. To any adult, she seems like a princess, to any kids she seems like a queen, but to any of us, she is a monster.

When she found out her dad was dating my mom, she told the entire school that my mom used adult diapers, which is definitely not true.

She refused to go to any of the dinners with my family, gossiped about them behind my back, and continued to make my life worse and worse.

When she got told that our parents were engaged, she waited until I was walking home from school to bring out a pair of scissors and cut off all of my hair, the hair I had grown out for 7 years, saving to donate to the cancer center my dad was in, the one he was in before he passed away.

When I told my mom and we confronted Brinley about it, she broke down bawling and said that the ‘mean’ girl in school, Lilian, actually did it and she ‘tried to save me but it was too late’. My mom believed her, and instead of feeling sorry for me, felt bad for her.

Luckily, she didn’t do anything when she found out our parents were getting married because she was away on a vacation with her mom, which she only sees a few times a year, and when she got back it was almost time for the wedding. The wedding was fine also, but it was super weird to see my mom kissing, and being so happy, with someone that wasn’t my dad. Brinley and I were bridesmaids, along with Julia, Cristina, and Lou, my mom’s best friends, Reagan and Angela, Andrew’s two sisters, and Colette and Ariya, my mom’s closest cousins.

Emma and Darcy, my 7-year-old sister, were flower girls. They were adorable walking down the aisle in matching fluffy white dresses and their hair piled up in little buns on top of their heads.

Rylan, my 17-year-old brother, and Noah were part of Andrew’s groomsman. They wore long black tuxedos and their hair slicked over to the side, the proper groomsman attire according to my mom. The wedding was huge, there were tons of people watching my mom and new stepfather getting married. It was so crowded and felt like hundreds of people were staring at me as I walked down the aisle in front of my mom. I wonder what my mom felt like, as she was the star of the show that day.

“Jade! Hurry up sweetheart, we’re just getting ready to do the Thanksgiving prayer!” My mom calls from downstairs, snapping me out of my daydream. “And don’t forget to wear the dress my mother made for you,” Andrew shouts after her, his hoarse voice hurting my sensitive ears. I wince, not just from his voice but from the thought of the hideous dress. For my birthday, which was only a month ago, Andrew's parents gave me a dress, a homemade one. It is made of cloth and yarn, alternating red, pink and purple. It is tightly fitted around the upper part but flairs out into a poofy skirt around and past my hips. There is a reason that it has been stashed in my closet for the entire time I’ve owned it, it looks absolutely revolting on me. It is bunched up in certain places and ultra-tight in others, it simply does not fit me. Yet, I am forced to wear it to dinner the makers of the dress aren't even attending.

It doesn't make any sense, yet I shove it over my head in order to keep my mom from yelling at me. I look into the mirror and sigh, for the tenth time today.

It looks as bad as I imagine it, wrinkly, clumpy, and horrible.

“Jade! Hurry up,” My mother yells from the dining room, “Andrew is about to say the prayer!” “I’m coming,” I reply grudgingly, walking out of my room and down the long unfamiliar hallway of the new house.

After my mom married Andrew, we all moved into his house, located a few miles away from my house, or my old house now.

I begged my mom to not make us move but she claimed that our house was too small for 4 extra people. I guess that's true, our previous house was a 3 bedroom, 1 bathroom place. Each of us kids got our own room while my mom took the pull out couch in the living room.

Andrew’s house or I guess my house now, is a 6 bedroom, 3 bathroom house, with a huge backyard. Other than Emma and Darcy, who wanted to share, we all got our own rooms, which I am definitely thankful for. Sharing a room with Brinley? That would be a complete nightmare. Even though I have been in the house for a few weeks now, it still doesn't feel like home.

As I walk down the unfamiliar curving stairs and into the large dining room, I smell a strong whiff of pumpkin pie. Pumpkin pie was my dad’s favorite Thanksgiving food. He loved the rich spices, crispy crust and the overall delicious pumpkin taste of the desert. He always made a homemade pie and added special ingredients that nobody knew about, he called it his secret recipe. He claimed he would never share it with anybody and take it to his deathbed. I didn't know it would be so soon that he would be laying there. I choke down a tear and continue my way over to the dining room table. Everybody is sitting there, talking loudly with one another and staring hungrily at the feast laid out in front of them. I silently slip into the only empty spot, in between Emma and Rylan, and start to unfold the napkin and carefully set it on my lap. “Alright everybody,” Andrew booms over the noisy chatter in the room, “Let’s pray before we eat this amazing feast!” We all grab our glasses, champagne for the adults, and water for the kids, and hold them up towards the middle of the table. As the noise settles down Andrew clears his throat and begins, “Dear Lord, thank you for this amazing feast in front of us. Thank you for blessing me with my beautiful new wife” - he opens his eyes and looks over at mom, smiling broadly - “and the amazing new family that comes with her. I wish that we can combine families well, which we seem to be doing great already, and hopefully continue to live the amazing life we are graced with. Thank you, Lord, for all you have given us, Amen.” We all murmur an ‘amen’ and start to dig into the food. I get my share of mashed potatoes, gravy, bread rolls, cranberry sauce, and my personal favorite, the turkey.

We eat and talk for a while until each and every one of us is stuffed full, like the turkey that was devoured within minutes of being brought onto the table.

“Okay, guys! It's time for the annual binge-watching of the Simpsons!” Andrew declares, getting up from his seat and taking his plate over to the dishwasher.

“Annual binge-watching of the Simpsons?” I repeat after him, confused.

The tradition for my family is to eat dinner and then head over to the local apple orchard and pick apples for pies. We would stay out there way past dark, picking apples, laughing, and having the time of our lives.

“Yes!” He replies, looking back at me, “That is the annual tradition in this household. Didn't your mother tell you?” “No,” I respond looking at my mom who was purposefully looking away from me, “We always go apple picking, that’s our tradition.” “Well, I don’t like apples.” Well, not everything is about you, I hold back my tongue in order to not shout back.

“Well, I-” “Plus,” he interrupts me, “it’s our family tradition.” The anger bubbles up inside of me, I feel it boiling over, over like an active volcano. A volcano about to erup- “No, it’s not!” I yell at him with full rage, “ Our family tradition is to go apple picking. We have done that for 10 years and are not stopping now. I am so sick and tired of you intruding-” “Jade Marissa Lemington,” My mom yells, even louder than I did. Her face is a fire hydrant, bright red. And her eyes are no different, blazing into mine, anger fully showing, “You are being so disrespectful to Andrew who has done nothing but being kind and caring to you. This is not okay behavior.” I look around the room and see every single person with their heads looking down at their plates, either that or up at us, and their faces flushed as well.

I look over at Andrew, he’s looking down as well. He was embarrassed at my outburst, and Moms. “Go up to your room right now.” She says, her eyes still blazing.

“Fine, it’s not like I wanted to be with you anyways,” I spat, turning and running upstairs.

I try to get to my room before my eyes burst but I’m not so lucky. Halfway up the stairs, the waterworks turn on and I am bawling before I even reach my room. This is so unfair, I think, I didn't do anything wrong. He started it all, it's all his fault, if he went along with our family tradition then we would be fine.

But then the good side, the more logical side of my brain starts thinking, Well it kinda was my fault. I did get mad at him instead of just calmly asking. And if we combine families we have to combine traditions, take some and leave some.

I sit there for a few minutes, too embarrassed to go downstairs, before finally grabbing a blanket from one of the boxes and lying down on the lumpy mattress. Within minutes I’m dead asleep. ****** A few hours later I hear a small knock on the door. I ignore it, turning over on the bed and trying to go back to sleep. But the sound doesn’t go away, instead, it grows louder.

“Can I come in? It’s Andrew. As much as I don’t want him to come in… well it is his house. “I guess,” I reply propping myself up on the bed. He walks in slowly, as if he is not wanted, which I guess is kind of true, and makes his way over to one of the larger cardboard boxes. He carefully sits down and turns to look at me, with a hint of guilt, sorrow, and anger in his eyes.

“Hi.” Hi? He came all the way up here to say one word? “Hello?” I respond, a questioning touch in my voice.

He takes a deep breath, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry, I should’ve checked with all of you, not just your mother, to see if it was okay changing your traditions. I know it is hard,” - he stops for a moment, looking at the ground before taking another deep breath and continuing - “My parents got divorced when I was around your age, they only had one kid, me, and I had no other siblings until my mom married another person, then bam! I went from being an only child to being the second oldest of six. It sure was hard, getting used to all their family traditions and trying to fit in, but I did it and now I love them all like they’re my own blood siblings. I had to learn to let some things go, the ones that really didn't matter, and stand by the ones that did” He looks at me, “And I think that is something you need to learn as well. Something all the kids here need to learn.” I nod and look down at the faded blanket on my lap, my cheeks and ears both red. “But it's okay,” he says softly, “I know it's hard,” - he sits there for a minute before beginning once again - “especially since you lost your dad so soon.” I look up at him and smile, maybe he won't be so bad. Maybe I will learn to like him, “Thank you Andrew. Thank you for giving me another chance.” “Of course. I know I won’t be like your re-” “My real dad?” I say, “I know, and thank you for not trying to replace him.” “Well actually-” He starts, taking a deep breath.

He reaches up to his head, probably going to scratch it but instead rips his hair off to reveal a longer cut. I gasp. He extends his hand over to his pocket and pulls out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and sets them on his face.

I know those glasses and haircut. Suddenly everything slides into place, like a puzzle, I begin to understand. He turns and looks at me, “I am your real father.”