“It’s inside the distributor, there.” Leaning under the hood, De’Veon used a long brown finger to point at the back of the air filter housing. All his fingers were long and brown, dark on the tops and a kind of coffee brown on the undersides with darker lines at the creases. They extended out from giant palms on the ends of his long arms, yet everything about the man was in proportion. He was just very tall, and lean with it. I remember when we brought the ‘bird home this time last year, the week before Christmas. From the passenger seat I watched De’Veon’s right hand cover the shift knob as he moved deftly between gears. His left hand held the thin-rimmed wheel, gently I noticed, as if too firm of a grip might crush it. “Your Grandpa knew what he was doing when he bought this,” De’Veon said over the bass rumble of the V8. “Pontiac built some great cars, but this ’71 Firebird is one of their finest.” I grunted and looked out to my right. I wondered what Grandpa would have said about a black man driving his precious car. Or living with his daughter. Nana had said that with Grandpa gone now the car was just going to rust away, unless I took it. Of course, I wasn’t going to say no, but it was a stick shift and that was something I’d had no experience with. De’Veon had grinned at me across the kitchen table as Nana said this. It was like he understood what I was worried about without me having to say it out loud. “Never fear Ed,” he said, “I’ll teach you to drive it.” “And look after it I hope,” Nana chipped in. “Your Grandpa was always out in the garage working on it so I guess it’s not too reliable.” “Staying out of her way,” De’Veon mouthed at me. I snorted into my coffee even though everything the man did rubbed me up the wrong way. I didn’t know him very well back then. Mom had brought him home on July 4 th . That got us off on the wrong foot because grilling had been my job since Dad passed and there he was flipping burgers and buns like he owned the red-domed Weber. I was in my room on the Playstation when Mom came in. “Your food’s ready Teddy.” My eyes stayed glued on the screen. “I’m not hungry Mom.” I expected her to leave but she sat down on the bed. “Is this because I asked De’Veon to grill?” “No.” My eyes were filling up and I couldn’t see the screen clearly but I kept working the controller in my hand. “Teddy, I like him and he likes to cook. I want him to feel welcome but I don’t want you to feel pushed out. Anyway, I wanted to see if he’s as good a cook as he says he is.” “A test huh?” Yeah, in way it is. I’m sorry, I should have warned you first.” Neither of us spoke. After a while Mom got up from my bed. “Well there’s food down there when you’re ready.” He moved in just after Halloween, and now here he was helping Nana out with some jobs around her tidy little ranch. The Firebird sat outside the garage all through January, and the keys lay on my desk. I was desperate to get in, fire it up and hear the beast rumble, but there was that third pedal to deal with. Early in February De’Veon stopped in my bedroom doorway while I was doing my homework. “You’re looking puzzled Ed,” he said. “Calculus,” I grunted. “I could help with that if you like. I am an engineer y’know.” “I know. Thanks.” De’Veon turned to leave, and then turned back. He rubbed his chin between finger and thumb. “Y’know, I hate to see that Firebird just sittin’ out there not being driven. You’d be doin’ me a real favor if you let me show you how to drive a stick.” Well I wasn’t eager to spend time with the man, but I really wanted to drive the ‘bird to school so I didn’t have much choice. We started out at the High School parking lot on Sunday afternoon. There was a lot of kangaroo hopping at first but I will say De’Veon was a patient teacher. After a couple of sessions he let me take her out on the road. It was jerky at first but I got better every time I drove it. Just before Easter I demonstrated my ability to start off on a hill without rolling back. “Man, you are trained and we are done!” De’Veon exclaimed. That was it, now I could drive the ‘bird to school. A few weeks later, as we were finishing dinner, De’Veon hit me with a question. “When you goin’ to change the oil in that car?” “I um, I don’t know,” I mumbled back. “Have you ever done an oil change?” “Well no,” I admitted, “But I don’t think it’s that hard is it?” “How about tire rotation? Ever done that?” I had to admit that I hadn’t. So Saturday morning there we were doing an inventory of my Dad’s tools in the garage. Once we knew what we had, De’Veon had me jump in his truck with him and we ran over to the auto parts store to buy oil and a filter. After lunch and a little instruction I dressed in my oldest, scruffiest jeans and sweatshirt and went out to do my first oil change. It was going okay I thought, until I couldn’t get the filter off. I was lying on my back under the ‘bird and there wasn’t a lot of room, but no matter how hard I gripped and twisted the metal canister wouldn’t budge. I should have just gone into the house and asked De’Veon for help, but that would have meant admitting it was harder than it looked. So instead I lay on the concrete with the cold seeping up into my bones and wrestled and wrestled with it. My hands kept slipping and more than once I scraped my knuckles against the oil pan. Then I heard footsteps. I looked down past my feet to see De’Veons giant white Nikes. “Everything going okay there Ed?” I wriggled out and found myself looking up at him silhouetted against a bright blue sky. “I, I can’t get the filter off,” I admitted. De’Veon nodded. “I think we saw a strap wrench in your Dad’s garage. Like me to get it for you?” I nodded and he ambled off, returning a few minutes later with an unfamiliar tool in his hand. It looked like a screwdriver with a short belt attached to one end. He bent down and handed it to me. “You know how to use it?” I admitted that I didn’t. “Uh huh. Well, let me get down there with you and I’ll show you.” With that he lay down next to me and wriggled on his back under the car. We were so close I could see the pores on his nose. I watched as he slid the strap wrench into position and showed me how to use it. From there he stayed with me all afternoon, watching and talking me the job. A couple of weeks later it was tire rotation. Again, he watched and talked me through what I had to do, patiently, step-by-step. After that each weekend passed in much the same way. Over lunch on Saturday De’Veon would ask how I was doing with my homework and if I said it was all done we’d spend the afternoon outside on the Firebird. One of the first things he taught me was about protecting the paint. We found some old towels and placed them over the fenders for that purpose. We changed spark plugs, we swapped out the air filter. Each weekend a different project but De’Veon’s style was always the same. He wasn’t one to lecture; he’d stand back and watch, just keeping himself available if, or rather when, I got stuck. This week just gone I had a problem with the ‘bird I couldn’t figure out. It would start and idle just fine, but give it any gas and the engine would die. I took a few steps back from the open hood to think about it some more. De’Veon must have seen me because he came ambling across the yard. “Problem there Ed?” I moved around to one side of car and started to explain. He stood across from me and listened, all the while looking at the engine. “So I’m pretty sure it’s the carburetor,” I finished. He stroked his chin and nodded. “Well it could be, but I think it’s more likely to be electrical.” I looked up at him. “Why do you say that?” He kept stroking. “We’ll get to that, but there’s something I want to say first Ed.” This sounded ominous. I turned my eyes down to look at the engine. “You don’t like your Mom callin’ you Teddy, do you?” “Um, no,” I mumbled. “Well don’t you think it’s time to tell her?” “S’pose.” “Well if you don’t she’s going to be callin’ you Teddy when you bring some cute girl home to meet her, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want that.” “No.” I realized one of the spark plug wires was unclipped so I reached in to put it back in place. “So ask her to call you Ed. Pick your moment, but be sure to do it. And sooner rather than later. If you don’t she’s gonna be babyin’ you for the rest of her life.” I said I would. Then De’Veon explained how electrical problems were more common than carburetor faults, and a whole lot easier to fix. Then he suggest I start with the condenser on the distributor. That was when he reached out his long brown arm to point it out. About an hour later and after a trip to parts store we had the new condenser fitted. I climbed into the driver’s seat and slid the key home. That’s when I noticed De’Veon slipping into the passenger seat. I turned to look at him and he nodded. I pumped the gas with my right foot, turned the key, and the V8 roared into life. I let it settle into a steady burble before pushing down on the pedal. The revs built, the engine noise grew louder. It didn’t die the way it had been doing. I turned it off and twisted to face De’Veon. He had one of those big brown hands raised up. “High five Ed! You fixed it!” Our hands met, and so did our eyes. “Ed,” De’Veon said. He suddenly looked serious. “There’s something else I want to ask you.” I raised my eyebrows slightly, an involuntary reaction. “Go on.” “This is big Ed, but hear me out please.” He took a breath. “I want to ask your Mom to marry me. Would you let me do that?” “God!” I grasped the wheel with both hands and looked out through the windshield. “I mean, wow!” “What do you think Ed? It’s up to you man.” A million thoughts rushed through my brain before one stuck. “You gotta look after her De’Veon. After all she’s been through. And you gotta look after yourself. She can’t go through losing someone again, she really can’t.” “Of course man, absolutely. You have my word.” “Then um, I guess. Yeah.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw De’Veon stretch his big arms out wide. I turned to face him and he was grinning the biggest, broadest grin a man could grin. He leaned towards me, his long arms came around me and he hugged me hard. My arms went around him the same way. A thought struck me and I pulled back slightly. We were still very close. “So you’ll be my Dad.” De’Veon moved his big hands onto my shoulders. “No man, I’ll never be your Dad. But I am excited about getting to be your Step-Dad.” I nodded, “Me too De’Veon, me too.”


It was the best of times, it was the… oh wait, that’s a different story. I should lead with a more original first line. It was the longest day of my young life. My mother had woken us in the night, packed the car, and drove all night and all the next day. We had only stopped to use questionable gas station rest rooms and to eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she seemed to have an endless supply of. I really wanted McDonald’s, but she said it was too expensive for all of us to order burgers, drinks, and fries. I had 3 younger sisters, Lucy, Maggie, and Sprout. (Yup my parents named her Sprout like a plant growing from the soil). I’m the oldest, Daphne. It was the 4 of us and Ma, plus our gray striped cat, Scrooge, traveling in a ‘99 Saab 95 wagon. The heat didn’t even work until we hit Ohio, where Ma stopped at a mechanic shop. She went to talk with mechanic for a while behind the shop, and said our bill was all set.

I don’t know what it cost, but she kept eating tic tacs like there was a bitter taste in her mouth. “Where are we going, Ma?” We all kept asking her. For six hundred miles, she didn’t answer. When we hit Minnesota, she said, “To see the lights.” “What lights, Ma?” I asked. “The ones up in the sky. You can only see ‘em this time of year and not everyone can see it. Couldn’t see it back in Dorchester.” “But Ma, you can see it in Maine, I think,” I said, recalling a bit of information from a science class. “Well, don’t you wanna go to Minnesota?” “We never thought about it,” Said Maggie honestly. “Well, think about it now, girls, because we’re here,” She said. We were on edge because of the midnight journey cross country, but it seemed exciting to be able to get a view of the Northern Lights. Though we’d been traversing the United States for 23 hours now, I would say the real story starts at this point. Consider all that the prologue .

From what I learned in sixth grade science, the Northern Lights were caused by highly charged solar wind particles that collided with air molecules in the atmosphere. It created beautiful colors and you could see them in Finland, Sweden, Iceland and Alaska. I did think you could sometimes see this in Maine, but Ma said we’d be able to see it in Minnesota. (Come to think of it, it made sense because we were up on the top of the states. I had only gotten a 78 in 7th grade geography and the topic of the aurora borealis from last year was cloudy in my brain.)

It was nearly 3 o’clock at this point, so Ma checked us into a motel. It smelled like cigarettes even though it had “no smoking” signs all over the lobby. We got cokes from a machine! That was pretty cool because Ma never let us drink cokes at home. She always said, “it will rot your teeth and fill up your belly with bubbles.” We didn’t question it, though, you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

We all took a nice nap on creaky king-size bed. The pillows were too hard, but we’d brought our own pillows in the car, so we went and got those to sleep on. Ma put a chair in front of the door even though it had a lock. She said better be safe than sorry.

When we woke up, it was dark outside, but we could tell there was a greenish glow. It was the lights! We all put on our jackets and went out on the little balcony outside the room. It had these wrought iron bars and old folding chairs, but I thought it was the nicest balcony because we’d never had one at home.

My sisters were yelling, “The sky is all lit up!”

I said, “It’s so beautiful.”

Ma smiled for the first time that whole day.

She said, “I’m glad you girls like the view, because I think we’ll be here a while.”

“Are we on vacation?” Lucy asked.

“No,” Ma answered.

“This going be house?” Sprout asked nervously.

Ma laughed, “Goodness no, but we’ll be here for a couple days. Then hopefully we’ll find a house. Well- probably an apartment.”

I was starting to realize what was happening. It wasn’t about the northern lights at all. We were running away from our old home. I was 12, so I knew more than my sisters. Sprout was only three, Maggie was barely five, and Lucy was ten. Ma was trying to spare us from being upset or seeing that she was scared. He must’ve hit her- I decided. Our Dad got mad very easily, like if hot chocolate spilled on his pants, or if you were singing a song loudly, or if Ma burnt the chicken. Ma didn’t mean to burn the chicken, but sometimes if Dad was mad at one of us, it distracted her from cooking supper. He never cooked, he never did any of the chores, and he never took us anywhere. If we missed the bus for school, he would yell and kick the wall with his foot, then Ma would hurriedly get us out the door and drive us herself. She never said anything bad about him, but I knew she didn’t like to be yelled at.

“Does he know where we are?” I asked.

She kept her eyes on the swirling green and purple lights.

“Ma…” I asked again nervously.

“No, Daphne,” She said quietly.

“Good,” I said emphatically, “I hate him. I’m glad we ran away.”

She gestured to the girls and put a finger to

her lip, “Shhh. We don’t need to upset your sisters. Let’s have a fun adventure and they’ll only remember the beautiful lights and that we settled here to always be in their glow.”

“It doesn’t glow all year, Ma,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Nothing lasts forever, my love, but I want you to remember that when the beautiful parts of life come, they’re always sweeter than the terrible parts.”

I hugged her and we stood there for a little longer. When it got too cold, we went inside. Ma got us hot chocolate from the cafe down the street and we split three cups between us. We watched

“Huckleberry Finn” on the Tv and Ma even got us chips for 50 cents from the front desk. We felt like royalty! Money was tight, but she never let us figure it out.

It’s been ten years since we left Massachusetts. I’m 22 now and look forward to attending college. For my essay, the only story I could think of was the journey to the northern lights. It taught me the importance of looking on the bright side (literally and figuratively) and how you have to be brave sometimes even when it’s thrust on you. Ma wasn’t ready to be brave like that, but she had to be, she had to take us and get us all far, far away. I have to be brave now, because I have to leave her. I have to leave our circle of love and warmth, but I know that I’ll be back every chance I get. My Ma, my sisters, and I are like the solar particles flying about from the sun, mixing with the atmosphere of Earth to create the beautiful colors in the sky. There are seasons when we won’t be together, but we’ll always come back to each other, and it’ll always be special and magical.


Like a delicate melody, raindrops patter the windowpane, gently awakening me from my slumber. Day after day, year after year, the scorching and relentless sun makes its mark, causing my heart to brim with gratitude for the soothing presence of rain. Presented in its purest and most pristine form, I cannot think of anything else that possesses a beauty greater than the gentle rain in the early morning. Gradually regaining my senses, I feel the soft embrace of bed sheets envelope my body, with its caress evoking memories of the tender cradle of my mother’s arms from my younger days. To my surprise, the room reveals itself to be unfamiliar, a space distinct from my own. Details emerge with clarity, and an unshakable certainty settles within me—the ambiance of the room feels inexplicably different. Steadily, I ground myself onto the cold, wooden floor, feeling its chill beneath the soles of my bare feet. It is in that very instant of awareness that I comprehend, with utmost certainty, that this room is not my own. Leaving the room, I begin to walk down a narrow hallway decorated with framed images that seem to depict forgotten tales. Forgotten tales of an unknown people by my conscious awareness. I can feel myself being drawn in. Enthralled, I fixate my gaze upon them, witnessing the vibrant colours dance and the stories weaving together seamlessly. However, with each passing step down the hallway, the images gradually fade away, leaving me to question their existence within the realms of my imagination or the tangible world. Unaware of the hallway’s end, a table of four appears before me. It is adorned with steaming cups of coffee, a pot of simmering beans, and freshly baked biscuits, enticing me with their comforting aroma. I stand there in contemplation, feeling torn between the temptation to seek out the owner of this cabin and the desire to dig into some food. Assured in my belief that taking a single biscuit will go entirely unnoticed, a lingering concern whispers within me: What if, against all odds, I were to be caught in the act? I eventually make up my mind and discreetly tread upon the wooden floor towards the table, yet just as I come to a halt, my gaze instinctively catches a glimpse of someone materialising from the edge of my right eye’s peripheral vision. A young woman greets me, breaking the silence. “Good mornin’”, she says warmly. “Mornin’ ma’am”, I respond, turning to face her. With a gentle motion, she slides the chair backward and utters in a soft-spoken tone, “You can call me Jane. Come, have a seat and help yourself to some breakfast.” As I sink into the chair a sensation of soreness permeates my body. “Thank you, Jane. I reckon I owe you my thanks for takin’ me in.” “No need for thanks. We all need a helping hand from time to time. What’s your name, stranger?” Seated now, I settle myself and serve a portion of beans from the pot onto my plate, “They call me Sam. Just a wanderer tryin’ to find some peace”. “Well, Sam, you’ve found a safe haven here, at least for the time bein’. Trouble tends to follow folks around these parts". Out of nowhere, a rumble echoes from within my stomach, reminding me of my hunger. In a hurried frenzy, I tear apart fragments of the biscuit and hastily devour them. “Care to share how you ended up here?” “Well, Jane, I seem to have no recollection of how I arrived here, but I was caught up in a mess back in Silverton. Some folks didn’t take kindly to my presence and accused me of things I didn’t do. I was then chased for days, but I knew I had to keep moving if I wanted to survive. And here I am” I reply. “You’re safe here, Sam. No one will find you.” I feel my tense expression soften as I gaze at Jane with gratitude. Taking note of the pleasant weather, and filled with appreciation for her, I take the chance to seize the moment and suggest, “The weather is delightful today, isn’t it? After we finish our breakfast, would you be interested in taking a walk together?” “I’d love to accompany you, but I don’t have the time”. “No time for a walk, huh?” I respond, curiously peaked. Vexed by the unpredictable nature of my mind’s wanderings, I inwardly question what time is. Is it an illusory construct? And why do I have a philosophical inclination about everything, be it contemplating life and death, or even the nature of my reality? Unable to resist my curiosity, I embark to delve deeper, posing the question: “What is time, really?” Jane’s facial expression reflects bewilderment, yet she momentarily allows herself to be captivated by this philosophical discourse. She extends her hand - retrieves a plate from the table, and gives it to me, issuing the command, “Here, take this plate and drop it”. Perplexed, I respond “Nah. Why would I do that?” “Just do it” she retorts. Holding the plate tightly, I intentionally let it slip from my hands, watching as it falls to the floor. The room emits a sound of shattering, a disappointing symphony that hangs in the air. Within me, I feel profound remorse for my actions as I witness the broken pieces scattered around, succumbing to their final fate. Unable to undo the deed, I develop a partial understanding behind her insistence. “Now try to join the pieces back”, she suggests. “Why would you waste that plate?” I reply, feigning confusion. “To show you what time is! Now you will never be able to join them to the same configuration. Time exists, and this experience says so". I still seem to misunderstand the concept of time, but I acknowledge her preoccupied state, and I opt to respect her busyness. Effortlessly, I gather the scattered pieces of the broken plate, swiftly tidying up the area. And with the remnants safely disposed of, I make my way towards the front door, ready for my walk. EXT. PRAIRIE - DAY Before me, extends the wild prairie, its golden grasses swaying in harmony with the gentle breeze. On this Winter morning, the prairie is bare of natural winter snow, yet the prominence of rainfall has increased noticeably, lending a distinct change to the landscape. Standing in awe, I marvel at the vastness of the land and the sense of freedom that spreads through the air. Even the distant cry of a hawk exudes a sense of liberation as it echoes through the open sky, serving as a reminder of my innate right to be entitled to freedom, liberated from prejudice, hate, and all constraints. Although, in a world such as ours, freedom will always remain elusive. And peace forever remains a challenging endeavour. Even if I am at peace in this very moment, there will perpetually exist someone out there capable of shattering it all - just how ma and pa’s lives were. Ma and pa, like other people, did their best, to be good people. Just like all the other people - they were sometimes wrong, and sometimes weak, and sometimes had no good choices. But there are also the broken and crazy people who do things they think they need to do to be safe - but they are not bad people, they are just sick. In what had felt like ten minutes, I had, in truth, spent half the day immersed upon the land with a whirlwind of thoughts consuming my mind. Did I really just spend half the day intermittently staring off into space? The sun commences its descent, and I know it is time to bid a reluctant farewell to the untamed wilderness that had embraced me. While ascending the hill, the echoes of discontent reach my ears from afar, and the echoing of voices arguing and fighting reach my ears. Without hesitation, I hasten my pace to investigate the source of the commotion. Before me stands an aged and lifeless tree, its branches devoid of any signs of vitality. I opt to take cover behind it, carefully observing the unfolding scene. In the distance, it appears that a group of rugged outlaws enter the town. “Well, well, well, what have we here? Riches ripe for the takin’?” Worried glances are exchanged among the townspeople as they become aware of the imminent threat. Making their way down the street, the outlaws unleash chaos as they break into stores, plundering valuable supplies. Meanwhile, Jesse Maverick, a resolute and resourceful shopkeeper, takes charge, gathering supplies and arms himself with a shotgun. In the distance, I catch sight of Jane and the rest of the townsfolk gathering at the saloon, engaged in a serious conversation that carries an air of urgency. Among them stands an unfamiliar face, a man whose presence piques my curiosity. “Folks, we can’t let them run us out of town. That man we took in is a wanted man. I heard they want him, so handin’ him over are the only chances we’ve got.” says the man. The townsfolk nod in agreement, determination shining in their eyes. Although Jane, exchanges a worried glance “I won’t let you take him”. I feel relieved as I realise she has not sided with the townsfolk’s plan. “Oh c’mon Jane, where is he?” In all honesty, she replies, “I don’t know where he is”. Before they know it, the outlaws raid the stores, looting many of its valuable resources, leaving the town in shambles. “They took nearly everything, but we won’t let them break our spirit. We’ll rebuild. We’ll find a way", proclaims the man with unwavering determination. The townsfolk stand in silence, surveying the aftermath, their hearts burdened with sorrow. With the stolen goods in tow, the outlaws ride off towards my direction. Not today. I can’t let them find me. As the outlaws pass by, I take a cautious step forward, planning to make my escape. All of a sudden my foot catches on a hidden rock, causing me to stumble and lose my balance. (cursing under my breath) “Damn it!” The outlaws stop in their tracks and turn their attention towards me. "Well, well, what do we have here? Looks like we’ve got ourselves a little spy", says a man mockingly. I quickly scramble to my feet, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I respond in hopes that they leave me, “You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m just a lost traveler.” With a menacing tone the man replies, “Lost or not, you’re trespassing on our territory. And that comes with consequences.” With time slipping away I scan my surroundings, searching for a potential escape route. I have a faint memory of a narrow path that winds its way up a rocky hillside - perhaps I can make it there fast enough. With determination, I take off running towards the path, I push my body to its limits, sprinting up the treacherous path. My focus fixed on reaching its summit, I resist the urge to look back. The thought of the pursuing outlaws at my heels lingers, and with each step I push myself harder, praying that my pace outmatches their pursuit. At the top of the hillside, I catch my breath for a moment and glance back, only to see the outlaws below. Their progress is hindered by the resourceful storekeeper, Jesse, who valiantly distracts them, buying me precious time. I continue my desperate escape, disappearing into the rugged wilderness. I am so tired, so very tired. As I stumble, my legs betray me, refusing to carry my weight any longer. I look down only to see my foot bleeding heavily, and with a final gasp, I collapse to the ground in a motionless heap. INT. NATIVE AMERICAN ENCAMPMENT - NIGHT As I awake, a flickering fire illuminates the faces of people with strong, prominent facial features - different from my own. High cheekbones and chiseled jawlines, contributing to their striking appearance. The Natives? As I continue to lay, a young woman cleans my foot wounds with herbal remedies. “Your wounds will heal, young one. Our people have long possessed the knowledge of nature’s medicine.” says the young woman. I watch in awe as she moves with grace and skill, her healing techniques seeming almost magical. I express my profound gratitude to her, “Thank you. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I would have made it out alive”. Raising my gaze, the night sky is filled with stars, casting a gentle glow over the campfire. In the distance, voices beckon, “Come and join us.” The Natives are standing in a circle, extending an invitation for me to join their gathering. “We shall share our stories, young traveler, for they are intertwined with your own.” says the wise, old elder. The Natives begin to recount tales of their ancestors and the hardships they faced, including the displacement of their people from the land they held sacred. “It was a time of great loss, a chapter in history that cannot be undone". As I listen attentively, my heart heavy with a newfound understanding settles within me. The magnitude of the realisation strikes deep, as I come to terms with the fact that my own ancestors held responsibility for the suffering endured by this Native tribe. In that moment, a vivid memory flashes through my mind, causing me to pause and take a moment to reflect. The images that adorned the walls of Jane’s hallway suddenly come to life in my mind, revealing a startling resemblance between those unknown faces and the Natives I now find myself among. The wise, old elder interrupts my thoughts, solemnly declaring, “Magic exists within the world, young one. We will show you, but know that not all possess the ability to wield it.” In the midst of the crackling fire, a Native man stands, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. With a sweeping motion, he draws the fiery energy into his control. The flames start to twist and shape, forming intricate patterns and symbols in the air. Within the flickering inferno, a single flame undergoes a stunning metamorphosis, transforming the flame into the formidable form of a fierce coyote. Yet, as he extends his hand, an aura of tranquil ambiance casts over the scene, and the once untamed creature yields to his touch. I am truly impressed by its mesmerising display. The wise elder’s voice resonates as he speaks, “That was only one of many arts, young one. It’s a shame that you lack spiritual connection. It is indeed a unique gift”. I watch with fascination and a hint of disappointment, a heavy sigh escapes my lips. I realise that these remarkable tricks are beyond my own capabilities. EXT. NATIVE AMERICAN ENCAMPMENT - DAY The tranquility of the morning is shattered by the arrival of the same outlaws, their menacing presence felt throughout the camp. An air of unease pervades as the question lingers: Could their arrival be motivated by their pursuit of me? “We must defend our home. Every able person must stand together.” says the wise elder. As I look at him, sensing his urgency and the call for collective defence, I take a step forward, and offer my support, saying, “I may not possess the same abilities as you, but I am willing to fight alongside you”. The Natives exchange surprised glances, grateful for my willingness to help. “You can join, young one, though your assistance will be of little avail”. The outlaws proceed to descend upon the camp, chaos erupting as arrows fly and weapons clash. The Natives unleash their skills, but their numbers are limited. Now is the time to tap into my true potential. I must do whatever I can to ensure the safety of the land. With a newfound sense of purpose, I channel the teachings and magic I witnessed. Quickly setting up a fire, my eyes blaze with unwavering focus. As the flames grow, I raise my arms, attempting to command the fire with calculated gestures. Yet, my efforts yield no results. Desperation sets in, but I muster the last ounce of hope and give it one final attempt. To my surprise, the previously serene flickers gradually metamorphose, morphing into the shape of a mighty bear, its form towering and intimidating. With another gesture, I direct the bear’s attention towards the outlaws. In a burst of primal energy, the fiery bear springs to life, charging towards the approaching outlaws. “He possesses the gifts of our people!” cries out a young Native woman. The outlaws stand frozen in disbelief as the fiery bear takes shape before their eyes. Filled with a mix of awe and fear, they launch futile attacks against the formidable creature, but their efforts have no effect. The outlaws, defeated and scattered, retreat. In the depths of my being, a profound revelation takes hold. Discovering a part of myself that was once lost, I now realise the deep connection coursing through my veins, their history, and their spirit. It dawns upon me that this newfound awareness may be the solace and harmony I have been searching for all along. I have found my peace.


  SWEET STRUGGLE I love my best friend, but I don't need to hang out with her all the time. I truly hope somebody can relate to this and that I don't want to sound like a horrible person. I am an introvert. I am so much of an introvert that I took this random quiz that is supposed to tell you how you rank on the introvert/extrovert spectrum. My results: I was ALL THE WAY on the introverted side. Y’all, I love to be alone. My idea of the perfect day is going to the gym alone, making my breakfast smoothie and eating alone at my dining table (I live with my family.lol) with the current series I am watching on Netflix, taking myself to the movies alone in the afternoon, taking myself to the rooftop with my laptop and writing whatever I’m inspired (mostly nothing) to write that day, and lastly curling up in my room to read some more or watch TV before I fall asleep. I don't even feel the need to spend every day with my family. We see eachother everyday and that’s it, I love it. I know that might sound so sad and incredibly solitary to a lot of people, but it works for me. There have been days that I realised I never spoke out loud, because I didn’t interact with anybody. Now, this isn’t everyday, obviously. I have a college where I have to talk to and deal with people the whole time and it’s fine. I just have a strong need to be alone to balance out all the people's time. The one problem with this is that my best friend THRIVES on people. If I’m on the introverted side of the seesaw, she’s on the other extroverted side trying to keep me up and out of my solitude, She is a med-student. She goes to college from home, but she really hates being home alone. If her roommate is ever out of town, she'll always make plans to have a little get together or to go out so she’s not in the house by herself for a long period of time. She has a LOT of friends. I met her a couple of times when I was in her city. If it were up to just me, our friendship probably wouldn't have lasted this long only because I’m terrible with keeping friendships going. I’m bad with keeping in touch and reaching out first to hang out. She keeps me social. I love her for that and I love hanging out with her. The only problem is that I feel like I’m being a bad friend if she calls me up to hang out and I say no only because I’m totally loving my current Netflix binge in my sweatpants. I just need a heads up. I need to prepare myself to be social. I rarely say yes to impromptu social plans because I haven't mentally prepared to be around a lot of people. It’s just how I’m wired. Once, I’m at a party and the people are nice and there’s music and the vibe is fun, I’m good. I can dance and have a good time with everyone. When I tell people I’m an introvert, sometimes they’re surprised. I’m good when I’m around people, but they just don't realise, I’m SO GOOD not being around people. I often feel so relieved to be back home alone once I leave a party. I can’t recharge around people. I feel emotionally drained after being in a crowd. I need to be alone to recharge. I really have some experiences with her.

I used to speak softly(sometimes). Although they were not very private, still I didn't want anyone else to hear that unnecessarily. But she used to ask me frequently, “why are you speaking so softly? Speak loudly.”

We both were in the same class during 11th & 12th. That’s how we became best friends. I used to sit at the last bench in the last corner where even a light can’t enter, sticking to the wall. Since she was my best friend, she had no other option than sitting somehow at the outer side of the bench. Many times, she used to tell me that she was not feeling well. She needed to sit comfortably resting her shoulder against the wall. But I never Left my place just because I was uncomfortable sitting outside. Now, I feel bad for that.

I feel that I was a burden on her sometimes. She deserves better friends than me & I think, in that case, she is on the right track now. Though we completed school together, the pursuing of each other's dreams separated us. She is a med-student & I am pursuing M.com. She loves everything and every human. It’s a beautiful balancing act. You both will balance the energies you bring to your friendship and each other in the process, WOW! She was that loud, funny, fun and everything you associate with an extrovert. And I was literally a PEOPLE PHOBIC PERSON.

She would make my “serious” outlook on life so much lighter! Something I would mull over with sadness or thoughtfulness all day in all seriousness, and when I would share with her, In jest she would give me such a light, easy perspective to look at it, I would be like woah! Why don’t I ever think like that?

She gave me courage and street smartness in moments of difficulty. And I had an equally neutralizing effect on all her madness from time to time. No one understood how we could be so different and still hang around so much together. But I owe some of the best days of school to her, because she made me see the fun side of things, the jokes, the true school craziness which I would have all missed out on being the born old soul that I was.

It’s not JUST because of her. But she still left a large impact on me and yeah I became more relaxed and talkative. Well not that talkative actually because I’m still quite introverted. Anyway, It’s really really fun to have an extrovert as your best friend as an introvert. I never speak much simply because I don't have much to say. But I love listening to her.

It’s really challenging having her beside me. Once we were sitting together in a mall and someone came, she addressed them with hi or hello while I am very bad at that. I just made an excuse and moved out of the sight.

It’s a bit weird to have a friend who’s ideas and plans are quite the opposite of yours. If you’re like me, you’ll end up having arguments & frequent fights just because of contrasting opinions and situations. We used to argue a lot. Once because of my introverted feeling, I almost lost her. I didn't realise how much it hurt until she told me herself.

Yeah I am not going to lie, I’m that type of possessive friend. If you’re part of my tight-knit circle, I want you all to MYSELF. That ain’t gonna happen with an extroverted best friend. Sometimes, I feel inadequate because she (being an extrovert) doesn't seem to need me as much as I need her. She spreads herself thin across as an endless list of friends and fun activities. As long as she makes time for me, I am happy. But I feel frustrated on the days when her busy social calendar means she can only “squeeze you in” for an hour, as if you're at a business luncheon or a PTA meeting, instead of her most loyal (and awesome) friend. And here comes the serious issue, Her FOMO always annoys me and my FOGO never fails to frustrate her.

Besides everything, One of the best reasons I am drawn to her in the first place is the way she makes life interesting and more exciting. She took me on adventures and helped me to see the world in a whole new perspective. There’s always plenty to read about how to deal with romantic breakups, but the biggest loss in my life is what it feels like a breakup with her. Yes you got it right, Geographical barriers (she lived near her college while I was still in our hometown) was the main reason. Two years back, we ran into each other once and made small talk, which is the worst. I find it excruciating to make small talk with a person with whom I once shared almost everything. I started wondering to myself, What do I do? Do I let go of the friendship? Do I try to sit her down and have a heart-to-heart? You know what it’s occasionally lousy and super inconvenient to be an introvert? Because of this. Because people. Because of ALL THE SAD FEELS.

We introverts don’t take friendships lightly. I mean, come on. Who wants to find a new best friend? It’s HARD making friends, and the thought of going through all the incremental steps of building intimacy again with someone else?

UGH. EW. NO, THANK YOU. I’LL HAVE THE TV DINNER FOR ME. I can feel the questions running in your mind : Did I do something wrong? Is it my fault? Yeah, Maybe I could have been better in this friendship. Maybe I could have called her more often. Maybe I could have shown up with takeout coffees and bagels. But really? I’d say it’s probably that I did just fine in this friendship. Once when I was bemoaning a terrible situation I could not seem to fix, a very wise soul asked me, “Did you break it?” “Did I break what?” I had asked. “Any of it,” he said. “Because if you didn't, maybe it’s not yours to fix.” Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. I felt that. Maybe this friendship isn’t yours to fix anymore. I said to myself I tried for the better part.

I am especially grumpy in the presence of cliched statements like, “Maybe the friendship just ran its course.” But in this case, maybe it did. Some friendships are seasonal, part of the fall foliage or spring blooms in your life. With all that being said, I am so grateful that I have my friend in my life. In my life, If I didn’t have her, I’d definitely be lonely. I’ve finally exposed my introverted struggles to her so I know she understands. I hope She won’t take it personally even if she doesn’t hear from me for days. She made me appreciate how important it is to step out of your comfort zone and that life is meant to be shared, maybe just not EVERYDAY. Despite everything,

Dear Introverts, So free yourself. Be mad, Be sad - it’s all okay. The loss smarts, but it doesn’t have to keep smarting. Love from afar the-her-you-know, like a calm and collected super BUDDHA; love the friendship you had like a beautiful photograph; and be brave enough to let the-now-her-go. It doesn’t matter that she let go first, and it doesn’t matter why, not really. What matters is that you let yourself start healing and realize the only people worth your time are the ones who make you feel like you’re with everything.

~Sincerely, Fellow Introvert who is blessed with an Extrovert Best Friend


It has been 163 days since I have seen outside these walls. The white that surrounds me is something like a jail.

It is, however, a contrast to the darkness of Before, when she rarely flipped on the lights, the curtains pulled tight to lock out the sunshine. Food was scattered across countertops on our best days, competing with my brothers on every other one for each morsel that sustained us. Sound had hummed from the box with the moving humans on it, unknown voices filling the space around us. That was where she spent most of her time, with the people we never knew, but whose voices we came to recognize over time. The humans in the Humming Box didn’t know us. To the contrary, they seemed terribly inept at paying attention to anything but themselves, but we got to know them and their drama, their voices becoming a soundtrack to our days. When she spent her time there, on the couch as she watched the Humming Box, she usually had food with her, more than what she gave the rest of us. She did not like to share. Neither did my brothers. The days had passed by, each running into the other, until one day there was a knock at the door. Somehow, people were on the other side. I couldn’t understand, at first, how they escaped the Humming Box, or what made them see outside of their own lives to bring them to the front stoop. I eyed the brightness outside warily at first, peeking out from behind the sofa, until I heard an unfamiliar chirp that made my entire body stand at attention.

The new humans closed the door after my youngest brother tried to run out to find the source of the chirping noise. That day, with their serious faces on, they had loaded each of us into a moving jail. Until finally, we arrived here, at the White Wall Place. “I think today’s the day, Charley,” Alanna says in a singsong voice, breaking the otherwise monotonous loop of my confinement. Alanna is the name on the tag that she wears every time she visits me in the White Wall Place, and the other humans here, who also wear name tags, call her that too. Names are a weird phenomenon I don’t quite understand. Maybe they wear them on tags so they don’t forget their names. I’ve looked before and was unable to find one on my body, however, there is one affixed to the outside of my cell. Before I arrived here, the human that sat in front of the Humming Box never called me anything. I’m not sure why Alanna calls me Charley now, or how she dicovered that is my name, but she says it with a brightness that lures me closer to the edge of the cage.I sit dutifully on the other side, eyes fixed on her as I wait. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, Alanna lets me roam outside in the room. I hear the metal lock slide out of place, and I tilt my head as I study her. Alanna smiles, scratching my head where I like it most. I can’t help myself and lean into her touch, greedily soaking up each morsel of affection she gives to me.

She steps back then, smacking her lips together. “You hungry?” What a ridiculous question , I think .

I jump down, following her to the other side of the room where I hear the sound that I crave most: the lid of a can peeling back. I know what it will reveal when Alanna sets it down; a gravy covered feast, just for me. I lap it up, savoring each and every swipe of my tongue. In my life, in the place Before, we had never eaten like this. Never a small feast just for me .

Usually this is the point where she cleans my jail, then moves on to whoever my newest neighbor is. They don’t typically last very long, especially the kittens. Sticky fingers of small humans point at their freshly cleaned cages, excited sounds coming from their mouths. The cycle continues on. The same thing happened to my brothers. One day they were here, the next they were loaded back into the moving jail. The strangest part about it all was they seemed happy to go, to leave the safety of the White Wall Place and its gravy-filled cans. I was sad to see them go, but I was too naive, at first, to realize they would never return. In the following months there would be countless smaller and considerably cuter tenants that occupied the space where they once existed. For a time, I lost interest, even where eating was concerned. I didn’t understand how the absence of someone you love could completely consume you, swallowing up every ounce of life you had to offer. That was before I knew who Alanna was. On one of the worst days that followed my brothers’ departures, I heard hushed tones. Before long, Alanna was in front of my cage. She wordlessly unlocked it, offering a few tentative pets before picking me up and taking me with her to her desk. She did it again the next day, petting me and talking to me until I began to eat again. Today, she takes me to a room I don’t recognize. There aren’t any other cats here either, which is strange. It’s just a couple of chairs, one already occupied by a human I don’t know. She has wire-rimmed eyes, hair a shade of gray that is a few shades lighter than my fur. A soft smile that somehow reminds me of Alanna. “Mama,” Alanna says, sitting in one of the empty seats, and petting me as she shifts me into her lap. “This is Charley.” “I've heard so much about you. I feel like I already know you.”

Well that makes one of us. “He’s a little shy, but he'll definitely warm up to you if he's given the chance. He’s been passed up a lot because of that, and because he's a little older.”

“Oh, don’t I understand that, Charley,” Mama says with a small shake of her head. “You can pet him if you want. He’s friendly.” Alanna looks down at me, continuing the soothing motion, not that I appreciate the open invitation for Mama to do the same. “Don’t let the grumpy face fool you.” “I don’t need to pet him to know. He’s stolen your heart and he’s been passed up over and over again, at no fault of his own. After the life he’s had, he deserves a home. I could certainly use someone to keep me company. Plus you can visit us any time you like.” Alanna tells Mama she needs a few minutes to get everything together, and she takes me with her to her desk, setting down a portable jail beside it which I eye with hesitance. Alanna reassures me with snuggles after she finishes the paperwork. “I can’t believe you’re getting adopted. Finally . You’re going to be so spoiled and have a beautiful life… even if Mama isn’t quite ready for how messy your life is.” She kisses the top of my head before moving me towards the portable jail, the one that I’ve been so fearful of.

I don’t know what many of the words mean, most of all what home is. However, the soothing cadence of Alanna’s tone sends me into a low purr. If she tells me I’m going to have a beautiful life with Mama, I believe it too.


Am I Here? H.E. Ross My city is seven miles by seven miles, maybe a little more or less on either side but essentially is a round-edged square. San Francisco is the kind of place you come to or leave. All of my life’s memories of that beautiful place are captured in rum and ice movements with only one big and important memory-box showing me sitting still and that was the day I started sailing. I sat on a rock beneath a small port entry light at the Marina Green and saw for the first time slanted sails driving spear blade hulls through foam above the grey green bay waters. I was hooked on something I lived with but never saw. I was grateful to the forces of my surroundings for the first time since I was a kid and touched a buffalo hoof in the middle of the Golden Gate Park.

San Francisco blended my heartbeats in jazz and congas and parks and laughing schools and hurt knuckles pounding my colour into black and white kids’ faces. I grew up moving to the Haight-Ashbury and matured looking back at the ‘Mo District and appreciating the smells of my parks. There was dew on grass. There were bent eucalyptus twigs, tree ferns, ponds, small creeks, ridge-lines and dells. My first kiss and sex. The French witch with no underpants. My dog, Rover, shaking mud to a fine white fur. The plane landed and I bumped to attention. I had to remember my overhead luggage and overcoat. I had to go through immigration. I had to get a ticket for the bus into the City. I had to take a piss and wash my face and brush my teeth. I had to get something to eat so I could sober up. I woke up as the bus moved over the hill and sat up to see my favourite site… my City emerging from the soft crest of this hill. The city hall luminous and the seven hills undulating in mid-day light. Pastel boxes of whitenesses rolling up and down and spreading to the lower bay.

‘Image Is Everything’ said the rectangular billboard where there were no billboards before. Two tennis shoes stuck in my face. I blinked strongly and the billboard was blotting out the city hall, disrupting the pastels and contours. Where was I? At the bus station people seemed to be moving faster than my memory recalled. I was only gone four days but I had to look at the street signs to reassure myself that this was San Francisco. I had returned to the City many times from slow paced places and went right into gear, but something had changed… The last thing I concluded is what we all fear concluding: I had changed. Now, that is scary. I tried to tell myself that it was the booze and fighting and surprise family things. A lot had happened and I was not coping well, is all. I walked the wrong way to catch my bus, but decided to take a walk to the marina as an award to fate. I went into a liquor store and bought a half-pint of the word rum on a bottle and continued my walk. I mounted the hill above the tunnel and looked out at Chinatown. I stopped and sat on the cement rail above the tunnel and sipped from the bottle. It burned my throat and made me take a slug this time. I wanted to get drunk, I thought out loud. I was in my City and I wanted to be a San Franciscan. I wanted to get good and drunk. The breeze caught me up on that rail and I remembered my Lizard King sitting at her berth and wanted to be there right now. Capping the bottle I put it in my overcoat pocket and put the overcoat on, shouldered my bag and skipped down the steps into Chinatown. Chinatown makes me who I am every time I smell and walk its streets and alleys. My youth was spent courting those pretty little ladies who found me exotic, I was smiling now. Looking around at laundry hanging in droops from secret windows on blocks of buildings that I always guessed contained half of China’s population I breathed like I was back in town. I took another pull while walking and spilled a bit on my overcoat but did not care. I was at home. I was sweating now since I was not being touched by a breath of air passing from one familiar street to an alley shortcut to a street. I pulled off the overcoat and hung it through my bag strap, careful for the bottle’s easy access. Into North Beach and sunlight. I thought I should celebrate something. I was home? Na, I always celebrated that one. I was representing a nation, delivering its heritage? Yes… yes, that would do.

I stopped passage and turned at Washington Square, looking at the statue of Benjamin Franklin at its centre and crossed the street to enter Grant Avenue and some good bars. Years before it was the Anxious Asp. A cigar smoking lesbian midget ran the place. I was sixteen looking like I was twenty-five. I met two good friends there. One is dead now and one is a house-husband. Both were bad muthas, then. What was I now? The Asp is gone. A blood I had met in Mexico had bought it and moved it to the Haight during those latter stages of the hippy landings but it had failed. I did not like that guy anyway. Mike’s Pool Hall was gone also. It went when topless came in… almost to the day. Mike’s was wonderful and introduced me to the hierarchy of San Francisco’s underworld. Genovese to Sicilian to Bloods, all funded by Chinese. The heroin, pot and coke were routed through the toilet at Mike’s and deals were made at the pool tables for more than samples. Mike’s smelled like a German Beer Hall and had crushed peanut shells soaking up anything on the one foot up levels of its two floors.

Now, I was at Specks in his own tiny alley. Across from Vesuvio’s and City Lights Bookstore. The bouquet was memory. I poured the last of my rum into the last contents of my beer mug and ate my traditional cheese from the big slicer on the bar. The bartender saw me but knew me since I was a kid. I was home.


When did she stand tall !! When she was on the Mountain or When she stood on the beach, When on the Earth. Space nor Time was the Matter – She rose. Which mountain did she want to climb, Yonder or Near ! Within or without, Reflection or the Shadow Everywhere or Nowhere !! She rose. Was there a mountain, It was just the other dimension. Eelin had decided to climb the mountain in the green valley - Mt. Zenith. She hesitated to venture alone for it felt a million years away. She wondered if she could ask Aari to accompany her? She smiled to herself at the thought of him – his name meant “mountain of strength”. Aari would ridicule her and laugh loudly she assumed. Eelin and Aari had been friends forever. Eelin was always perplexed with time so million was a big deal for her. Aari on the other hand was largely confident because he was in blissful state. He was at the other spectrum – carefree and simple. He never pondered about the so-called complex facets of the Universe and beyond. That he left to Eelin. He teased her about the “thought face” she wore, whenever he had the chance. Her brows were constantly furrowed. To Eelin every atom was connected and every meeting with creatures small and big had an inner depth and dimension. Eelin had moved to where they lived now from a small hill town. When she was young she was never cognizant of her surroundings nor the space she lived in. But somewhere along the time they had moved here she could feel the process within. This place was teaching her, twisting her insides. Often times she felt to escape into nowhere. An invisible momentum kept her fuelled up and moved her. She would tell Aari, she was unlearning more than learning anything at all. Her entire being was being shaken. Things and ideas were being tossed out of her system ruthlessly. Just when she felt she could relax, this adventure by nature of climbing had skipped along, challenging her to wake up and move. She always thought to herself – “Yes this is it.” And then Eelin would be shaken up. No respite from the lessons tossed at her. She would never realise that all of those thoughts were to prepare her for the long haul until that incident. Where people did not see any connection, Eelin could see a colossal network, enmeshed with gems of insights. She floated in the knowledge of unlearning. Layer after layer peeled off each and every time there were bursts of starry insights. But the peeling seemed infinite. Because waves of delusion slapped her as though she was the barrage. They came in multitudes and her gates could not control anything at all. Eelin was ruminating while sitting on a rock beside the lighthouse and looking far out into the horizon. She had chosen to climb Zenith to get to conscious thoughtlessness. The rationale was where action began, thoughts would end. The more she reflected on the idea, her urge intensified. But it seemed extremely far-fetched. The inaction was pulling her down. It was as though an invisible person was holding her back with a string and when she wanted to let go, it drew her back. There were more insights to come from a sort of unified field. And now for that small incident. When it happened, she went through the motions mechanically. People around her were concerned for her attitude and response to it. But for her it was alright. She neither could explain why she behaved that way nor wanted to as well. Many times she really wanted to be alone. But the layered politeness was a garment that time had cloaked her with. And recently she had become too cautious around people. Though she felt they were her reflection. She was coming to those subtle but deep revelations on her own. And Aari was the first reflection. A free-flowing individual, the other side of her. But Aari had always been that person – no attachment to anything, anyone. He was just present. Secretly she wanted to be Aari. That would be another layer to peel. So Eelin had to climb. The incident was an alarm – a nice musical and gentle one at that. The people she was born with this lifetime around had left. Vanished – tasks done. Could it be just that she had to unlearn? That would be ultimate sacrifice just for this tiny being. She felt too important, another judgement she passed. That subtle alarm was her wake-up call. She had ignored the connectedness of all of the happenings prior to that day. Though her view shifted on its aftermath. Eelin was able to infer how all of the events around and within her were interconnected. Yes, but she chose to come out of all of it. So she had to climb. Her vulnerabilities – again the moss that had gathered deep inside her came to the surface. Where she had pretended that it did not exist, now was out in the open. It stunned her out of the blue. She was not prepared to see it till that time. She could not feign ignorance any more. When the incident happened, it was a mundane and regular affair. Gradually it dawned on her that it might have seemed that way on the top. Her inner vision cleared. She was wearing those cool, rose-tinted glasses till then. The green valley mountain – Zenith was beckoning her. But moments of “WHAT IF” hung in front of her line of vision. A constant reminder of her unsurety, a constancy of self-doubt – the procrastinating version of Eelin. The pretexts were being swept away. The elastic band holding her back was withering, tired of her plans to get out its hold and sway. Eelin had asked Aari to accompany her. But he was nowhere to be found. She was in a quandary whether to climb or not. But Eelin chose to climb Zenith, just her. She was in mid-way point. Aari or not, she had to keep moving up to transcend the peak. She was decluttering and needed to keep up the pace to walk over the Mons.


Once upon a time there was a dog. He was born in the time of plenty, in days of sunshine and warmth, and he grew from puppyhood towards full growth in happy barking and playful fellowship with his litter mates under the loving and watchful care of his elders.

But as the days passed, he became aware of an emptiness inside him. And gradually the pack saw that while he has space inside him big enough to carry a heart the size of a mountain,his own heart was small. It was no smaller than most dogs carried, but too small for the space allotted him. Although no one knew why this was, it was agreed that he of all the dogs must be intended for great deeds requiring a heart of mountainous proportions. So he must find a way to grow his heart to size.

And slowly, time moved from the days of plenty to the time of tides. Rumors of wild winds and high seas never seen before began to circulate. And soon shadows played across the days of sun.

And the pack knew that a time was coming when a special guide and leader would be needed . And the elders gathered and determined that the dog with space inside him for a heart the size of a mountain must be the one and he was sent out to live with people in the land of houses in the hope that there his heart would grow.

So the dog came to a house in a town by the sea. And the people in the house loved him, their own hearts swelling each time they saw the dog. And they made him a bed beneath the roof, with a glass window above his bed, which he could see through to the sky. And the dog loved the people too. But still his heart could not fill the space inside him.

One day, as the dog lay on his bed, he heard a sound above him. The dog looked up. There, above him, through the glass, he saw two feet, yellow, webbed, self satisfied, well planted feet and above them a white, soft rump. He looked away.  A gull. No more than a gull , and the dog, as were his humans, was dismissive of gulls. But as he did, he heard the call; soft, like a child’s call, faintly Russian, like the cry of a Siamese cat. Insistent and rising in pitch it clutched and held him tight, and he felt himself rising, lifted through the room and the glass above him and out into the glowing air beyond . He was alarmed at first, bed and bowl were below, and his rugs and comforters, but he was powerless to resist the upward pull and soon he found himself ecstatic; ears pulled back, tail extended, paws no longer paddling but stretching out like wings into the rosy future. Looking around the dog saw gulls around him, swooping, diving, soaring - calling him on. People walked below him, two dimensional, unseeing, unobserving, used, he supposed, to seagulls in the skies above them. And now the dog saw that the white and yellow birds were shedding their feathers - feet of gold, now clawed not webbed, stretching back below a thrashing tail, their beaks curving into golden scimitars.

And on they flew - beyond the rooves of the peoples’ towns to the seas; wild, grey, foaming into gold topped blue. The waves reached up for them, almost touching, almost tearing them down from the weightless sky. But up they rose, leaving the grasping fingers of the spray, and soaring on until , finally, they reached land, a dry and safe land, beyond. And the birds, that had been birds, the winged creatures that surrounded him and that had brought him with them to this place, now seemed to settle and he felt his body lower, quite gently, into soft, green landings. He looked around. There, in a trough, half covered in leaves - red and crisp and pointed on the gound - he saw a gleam. More than a twinkle or a sparkle, it was a strong metallic gleam that attracted him, as might in his other self, a bone. He approached it, sniffed and pounced. And suddenly he knew. It was his grail, he realised, his gift, his own. And seizing it in his mouth, he swallowed it. Immediately it swelled. And his heart grew to the size of a mountain inside him. And he was mightier, more himself than before. He didn’t remember the return. But there he was at last, on his bed, in his people’s house, looking upwards through the glass at yellow feet. Webbed feet. But the dog knew then that the birds above him were much more than gulls. They were the guides appointed for him in his quest and they would be the guardians, in the times of shadow, not only for the people, although they were feared and mistrusted by them, but also for his alter-pack, the dogs. And so, with his heart now as big as a mountain, and with the guardians around him, the dog left the people in the house by the sea, an avatar in place to comfort them, and went back to his own pack. The shadows had spread there and the seas were wilder, and the pups were growing now, not in a time of happy barking but through whines of fear. So, the dog with the heart the size of a mountain flew through the shadow with his cohort of guardians. And the golden claws tore into the shadows. And the wild tails thrashed at the waves till they whimpered and subsided into foam. And the scimitar beaks opened wide to swallow the winds. And the days of sunshine

and the days of plenty were returned to the pack . And the pack, with the dog with the heart the size of a mountain, lived out their days in a new time of plenty, in days of sunshine and warmth and happy barking.


This story contains adult language and physical violence. With the audacity that could only be exhibited by someone working as a lab technician as long as he had, Jack picked up his first cerebral spinal fluid sample of the day with an ungloved hand. He had picked up more than a dozen bad habits through many years of working the same job. Today, he was trying a new technique which involved using one glove to pipette, and the other bare hand to hold the test tube. “Shit,” he mumbled. Not even ten minutes into his work, he managed to miss the tube he was pipetting into and dispensed cerebral spinal fluid onto his exposed skin. Immediately something felt wrong. Jack heard someone mutter something behind him. “What was that?” Jack asked. “No one said anything,” responded Mary. If I hear one more stupid remark from him, he’s fired. Practically hyperventilating, Jack spun around in his chair to look at Mary. She was facing the computer screen typing away diligently and his other three co-workers looked none the wiser as they worked at their benches. Ugh, I feel nauseous. Jaimie shifted in her chair and gripped the bench in front of her. Jack sat there for a few moments in disbelief as he desperately tried to think of a way to confirm his sanity, “Maybe you could ask to leave early Jaimie.” “What? We are understaffed as it is, why are you saying that?” Jaimie responded defensively. Can Jack hear my thoughts? Why is he acting so much weirder than normal? I think I forgot to pay Mary for the coffee she got me last week. Jack was assaulted by a plethora of what seemed to be his coworker’s anxious thoughts. Well that certainly wasn’t helpful; he thought as he abruptly stood up and ran to the sink to vigorously wash his hands. “I have got to get out of here,” he said to no one in particular. His heart was racing and his whole body was on fire. He really messed up this time, how stupid was it to not wear gloves, there are rules for a reason! It would’ve only taken three more seconds to put another one on. Dear God, I think I’m dying. He ran out the door and straight for the bathroom stall. He sat in silence, trying to count his breaths. It’s Friday, I only have to get through one more day. One…. two… I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. He noticed the lights flicker about him. One… two…. three… The sink started to drip. Are the pipes leaking? One… two… three… four… I hope no one is wondering where I am. What if someone tries to come find me? He heard the women’s bathroom door open and close. Listened, as someone walked down the hall. One… two… three… four… five… six… should I go to the doctor? Jesus christ, if I could just get to ten! One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… Nine… Ten… Not soon enough, his breathing steadied enough to return to work. No one noticed as he hesitantly stepped back into the room. So far so good. He thought; his eyes darted nervously from person to person. He walked back to his bench and shakily sat back down in his creaky seat. Following every rule in the book to the letter, he worked hyper vigilantly for the rest of the day. He even followed the speed limit on his way home. Feeling exhausted and stressed over his mistakes from yesterday, he got ready much slower than usual. He lazily dressed in blue jeans from the day before, a mostly unstained polo, and his fanciest pair of Vans. He tried to muster up some excitement though, because today was his sister’s birthday and he was heading over to his parent’s house for a family dinner. He loved his sister even though he didn’t know her as one, not really. His parents were not the type to have an empty nest so they decided to adopt her after he had moved out. She was entering her first year as a teenager today and was already acting more responsible than he ever was. She made fancy invitations to send out, organized a dinner menu, helped their mother with the shopping and her father with the cooking. She loved planning more than party itself, it was inspiring… well almost. With a deep breath, he grabbed his keys, turned his dingy door knob and walked to his gray Honda Civic parked on the street. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at his parent’s house with the fanciest planner he could find for Juniper’s birthday. Letting himself in, he shouted, “Mom, Dad, I’m here!” “We’re in the kitchen!” his mother responded. Jack walked into the brightly lit, pale green room where Juniper and his parents were in various stages of cooking, cleaning, and chatting. He felt the mood of the room immediately shift into a dull, listless aura as he walked in. Wow this all this cleaning has really worn me out, I must be getting old. He heard his mother think. What. Is. Happening. Thought Jack, as he started to panic once again. Never in his life has he experienced anything like this. The cerebral spinal fluid must have done something to him. Maybe it was an illness? What if no one likes the menu I picked out? He heard from Juniper. Oh my god. Am I… influencing people’s emotions with my own? Thought Jack. “You know you could at least put the gift on the table, Jack” scolded his mother. He had not realized it, but he had dropped Juniper’s gift on the floor and he was just standing there, staring at nothing. “Oh, yea I know that. Sorry, I was just thinking about something that happened at work,” Jack grumbled apologetically. “Alright, well you should try leaving work at work. It is much better for your mental health,” his father added. Jack picked up Juniper’s gift and nearly missed the table he was trying to set it on. He was attempting to will his emotions in a different state to test his new theory. To call it a long shot would be an understatement, but he couldn’t do nothing, it was against his scientific nature. Jack thought of the day he finally got his first lab job. Despite how jaded he’d become over the years, he was very proud to have gotten a job in a field that he actually went to school for. He thought of how excited he was to tell his parents and about the easiest—and admittedly the last —resignation letter he had ever written. The look on his bosses face at the grocery store was priceless. Jack is going to love the main course, I cannot wait for him to try my twist on Chicken Alfredo! He heard his sister think. Meanwhile, his father was putting on disco music and his mother started to dance and sing along. “I haven’t heard this song in years!” exclaimed his mom. He watched his parents dance through the kitchen, laughing and spinning as Juniper put the finishing touches on dinner. Huh. I think this is actually real! The possibilities of this are endless! I can make people feel happy being around me! No more resentful coworkers! No more disappointing my parents! No more being single! Jack thought, elated as he got lost in his thoughts about big plans to go to a bar after dinner. He was noticing something else though; he could no longer hear anyone else’s thoughts. He started to question if he needed to re-supply. The idea of exposing himself to more biological contaminates was terrifying but this could solve all of his problems… Jack was hardly involved in the conversations for the rest of the evening. He couldn’t hear any thoughts from anyone and everyone seemed to exhibiting their own emotions. He almost forgot to thank Juniper for remembering his favorite dish and trying to make it better for him, despite it being her birthday. The twist on the Chicken Alfredo was just adding lemon and capers, but it was still delicious. After Juniper opened her gift—which she loved—he said his goodbyes and quickly ducked out to his car. He sat in the dark and in silence with his hands solidified to the steering wheel, for several minutes. He couldn’t really be considering breaking into the lab could he? He can’t steal patient samples… what if someone has some other infectious disease not listed in their file? What if someone catches him? It is a 24-hour facility but he had never worked the night shift let alone overtime, people would have questions! I can’t let this go un-explored; I am a scientist after all. We could just consider this… a little experiment.

He started to talk himself down again, this is so unethical and against everything I was trained for. Although in the recesses of Jack’s mind, he knew he planned on breaking into the lab because he was never very good at following the rules, especially when it came to things that made his life even a little bit easier. “Ah what the hell,” Jack said as he started his car and turned left towards the lab. He got in no problem, the security guard even waved at him. He knew they kept frozen samples in a storage freezer that was hardly used, but the hard part was going to be if he saw anyone he knew. He could maybe pass as a new person to the night shift crew, but his coworker Jaimie was known to take on extra hours for the extra money. Jack feigned nonchalance as he made his way past the sterile white walls and lab equipment on sturdy black benches. Without donning a lab coat, he slipped into the bitterly cold back room full of freezers that stored old patient samples. No sign of Jaimie yet, maybe I’ll get lucky. As quick as he could, he opened the freezer door and grabbed a handful of cerebral spinal fluid samples and popped them into his pockets. He slammed the vault-like freezer door shut and frantically stumbled out of the room, to his dismay, right into Jaimie. “I don’t remember you being on the schedule,” she said condescendingly, in a grating tone. “Uh, yea, no I am not.” “Soooo, what are you doing here then?” she snapped. “Well, you know, you actually aren’t the boss of me and I don’t feel the need to respond to you,” Jack said as he started to walk away from her. Arms crossed, Jaimie continued to follow him down the hall way too closely. “I may not be your boss, but I will tell Mary if you don’t tell me what’s going on. You have been acting very erratically and its creating a hostile work environment that I do not appreciate…” “Fine! I just forgot to archive something yesterday and I wanted to take care of it before anyone noticed,” and added to what he thought was already a very clever explanation, he feigned remorse, “I’m tired of everyone cleaning up after me, and I want to start pulling my own weight around the lab. I am turning a new leaf, you could say.” Jaimie did not look convinced in the least, but you could see the mental debate she was having with herself in her eyes and body language. This was a problem she did not have the energy for right now. “While I don’t believe your explanation, I don’t have time for this. I hope you have a mediocre rest of your weekend,” with pursed lips, Jaimie uneventfully turned around and left Jack at the edge of the entryway doors. In disbelief, Jack stopped midstride and stared at the glass paneled double doors in front of him. The security guard looked at him and asked if he was alright. Snapping back to reality Jack responded, “Never better actually!” He promptly turned and sauntered out the door and back to his car. Sitting outside of Gough-Nuts, a bustling bar near his work, he rolled the nearly thawed tube of cerebral spinal fluid between his fingers. The more I question this, the more doubt I will have. I already took the fluid I might as well just… go for it! Jack popped off the cap and stared down the tube at the clear non assuming liquid. He held in a deep breath and poured some of the fluid into his cupped palm. He held it there for three beats. Well… it’s too late now. Jack proceeded to rub the infectious material into his hands and up his bare forearms. He held is arms out in disgust while it dried out like water. Immediately, he started to hear little pieces of thoughts from those walking past his car and into the red-lit halls of the bar. I hope Sheryl doesn’t find out I’m here… I cannot wait to be catatonic… Does this place check IDs? Holy shit it actually worked! Jack thought, as he tried to transform his emotional state to one of joy. It wasn’t hard because he was already thrilled over his new superpower. He got out of his car and practically ran inside up to the sticky wooden bar, pushing his way past the row of people who were already there. “I will have one of whatever your hoppiest IPA is!” Jack shouted to the bar tender who glared at him in turn. Jack scanned the crowd for a potential victim while he waited. There was an older blonde lady desperately trying to look younger than she was with filler and makeup who seemed obtainable, although he wanted to go as far as he could with this. He saw another gorgeous woman laughing with bright white teeth and flipping her shiny mahogany hair that practically glowed in the dim red light. Perfect. With a confidence outmatched by everyone else in the bar, he walked right up to her, beer forgotten. “Hello, gorgeous what’s your name?” Jack smiled. She looked him up and down and giggled, “Names are for second dates.” “Is that a promise?” “Only if you buy me a drink first,” but in her head he heard, I wonder how long it will take for Kev to notice this guy. Unfortunately, Jack’s self preservation was very low and he did not care how long it would take Kev to notice, nor who Kev even was. He started to move his hand to touch her hair, to twirl it between his fingers. He felt the softness of it for just a moment before he felt sudden, throbbing pain radiating through his head. Her hair slipped right out of his grasp along with any joy and excitement he had. Jack felt fear and he felt anger, how dare this stranger hit him. “Who do you think you are?!” said a heavily tattooed gruff looking man who was probably Kev. “Who do you think you are!?” responded Jack very unhelpfully, pushing Kev into someone else. “Hey!” yelled the disgruntled stranger. Faster than Jack thought was possible; a giant mass of a man was pushing them out of the bar with the ever so faithful mahogany goddess following closely behind with thoughts of worry and feelings of fear. It was unclear if her thoughts were a mirror of his own, or she was actually worried for them. Jack delusionally took her fear as concern for him and started to console her, “Don’t worry baby, I can take you to a way nicer place than this.” Kev pushed him hard onto the dark and cold asphalt, his elbows slamming into its gritty surface. Jack’s anger and pain increased, inflating the anger and pain in Kev as well. “If you even look at her one more time, you’re gone man,” Kev spat in a dark and deadly tone. “I can look at anyone I like! There is not a single thing you can do about it; she probably doesn’t even like you.” There were alarming thoughts coming from Kev now, a lot more anger than Jack thought any one man could hold. Finally sensing the danger he was in, Jack started to scramble back on his palms and feet, like a frightened crab. Except, Jack was slow and his head was fuzzy unlike Kev who was very fast, and unbeknownst to Jack, a close friend of violence. Quicker than Jack could process, Kev was on top of him. Punching and punching and punching. There was screaming too, but not from Jack. He didn’t have the lungs for it; all of the air had quickly been knocked out of him.

Jack felt his consciousness and anger drain from his body as it also drained from Kev’s much too late for it to mean anything. Ten long seconds later, Kev was panting over Jack’s bloodied lifeless body. It turns out the mahogany goddess’ fear was her own, and it was for Jack. There was no one else who knew Kev’s anger more deeply than she did.


In the autumn, a carnival came to our town and set up in a field on the outskirts. The field had cows grazing that year and they’d been fenced into the back corner to make room for the rides and games and stalls selling sweet and savoury treats.         I agreed to take my little brother along. We were both slightly surprised that neither of our parents had insisted on coming along to keep an eye on him.         We went on all of the rides at least once and we ate overpriced, unhealthy food. At the top of the Ferris wheel, he told me he could see our house, pointing in the general direction we lived in. I pretended he could and asked him to show me again. We laughed our way through the House of Horrors and my brother kept wanting to karate kick the skeletons and zombies as they popped up.         As we left the House of Horrors, I saw some girls from my class, smoking by the side of the helter skelter. More accurately, they saw me. They shouted my name and waved. I felt shy, being there as a babysitter, but my brother didn’t and he shouted back and waved to them happily, so we went over.         They all said my brother was cute, which he loved, but pretended to be shy, knowing that they’d ruffle his hair and hug him. Jenny Beahrs said she wanted to buy him some candy floss and I said fine while I talked to the others and Hannah Ford offered me her cigarette, but I told her I was trying to give up, even though I’d only ever tried one once. She asked me if I’d been on the tilt-a-whirl yet, and when I said no, my brother’s too small, she took me by the hand and told me to go on it with her. I wasn’t about to say no.         After the ride, the girls met us at the bottom and wanted to go on the bumper cars. I looked around for my brother, but he wasn’t there. Jenny said he’d been there a moment ago, and then she laughed and said he’d probably gone off with a girl.         I spent the next twenty or thirty minutes running around the place calling my brothers name. Hannah came with me and the other girls said they’d check in a different direction, but when we saw them again, they were riding the carousel. I was furious but Hannah said to forget it, and maybe we should find a policeman or security or something, but after we walked around for a while, we couldn’t find them either.         We went out into the car park and trudged through the churned up mud looking between cars and calling for him. We even walked out onto the road, but Hannah said there was no way he’d have gone that far.         When we went back in, we found him almost straight away. He was at a shooting game next to the tilt-a-whirl, where he told us he’d been since he came back from getting candy floss with “that girl,” as he referred to Jenny.         He seemed totally perplexed by the near hysteria I was in at this point. His biggest concern was that he hadn’t managed to win anything yet. Hannah gave him a big hug and told him he had to come and ride in a bumper car with her.         “What about my brother?” he asked.         “He has to go in one on his own,” she said. “So we can bump him.”         “Ok,” he told her. “But I want to steer.”         “We take turns,” she said.         My brother thought about this for a fee moments, scratching his head, which he’d started to do recently to show he was giving serious thought. “Ok,” he said. After the bumper cars, I bought us all hot dogs and drinks. I paid for everything because my brother had spent all of his money on the shooting game. I told him the games were all fixed, but he kept on wanting to play them and saying he would win. He was so determined. Besides, he knew that with Hannah there he could take advantage of me wanting to look like a good big brother, so he asked me to pay for his games again and again, or even asked me to play them for him. Some of the times I said no, and others I did what he asked and the look of joy on his face whenever he was lost in the game was worth it, I guess. And then it happened, and he actually managed to win something for throwing rubber balls into buckets. Hannah hugged him and kissed his cheek, but he pushed her away. “Hey,” he said, wiping his face, then he pointed excitedly, bouncing on his feet and reaching with his pointing finger for a large black bear wearing a bright red t-shirt with an eagle on it.         The bear was nearly as large as my brother. Seriously. He struggled to carry it, so I offered to take it for him, but he was having none of it. He wanted to carry it himself. It suited me fine, I’d done enough, I felt, in paying more than the bear was worth anyway in goes on various games. By the time we left, we’d missed the last bus home. The bus that went our way didn’t run very late, but it was still later than my brother was supposed to be out. I’d lost track of time and I’d have to explain that when we got back.         Hannah was staying because the girls were all getting picked up together later, so we said goodbye in the entranceway and she gave me a hug and said she’d see me on Monday.         “Great,” I said, and then I didn’t say anything else.         I just stood there, feeling awkward, and then I lifted my hand in a little wave and turned away.         “You didn’t even kiss her,” my brother said as we walked through the car park.         “Shut up,” I told him.         “I got a kiss.”         “Shut up.”         “Maybe she likes me better than you.”         “Maybe I could sell you to one of the stalls.”         “What would you tell mum and dad?” he asked.         “I don’t know,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. They’d forget you soon enough.”         “Would not.”         “Would too,” I told him. “They forgot Jimmy quickly enough.”         “That’s not funny,” he said and stopped walking and stamped his foot. Jimmy was an imaginary brother I’d made up to tease him with. Jimmy was younger than me and older than him and he’d been annoying, so mum and dad had sold him to buy me a bike because they loved me so much. Then he’d been born as an experiment.         He’d believed me for a while when he was a bit younger. I would maybe even have done lasting psychological damage if mum and dad hadn’t found out and told him it wasn’t true. I’d been banned, in no uncertain terms, from talking about Jimmy.         I still brought him up from time to time though.         It was out thing.

I put my arm around my brother’s shoulder and walked with him to the end of the car park. We stood there and looked back at the carnival. I looked to see Hannah, but there was no chance. We stepped into the road and looked down it towards the lights of the town. “Come on, ladies man,” I said, and we started the walk back, my brother tottering slightly, slowed by the effort as he held tightly to his bear. I offered again to take it but he, once again, declined.         We didn’t talk much as we walked. After a while, around the time we moved onto pavement for the first time, I noticed that my brother was walking faster, coping more easily with the bear. The night on the outskirts of town had that dark yet dully lit feel to it, like a dying torch, and my brother started to look sleepy with his drooping eyes and lazy grin.         When we got as far as the churchyard, I thought to offer again to carry the bear, but by now it was tucked comfortably in the crook of his arm. I asked him if he knew his bear was shrinking. “Gideon,” he said.         “What?” I asked him.         “The bear. It’s called Gideon.”         “Ok,” I said to him. “But did you know he’s shrinking?”         My brother stopped walking for a moment and looked down at the bear he held. “I think he’s just tired,” he said in a yawny voice with a slow flapping wave of his free arm.         By the time we got to the end of our street, he could fit the bear in his pocket. He did so and carried it with the head poking out the top, making him walk with a slight limp.         When we finally reached home, I apologized to our parents for bringing my brother home late. They didn’t mind though. They told us it was ok, as long as we didn’t think we could do it all the time. They took us into the kitchen, where the lights were bright and dazzled us, and they asked about what we’d done that night. My brother, tired as he was, found a new, wide-eyed lease of life telling them stories of Ferris wheels, bumper cars, and deep fried food. He didn’t tell them about getting lost because I’d made him promise not to, and promised to take him to the cinema the following weekend. When he started talking about the games he’d been playing and reached into his pocket to show off his prize, his fingers came out holding black and red lint.


I killed someone today. I cannot recall ever shooting someone with intention to kill. It must have been the last war, but my memory of those days has been blurry. I am certain of having fired quite a few shots since; some bullets, such as those of my neighbor’s wedding, carried a joy that flew up into the clouds alongside a swarm of accompanying bullets, elevated evermore by the force of our dances, chants, and drummed melodies. Other bullets were pushed forward by my fear, but with the intention to instill that same fear in the enemy. Not to kill. Today, I wanted to kill someone. I did not have to. I wanted to.

After returning from two years of being stationed in the desert, one can only imagine what it felt like to be home. On my land and the land of my ancient ancestors. Where the water flowed so seamlessly, and the greenery emerged to claim its place, and the crops appeared to thank us farmers for treating them well. Life flowed as smoothly as our blue waters. And when I returned, the land welcomed me every morning as affectionately and soothingly as my mother’s blessed hands. For she expressed her love through that of the land and its waters. The warm meals she cooked for me, the flowers she plucked to symbolize my spirit, the clementine tree she named after my sweetness; it was from our land that her motherly love came. When the water stopped flowing, so did her love. It began a year after my return. The water slowly became shorter. First at the knees as it always had been, it made its way down to the calves. The stream’s force, once like the cannon’s, was withering to that of a common exhale. It was not long before the upright greenery that once beamed with confidence began to crouch, with each leaf and piece of grass begging to lean on the one beside it. The tree that once bore my name now bore nothing other than shriveled fruit.

For months, the mystery of the vanishing waters remained unsolved. Some blamed witchcraft, others God’s wrath for any selection of sins. The innocents with questionable reputations were blamed, scorned, and shunned. Communal animosity grew where the blossoming flower petals once welcomed all so warmly. Soon, word traveled to us with the winds of inquisitive fury and the mystery was solved.

It was a neighboring land that had decided to block the water’s flow. A large, nearly indestructible wall had been placed in the stream’s way. The thought was unfathomable. Locking up our waters in a cage like a criminal. Yet, there was nothing to be done as the decision to take action laid not with us, but with those in the North. Those whom our land’s waters fed. Shortly before our lands grew thirsty, we had supplied the North with more than they could need. As a consequence, the urgency only traveled to them much later. By then, our community had begun warring over the leftover crops.

Thieves always existed. Always have and always will. Thieves in our parts cannot be blamed for thieving, as it is a circumstance that forces their hands and fingers to grow longer. Not gluttonous greed like that of the ones who have stolen our water’s freedom. Thus, the bullets targeted at our thieves, as mentioned, only served to instill the fear of loss they had planted in us with their presence. But, when our circumstances dragged us down to those of thieves, the bullets redirected.

When my father, God rest his soul, taught me how to shoot, he said to me, “the bullet mustn’t be given a voice except for the one your finger grants it; for only a desperate man’s bullet can whisper in his ear.”

I was indeed desperate. The whispers never left my ear as the gun never left my hand. The urge to kill grew. It was an urge I had lacked even in the war, for there, it was likewise the circumstance that drove me to kill. I had to. I did not want to. Now, as a desperate man with a desperate mother whose love has evaporated with our last drops of water, I shoot with a desire to kill and scavenge. I do as the bullet asks.

More news came our way. The North had decided to retaliate and free the waters from their dungeon. My mother urged me to join the fight and I did so gladly. But, I, along with my neighbors, had grown weak over the past months. My body shriveled like the fruit of our late tree.

In a matter of days I was on the frontline. I stood there with my gun aimed at my enemy. I could remember from the last war that here, on the battlefield, I was nothing more than my enemy’s enemy. To each other, that is all we should be. They had greedily taken our watery lifeline.

The bullet’s whisper filled my ears. My enemy was in sight. His body, like mine, was frail and scrawny; his eyebrows tied to each other by the ropes of focus and anger. As I cocked the gun and narrowed my vision along with my wrath onto the opponent, I shifted the barrel to the level of his tightened eyebrows. Before the whisper could pull the trigger, my eyes could not help glancing at those of the life I was moments away from meditatively taking. But, his eyes said something louder than the bullet’s whisper. They drooled with desperation. They repeatedly announced that he stood here, before the barrel of my gun and at the disposal of his bullet’s whisper, out of circumstance. He, like our thieves, like myself, stole because he has to. Not because he wants to. If only the bullets could be aimed at the circumstance.

The whisper regained control and pulled the trigger on my finger’s behalf. I have killed a man. Not because I wanted to. Nor because I had to. I am not sure why. The bullet told me to.