 -The Cutter’s Inn, 1844 Winter trees reach with long dark fingers into an unresponsive sky as the figure strikes the match, eagerly bringing the hungry flame to the paper’s edge. Clouds mask the moon as they did a year ago and no reflection from the inky waters mirrors the man’s face, shaggy brows knitted in fervid concentration. He is alone, only thoughts and fears for company. The canal carves its quiet way through the night, secrets flowing through each of the 105 locks, linking this backwater to the smog and skulduggery of London. The paper catches and the tongue of flame curls upwards, words scorched with a sigh from the page. Rain begins to fall, scoring the smooth water’s surface as if each drop is boring deep, searching the waters for something. Nothing to be found here, he thinks, tossing the burning paper, white ribboning to black, into the darkened waters below. Anything that can sink will, sucked down into the canal and that paper will drown in its drink quicker than one of the rotten-toothed revellers in the inn behind him. Every year he completes this odd convention, told to none, barely acknowledged by himself: the annual list of regrets, written, just to be consigned to ash in a watery grave. He turns his back; it is only rain upon his face as he passes the canal boats moored there. Hurrying to the welcoming light cast from the only building on the towpath: The Cutter Inn, a guard tower with windows for watchful eyes, he briefly acknowledges there’s an unusual number of barges for this time of year, trade normally ceases for the holidays. But there’s no time to stop and ponder the reason; the tavern’s door is flung open, a drunk staggers out and, as the man retches and curses, he can take the chance to slip in. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ All eyes in The Cutter’s Inn turn from their pints to look at the stranger, shaking himself like a wet dog on their threshold. With a determined tread, he paces to the roaring fire, hangs his dripping cloak on a peg as if he’s been there many a time before and this hook is his own. Standing, steaming slightly in the heat cast from the grate, he surveys the pub and its occupants. Years of spilt beer has stained the sawdust on the floor an unsavoury brown; oil lamps reeking of kerosene choke the air and, at the bar, the dark brows of the landlord knit above his surveying eyes, pulling a pint of ale, his large hands used to the slow rhythmic pull down and down again at the pump, his gaze never leaving the stranger’s face. This is a place that has seen better days. Haulage by waterway isn’t what it was: the new railway, like an uncoiled snake, rattles and hisses in its cloak of steam into the future, leaving the sauntering canal boats in its wake. And the Cutter Inn, serving the last of the canal traders- dogged souls bound to their canal, boats and horses with chains no upstart railway can sever- are the last to remain, raising a glass as the old year gasps its last.

“A pint of your best,” the young man says, wiping the rain up from his brow through his hair in a way that might have spelled trouble had any women been present, “and a jar for each man here,” he adds, placing a fat leather purse on the counter to signal the means with which he will extend this hand of bounty. Loosened by free drink, tongues which might have snapped with opprobrium, scorn at the stranger’s decision to grace them with his presence tonight of all nights, are softened. Talk turns to the year: offerings- gladly received; kicks- deflected or at worst endured. Bert, skipper of the Kingfisher of Avon, is the first to wheeze his reflections through yellow teeth jutting from angry red gums. “I remember the pies: thick crust and thicker gravy; big chunks of steak and kidney, generous to the last was old Fran. Many a night, when the horse stopped and I needed to give him a lick about the haunches to get him and me on our way, it was only the thought of old Fran and her pies that kept me going.” The others murmur their assent and the landlord, still delivering the free ale to each table, slams the pint down in front of old Bert. Beer sloshes over the sides, running in rivulets before dripping into the sawdust below. If Bert was about to ask if anyone knows whatever happened to the Inn’s cook, the hovering figure is enough to halt his tongue and he chooses to take a hearty drink of the ale instead. “To your good health Colin, may your year be a prosperous one!” Another man, ten years younger than Bert but with no more teeth in his mouth, wishes the landlord. The exclamation which shoots from the dark-browed publican’s mouth could be interpreted in many ways; none of them suggest polite agreement. He makes his way back to the bar, wiping his large hands on the apron tied about his waist before thrusting the last ale at the stranger, still standing at the bar, waiting. If the others dare not freely state their minds, even on a night of supposed reckless celebration, the stranger knows no such restraint. He takes a long pull at his pint, wiping the froth on the back of his hand in a somewhat rakish manner; Colin scowls his disapproval. “So, there is little to celebrate in these parts?” The stranger enquires, surveying the down-on-its-luck establishment, where poverty rather than prosperity seems the only thing on tap. Bert, obviously the resident blather mouth, starts up again, giddy with freedom now that Colin the publican is back behind his bar. “Well, we’re like the last men standing.” He lets out a misplaced laugh, indicating with a weathered hand the rest of the Cutter’s motley crew, who nod in agreement. “And every year the railway takes more and more; first it were our best, now it just takes any. Many a young man has left these parts to feed the coal-guzzling monster.” The stranger must look blank, for Bert explains: “That’s what the likes of us call that new-fangled train.” The stranger sips his beer thoughtfully. “And why are they so keen to leave do you think?” “Fed up with trawling the canals at an old nag’s pace, no doubt!” Bert exclaims, sloshing his drink this time himself. “In all types of weather, you’ll find us out on the canal; the only comfort’s a pint in a place like the Cutter at the end of a hard n’ cold day of haulage.” “There certainly seems to be little other comfort on offer, that is for sure,” says the man, eyeing the room appraisingly. “Where are all the womenfolk; do none of you have wives if mistresses are not permitted?” He laughs confidently and if one or two men join him, they quickly fall silent as Colin wheels a finished barrel of beer to a hatch, before sending it crashing into the darkness below. All jump although the noise must be hardly new to any of them. He turns, red-faced and sweating from the exertion back to face the unwanted guest, and his torso and shoulders thrust in a T shape that would spell terror to many a man; the stranger, however, only takes another long expectant pull on his beer. “You’re not from around these parts.” It is not a question and the visitor neither concurs or disagrees. “If you were, you’d have heard about the events of a year ago, that which sent our womenfolk scattering like lambs.” An expectant hush fills the silence, broken only by the occasional snap of a breaking log in the hearth or the hiss of damp air expiring. “We never found the perpetrator, but this time last year there was a wolf in our midst in the shape of a young handsome man; stole a lamb as surely as I’m standing here: my daughter, Beth.” The stranger shifts his weight in his heavy boots for the first time in what might be discomfort. If he is discomposed, the publican is not. “We searched for hours in the canal out yonder. Searched, till the feeling had gone. Bodies plunging in those freezing waters, looking and looking, every limb turning to ice; but not the heart. It would take more than the canal to cool that. It beats even now, hot and fast. Do you know what for? Justice.” “You never found her then, your daughter?” The stranger asks, failing to offer commiserations of any sort. “What does it look like?” Spits the publican, waving at the men staring fixedly into the narrow circles of the glasses they are cradling. “Do you see her? See any womenfolk about here? No, because there aren’t any. Her death scared them off as surely as if they’d seen a wolf rip her throat out.” Old Bert starts a strange keening sort of a sound and the other man with the gummy mouth helps him up from the table. “Night one and all. Night Colin.” He says, tipping his flat cap at the publican. “Think this is one New Year’s Day I’ll be seeing in from my bed. ‘Till the next jar at the end of another hard day’s haulage.” He says, picking up his coat and Bert’s; they both shuffle to the door and leave. Others quickly follow in their wake, perhaps genuinely exhausted, perhaps hopeful of seeing in the New Year in a place with a modicum more of frivolity rather than death about it. Soon, the publican is alone with his unwanted guest, fifteen minutes before he customarily rings the last order bell to see in the New Year. The publican moves from table to table, ignoring the visitor, tipping the dregs of the drink into the sawdust, stacking the empty glasses one inside the other. He makes his rounds from table to table, ignoring the man, never offering him another drink. “I think I’ll wash these tomorrow and turn in myself for the night. Little point staying up; I’ve seen in enough New Years to know this one is going to come bringing only flaming misfortune in her hands: more trains on more tracks, no doubt, luring my customers away.” He begins to collect the lamps from each table, lowering the wicks until the flames gutter and die. Shadows mass and the only light is cast by embers and the one remaining lamp in the publican’s hand. “Leave it,” the stranger says, turning away from the fire, unfolding something in his hand. “We’ll be needing the light to read this.” He shakes out a piece of paper which he has taken from his coat. The bottom third is charred, and it looks like it has only recently dried from quite a soaking, but even in the flickering half-light it is possible to make out words, etched like tombstone memorials on the paper’s blackened side. “Where did you get that from?" Colin rasps, staring with obvious recognition at the tattered sheet like it were a ghost rising ragged but indomitable from its grave. The stranger sits at the table closest to the hearth and takes the oil lamp from the publican’s quivering hand. “To answer that, I will have to tell you why I’m here. And when my tale is told, I think it will shed more than a little light on your own.” Colin slumps into the chair opposite him, his face fixed into a mask of dread by the dying light of the fire. “Go on then,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “Earlier today I made my way back to this place, The Cutter’s Inn. I’d spent the last twelve months vowing never to come here again. But these last weeks, I’ve heard her voice just as clearly as you have.” Colin shifts, a man at sea, in his chair. “Up through the waters it’s come. The locks can’t stop it, can’t hold back her beautiful voice. At the Thames it’s the loudest, but even far from the river I hear it still. And to answer Beth’s voice, I came.” “Why?” The question sounds like it’s squeezed past hands which strangle. “To throw myself in after her, why else?” The stranger looks to the publican with a blaze in his eyes; a desperate fire more than enough to tip a handsome and healthy man in the prime of his life into premature death. “Surely you know who I am Colin?” He doesn’t wait for a response, his tale careering forward with a full head of steam. “You knew of me, don’t pretend you didn’t: the railway man, posted to this backwater to recruit young men to the company. You heard Beth speak of the life she wanted to live in London, a life of finery: balls and gowns, on the arm of her dashing young entrepreneur- me. For yes, I won her heart surely as I won the admiration of the menfolk hereabout.” “No more,” it is a gasp which the momentum of his story rips straight through. “We planned our escape in secret of course; she knew you, and your moribund antique ways, would never permit her to go. We were to meet, this very night a year ago: to embark together on our new life; to take the canal boat one last time which I chartered just for this purpose. Slowly, stealthily but surely, it was to bear her away, from you to me.” “No- “but the young man is relentless, his tale now at full steam. “But, when I went to the stable to tack the horse which was to tow the boat to this Inn and smuggle her away, I found it lame. I cursed my failure to foresee this possibility; the horse was useless to me and I set out, on foot.” The only response is a groan. “As I neared the spot for our arranged meeting, I realised immediately I was too late. I heard two voices raised, hers and one I know now to be yours. I won’t trouble you with the words; you know your response to her pleas. There was a more awful sound than her cries: a blow, then a splash; the roar of my heart stopping for a second.” The publican’s head has dropped onto his neck, but his chin is forced up with a jerk; eyes spark at his. “You talk of the icy plunge, searching the canal; I saw only your retreating back. It was me, tearing into the water to save her. And yes, there is a chill to that water; and yes, the passion in a wronged heart never cools.” “ You wronged me ,” the publican thumps his chest before making a grab for the suitor who rams the table top into his ribs, pinning him fast. The publican’s breath comes in heaving gasps. “If she met her end that night, the hand that killed her was more yours than mine; the hand that lured her away from where she belonged: here, with me!” “I knew that was the tale you’d tell. And yes, I overheard your sob story the next day: how your darling daughter had slipped in a fit of passion from the towpath, half-deranged with love, following a foolish fancy all the way to London, only to miss her footing on the icy path. I listened, always knowing it would be your word against mine, and I knew no one would dare dispute yours: the grieving father pitted against the wolfish young man. But now I have this to add weight to my words. Fortune has favoured me at last, casting this into the water right before the canal boat window where I was waiting." He brandishes the paper in one hand, the lamp in the other, angling its light to illume the words in the gathering dark. New Year’s Resolutions, Colin Dredge- 1844 As a year of regret passes, I commit to flame only the recollection of a moment’s sin and 12 months of purgatory thereafter. That moment: New Year’s Eve 1843. Beth: I wished to stop you, to stay your flight. I didn’t mean for yours to be a watery grave, my hand the one that sent you there. Read this child and be at peace. Desist from wailing at my door, shaking your wet skirts on my hearth, staining my heart with guilt and shame. Be at rest child; for without your hauntings, I will toss and turn: damned on earth till I be damned in the ground, joining you as this does, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. “Weight to your words- never!” Cries the publican, desperately flinging back the table and lunging for the paper, but the young man is too quick for him. In three long strides he is at the bar, reaching up, ringing the bell for last orders. Back and forth, hand grasping the thread-worn rope cord, beating the iron ringer against the old brass bell, summoning the waiting police to the Cutter’s Inn. As Colin Dredge is handcuffed and led away, the sweetest bells echo across the midnight sky. They are ringing in a New Year; one stepping in skirts, waterlogged and heavy, but with a head held high, for justice has been summoned and served at last.


It didn’t feel like I slept long, but when I began to stir and one my eyes I felt way better. I was a little stiff from the way I slept in the car, but I no longer felt groggy, tired, dizzy, or confused. In fact, I felt just like myself, and felt well rested. I began to stretch bringing my hands above my head. Then I looked over at him, and smiled. He smiled back before turning his head back to the road, “Hello sleepy head. Feeling better?”

“That really did the trick. I feel much better.” I looked out the windshield at the dark sky, “How long was I out? Feels like I slept for awhile.” Then I looked at the time on the car’s clock, and I threw my arms down shocked, “What!? It’s 2:00!” I looked at him alarmed, and then outside again. We were going down a winding road that was surrounded by trees. I know I didn’t really know the roads around here, but I definitely didn’t know where we were now. Then I looked back at him. “Why did you keep driving? Where are we?” I tried to ask the questions calm, and not accusing, but it was hard too when I realized I had been in this car for almost two hours with him.

He just looked forward out the window, and gave a little shrug. “I’ve just been driving around. Seeing where the road would take us. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you.” He gave me a quick smile, “Don’t worry if we get lost I’ll just put the GPS on.”

I still looked at him shocked, and starting to feel a little annoyed, “Well turn around now. I want to go back. And it better not take us two hours to get back, because I actually have stuff I need to do.”

He still had a trace of a smile on his face as he continued to look forward, and his voice was calm. “Alright, relax. We can go back. I just have to find a good spot to turn around.”

I settled back down, and then leaned back in the seat. I could of easily drifted back to sleep, but I didn’t trust that he would take us back if I did. So instead I just crossed my arms and watched the road. We were going down it for awhile in the quiet, and I was beginning to wonder when he would turn around. I really wanted to get to bed at a decent hour, so I could still white water raft with Stewart, Tessa, and Bella. But the longer it took to turn around, the less I felt like I would get to do it. But I tried to calm myself, telling myself it would be ok. And it was working, until I saw a sign with an exit’s name on it, and I realized just how far away we where from the hotel. And suddenly I started to feel uncomfortable. I pointed at the sign, “Why did you head this way? It will be forever before we are back!”

He was quiet for a moment, and then glanced at me. I could see his jaw line a little tense. “Like I said, I was just taking us where the road would take us.”

I watched his face for a moment, and spoke with a clear stern voice. “This isn’t just seeing where the road will take us. This is going to take us to a different state completely. You have any idea how long it will take to get us back?” I pointed at the exit that we were about to pass, “You better slow down, and take that exit so we can turn around.” But he didn’t he kept going. I turn fast in my seat watching the exit leave us behind. Then I looked at him mad this time, “What are you doing? You missed a turn around. Who knows when the next one will be!”

He didn’t reply right away. Not looking at me he replied, “We will find another.” And I could see his face fighting to stay as calm as it was.

I sighed, and collapsed back in my seat, “Fine. Then I am going to just pull up directions for us. Ones that will get us back to the hotel fastest.” And I dug in my purse for my phone, and mid search I froze. That’s when I remembered why we had ended up in his car at all. We were looking for my phone in my car, except we never actually looked. So now here I was in his car with him with no phone. I spoke quietly out loud, “My phone…we never found it.”

He didn’t look at me, but he replied. “Don’t worry. It’s probably in your car.”

I couldn’t look at him. I could only look at my open purse, which now felt so empty. “But we never even looked for it.”

He didn’t reply to that, and I started to think about how he had gotten me to get in his car without even looking first. But it was kind of a foggy memory. It was kind of like trying to recall a dream. I remember the resturant. I remember being in his room with him. I remember being in his bed with him. I even remember leaving his room with him, but everything after the elevator was fuzzy. And I could feel my pulse starting to pickk up. Three drinks that spaced out would not have had that kind of effect on me. It had to be something else. I had been tired before, but I always remembered what I did when I was tired. And my anxiety started to build when I thought about the beer he offered me, and how that’s when it went down hill. Could he have put something in it? Did he drug me? Did he want me to get in his car with him? Was he really taking me somewhere? And then my heart froze as I remember one last detail.

He had said my name right before I fell asleep. We oddly enough, had never told each other our names. Even though I know I didn’t remember a lot, I know I never told him. Clenching my purse so tight that my knuckles went white I looked up at him. My voice felt hollow, “How do you know my name?”

Even though I could only see his profile I could tell he was confused. His eyebrow raised, “What?”

I repeated myself, “How do you know my name? You said it right before I fell asleep in the car. I never told you my name.”

Then he looked amused, “What? You definitely told me your name.” Then he shot me a smug smile really quick, “What girl would go to bed with me, without even letting me know her name.”

I wasn’t amused. This wasn’t a game to me, and I didn’t like how he was acting like it was. “Apparently a stupid one. And that is what I must be.” And I knew there would be no coming back from the next thing I was going to ask him. “What did you put in that beer you gave me, and where are you taking me?”

I got exactly the response I knew I would. He looked at me bewildered, before turning his attention back to the road, “What!” Then he sound annoyed, “Are you honestly accusing me of what I think you are?” Then he calmed down, and steadied his voice. “Look I like you. When we started talking there was a connection. I took you out to dinner cause I like you, and wanted to treat you. We had a great night together. And then I thought it would be nice to go for a ride with you. I was a gentlemen to you. Never once forced you to do anything you didn’t want to. And now you are accusing me of, what? Date rape? Kidnapping?” He looked at me with pure disappointment.

Part of me wanted to feel bad. Part of me wanted to believe him. But the part of me that was confused, and scared knew better. So I kept my own voice even. “How to you explain how I felt so off after that beer? How do you explain never checking for my phone in my car? How do you explain me losing my phone and hotel key, which I know was in my purse. How do you explain how I got in here so easily, and you are driving us far away?”

He wouldn’t look at me again, but his grip on the steering wheel was tight. “You had two drinks earlier. I don’t know how much a light weight you are. But I didn’t put anything in there. I don’t know how you lost both those items, and honestly I could tell you didn’t feel well so that why I offered the drive. At the time making you feel better seemed more important, than your phone. I’m sorry for caring.” Then she looked at me, and held my eyes long enough to make me almost believe him, before he looked back to the road.

All I knew now was that I had to get out of this car. “Let me out.” I said it without looking at him.

“What?” He glanced at me quickly. “Let you out? It’s the middle of the night, in the middle of no where, and you have no phone. What exactly do you plan to do?”

I kept my voice level, “I’ll borrow your phone and call a taxi, or get an Uber. I just know I don’t want to be in here with you.”

He sighed, “That is ridiculous. I am not dropping you off on the highway at night by yourself, with no way to contact anyone if you get into trouble.”

I raised an eyebrow at him, “Ok then. You can wait with me until my ride gets here, so I won’t be alone.”

He shook his head, “I’m not doing that. I’ll just drive you back. It is safer.” I could hear a strain in his voice.

I held firm, “Well, I don’t feel safe. So let me go. Otherwise you are kidnapping me."

He was quiet for a few seconds, “Fine, I will get off at this next exit. That way we aren’t standing on the highway.”

I crossed my arms, and nodded “Good.”

Once we were off the exit he started to slow down, but he wasn’t pulling over. We passed at least two small roads that would have been good to pull over at, and one gas station. I started to get antsy, “Why aren’t you pulling over?”

He gave off a big sigh, “Cause I can’t.”

I raised an eyebrow, and tried not to panic. “What do you mean you can’t? Where are you taking me?”

He sighed, “I didn’t think when I finally started talking to you that I would like you so much. But I did…so it makes this harder.”

Now it was getting hard to hid my worry, “Make what harder? Where are you taking me? Why are you taking me.” I no longer was calm, “Let me go!”

He seemed conflicted, “I can’t tell you yet. But I can’t let you go either. There’s no turning back now.”

Now I knew I was in trouble. I looked out the window trying to control my breathing. We were going fast, but not that….fast. Without thinking I grabbed the door handle and started to push open the door. Wind came rushing into the car. It was cold and fast. I could see the dark road speeding by through the ajar door. Fear enveloped me as I thought of the odds of survival if I jumped out. My hand went numb on the door, as I tried to keep it from swinging any wider open.

“What the hell?!” He said as he looked over, and he swerved for a second before getting control again. The jerk of the swerve sent the door closing, and I let go of it shocked. “What were you thinking? You can’t jump out of a moving car like that. You could die!”

Dazed I looked back at him, “How do I know I won’t die staying with you?” My tone was remarkably calm for how I felt.

He lowered his eye brows, “I’m not going to kill you. I’m not a murderer. That’s not how I plan to get back at your dad.”

The last part he said caught my attention, and I saw his surprised face showing that he didn’t mean to say that. Before he could say anything I asked, “What does my dad have to do with this?”

He looked away focusing on the road again, “I can’t tell you right now. You can know everything once we get there.” He looked over at me, and had a surprising warmness in his eyes. “I promise.”

I felt a pit in my stomach, and gripped my purse tighter in my lap. “Where. Are. You. Taking. Me.”

He actually looked sorry, “I can’t tell you yet.”

Then he slowed down as he was driving around some debris on the road. Instead of asking him why, that was when I got my idea. I had to get out of this car, and we were going just slow enough that if we got of the road, and hit something I could be ok. And if anything, I would be just as bad off as I could possibly be later. So I took my chance, leaned over toward him, grabbed the wheel, and pulled as hard as I could.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I heard him shout in a strained voice, as he fought to steady the wheel. I felt him pressing the brakes on the car as we jerked off the road into the grass. And then we went right toward a tree.

I watched in stunned silence as I death gripped the wheel, holding it in place. I watched as the car went straight to the tree, and the right front corner of the car hit it. The car came to a sudden stop, I released the wheel and jerked toward the left. That was when I hit my head and shoulder into the side of the door hard. The windshield cracked, the hood curled up, and the airbags came out. I shut my eyes as I tried to catch my breath. My chest hurt from the impact, and immediately my head was throbbing. I opened my eyes to see the air bag deflated, and smoke coming out of the engine. He was slouched in his seat was his arms in his lap. He looked dazed, but remarkably fine expect a few nicks on his face and arms from broken glass.

He looked over at me slowly, “What was that?”

Before I could respond, or think of anything else I undid my seat buckle, fought the door open, and started to get out.

“Wait, what are you doing?” I heard him call out to me.

But before I could even check to see what he was doing I started to sprint into the woods. With one thing on my mind. GET AWAY FROM HIM!


There is a chest shoved beneath my bed that is filled with memories; scribbled crayon drawings done with smaller, clumsier hands, old assignments marked with now-peeling star stickers, even a handful of essays kept because, in my mother's words: "Throwing them away after all that hard work would be kind of a waste, wouldn't it?"

I am visiting home for the first time since leaving for college when I decide to heave the chest out from its hiding place. The first thing I notice when I am actually looking at it is that it is far smaller than I remember it being. Once upon a time, I'd been able to lay down inside of it, not quite tall enough for my toes to touch the end, but now, I am quite certain that attempting that particular trick would end in nothing but embarrassment and a cramp in my legs. In that moment, I am struck with the realization that I don't just miss being small--I miss her , that version of me still wrapped in the warmth of childhood, entirely comfortable in her naivety. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat, adamant that I will not start crying before the chest is even open. I scoot closer on my knees, pushing the lid open with slightly trembling hands. There, right on top, lays Sunshine. Sunshine is a pink-and-white stuffed tiger. The friend who had gifted her to me all those birthdays ago had faded into the back of my mind, but one look at Sunshine, with her mismatched eyes and pink patches so sun-bleached they might as well be white, and a name rises in my head: Faye. Faye, my best friend from kindergarten all the way through third grade, when she had moved away. Faye, who had once beaten a kid up for daring to insult me. Faye, who always seemed so much older than she really was, already world-weary at the ripe old age of nine. My eyes begin to burn with the threat of tears. I scoop Sunshine up, pressing my nose into her side and inhaling the barely there scent of strawberries. Of course. Of course Faye, more tuned into the people around her as a nine-year-old than I am even now, would find me a gift so perfect. I am so overwhelmed with love and appreciation for a girl I haven't seen since before I hit double digits that my throat constricts and the tears begin in earnest, spilling down my cheeks and leaving damp spots in Sunshine's fur.

I'm sure that anyone who happened to peer into my room just then would be thoroughly confused by the grown woman sobbing like someone has just died, clutching a stuffed animal like a lifeline. It feels like hours before the tears finally begin to slow, leaving me with a congested nose and tear-streaked cheeks. Suddenly exhausted, I flop backward onto the carpet, still holding Sunshine to my chest. I can't help but laugh a little at myself--the biggest meltdown I've had since I was a kid, and it was over hazy memories of a girl who might not even remember my name. I miss her, as silly as it is to miss someone when you haven't thought them about in years. I miss sitting on my porch, fingers sticky with melted popsicles and shoulders pressed together despite the heat. I miss sleepovers, trying to stay awake through a movie only to look over and see her drooling into her popcorn. More than any of that, though, I miss the quiet moments we would spend together, just sitting and enjoying each other's company.

I eventually remember the chest, sitting up with a sigh as Sunshine slips from my chest and down into my lap. I pull things out one by one until I come across something that threatens to make the tears start up all over again: a picture of me and Faye, protected by a bright yellow frame. I have my arm slung across her shoulder, our cheeks pressed together as we flash matching grins at the camera, both of us missing one of our front teeth. I pry the frame open carefully, sliding the picture out to read the text on the back: "What a pair! Faye and Naomi, June 16th, 2013." I smile despite the renewed burning in my eyes, tucking the picture neatly back into its home. The rest of my visit home passes quickly, and, before I know it, I am standing outside my car, nearly ready to head back to school. My mother stands in front of me, clutching my hands. "It was so nice to spend some time together," she says, her voice quivering like she thinks she'll never see me again. She presses a gentle kiss to my temple, lingering there for a while before she finally pulls away and bids me a rather tearful goodbye.  I arrive back at school two items heavier than when I left. The front pocket of my backpack bulges with Sunshine's stuffed form, and the picture sits nestled very delicately in a nest of tissue paper that Mom had insisted I needed to "protect such a precious memory." I had rolled my eyes at this at the time, but as I move to place the picture on my desk, I can't help but feel grateful; without her advice, such an old frame might not have survived the hours-long journey. Next comes Sunshine, who I place at the top of my bed, right next to my pillows. I never would have considered having a stuffed animal out in the open like this when I first moved in, but seeing her there, sitting as comfortably in my college-issued bed as she had the one at home, I find myself not caring whether my roommates think it's silly. I lay down in bed and press my nose into Sunshine's fur, my chest warming at the gentle scent of strawberry.

I am not small, anymore. But, as I lay there in bed cuddling a stuffed animal, I think a part of me still is. A part of me is still the little girl who squealed upon unwrapping a pink and white tiger and promptly gave it a name that did not fit at all, and was delighted by the new gap in her smile because it meant her and her best friend were now matching. I will take care of that little girl as long as have to, because, despite my initial annoyance at all the childish thoughts and habits she left behind, I have learned to love her. I love her, and I love me, completely and entirely.


By Alonzriah'a Washington Stubborn as A bull The Cat Family Chapter 1

The Tiny Envelope

“Well you don’t know that for sure until you open it.”

Reese now seemed agitated to look inside the tiny envelope. I was still on the ground. To support her I went over and rubbed between her legs. After going back and forth she finally opened it and read aloud, “ Dear Miss Reese T. Smith, we have gone over your letter of recommendation and the committee must admit, you are very talented and we are also very impressed with your volleyball skills. We would love for you to attend our school and play for our college team. I hope to see you next year at Carter Volleyball College.”

“Oh my gosh, I got in! I got in! I. Got. In!!”

“Congratulations, Reese. We are so proud of you for working so hard toward your goal,” said Mrs. Smith happily.

Now came down the twins, both of which being 7 years, Lucy and Lyra, still in their pajamas, which always smelled like pizza. Chapter 2 Any Other Day The Smiths’ are aware that I go wandering around the city, so the people know me. They say that I am considered a local and very social.

Sometimes, if I go out at the right time, I can even get my paws on some leftover fish! At the sushi restaurant, they are very nice. But besides my little walks and snacks, I like to be in the dark. I would make a little bed for myself, out of old winter clothes from the twins’, and a basket. Sometimes, I let stray pets lay in my bed since there are a lot of them in the main city of San Francisco. Then, I would make more, arranging them all around the city in separation from the Animal Control Service.

Chapter 3

 My Family

After a long day of wandering it was time to go home and have dinner with my humans. The Smiths’ have something different every night, but on friday they make pizza! On the other hand, I have the same thing every night- cat chow mixed with fish and carrots. When I got home, my food dish was prefilled, Mrs. Smith was readying the pizza, Mr. Smith was watching a football game with Riley, the twins were helping set the table and Reese was doing homework upstairs. I immediately bolted to my food bowl. Good as always, when I was done, Mrs. Smith had just gotten the pizza out of the oven, that smelled so appetizing, to me, it was like a freshly baked turkey on a cool evening. Everyone went to the table and the twins helped carry over water, while Mrs. Smith carried the pizza over. And before she even set the pan down they were like wild cats fighting over some dumpster garbage, all of the Smith children started chowing down their pizza not even releasing one gasp to breathe. ¨Thank you, Anne¨ said Mr. Smith sternly looking at everyone. ´´Your welcome, John.´´ ¨Meow¨ I purred.

´´Come on gang, put your food down and thank your mother for this delicious dinner, for god's sake buddy thanked her¨ cried Mr. Smith. They all looked at him.

¨Oh, it is okay at least they didn't lose a finger.¨ said Mrs. Smith. Mr. Smith straightened his tie and sat up. Looked at his wife, and started eating. By the time he was done eating his first slice, the twins had cleaned their plates, Riley was on her last bite, and Reese had not come to dinner yet. Mrs. Smith looked worried that Reese was still not down, taking constant glances at the stairs.

“Mom, you will have to get used to Reese not being at every dinner,” announced Riley, glaring. “I know, but it's going to be so hard letting her go; my first born before I met your father, she was my light to move on in life,'' said Mrs. Smith in a teary voice. Lucy smirked and looked at Lrya, ¨You know mommy, Lyra and I will still be here when everyone goes off to University.¨

“Yep. You won't be that lonely, you´ll still have us to look after, and we could do all the cleaning if you are tired,” said Lrya.

¨Awww, you two are so cute and thoughtful.¨ said Mrs Smith smiling.

¨May I be excused?¨requested Riley bordly. “Sure, but would you mind doing me a favor?” “Yeah but not a big one. I have a date tonight¨ Mr. Smith looked up at Riley. “It isn't big, but could you check on your sister?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Did you save me a slice?”

“No, sorry. We cleared our plates and the twins almost ate dad's slice,” chuckled Riley. “Geez, they can get brutal.” Reese said shuddering. “But why have you been up here all afternoon? Are you rethinking the scholarshipment, because if you are, I could always use it.” “No. Maybe. I mean is volleyball really what I want to commit to for the rest of my life?” Reese said desperately.

“Don’t look at me, in some families I am considered a ‘disappointment’.”

“No...no you're not, you know what you want to be when you grow up, and you know what college, you have semi-good grades, you’re… you. You're prepared, not a ‘disappointment’.” Reese cried. “I guess, but mom and dad do not like that I have a boyfriend that is two years older than me, and they don’t like that I skateboard out in the city park. They think I will get kidnapped or something.” Riley said, “But, are you okay?” “Yes, I am fine.” “Okay, well I am going to go. But if you would like to, go down stairs. That will make mom happy.” “Fine, I will.” “Maybe you two could talk. Mom knows a lot of decent schools in this district.”

Reese and Riley both walked down the stairs mumbling to each other. Then Mrs. Smith came around the corner with her arm’s up in the air like wiggling noodles. “Oh Reese, Reese!. Sweetheart!”

“Hey, mom.” “Oh,Riley, you are a miracle worker, thank you.” Mrs. Smith said squeezing Reese so tight she started turning pink. “Mom, I can’t breathe.” wheezed Reese.

“Oh, sorry, honey” “It’s okay.”

“Okay, well I am going to get going. I will be home around 10,” Riley said, seizing her duffle bag. Riley went out the door, Mr. Smith was watching the rest of the football game, the twins were sleeping in their room, and Mrs. Smith was making Reese her dinner, even though she says she is not hungry. I went to the twins room. Their room was the biggest room in the house, there were two twin beds, a doll house and two chest of drawers at the foot of each bed. They were sleeping and I did not want to bother them so I went into Riley's room. She had a big bed in the corner of her room, a desk, and a bean bag chair and had unclean clothes everywhere. It smelled so bad that I gagged at the stench. Cats do not do that very often! I then went to Reese’s room. Her room is my favorite. It is calm, cozy, and warm. Her bed is also in the corner of her room with a dresser next to it, a desk on the other side of the door, and a TV on the wall facing her bed. I curled up on her pillow and fell asleep.

Chapter 4

Clock work weekends

Like any other weekend, everyone is soundly sleeping until 9:30 am. I get up at 6:30 am everyday. All you can usually hear is Riley snoring like a lawn mower. But on this saturday, as I was getting up from a cozy slumber, I saw Lucy get up. Why is she up this early? I had thought I had never seen her get up this early when I got up. I saw her crawling quietly to the reading room. I too followed, so quietly, you could hear a speck of dust fall. Lucy was in the reading room and on top of a stool, reaching all the way to the top of the book shelf, there was a big book, it was called “The Hunger Games”. That book was supposed to be off limits for the twins, for some reason, I don’t know why? But she grabbed it and slipped a matilda book cover over the book. And she snuck back upstairs. Lucy went back to her bed and read a few pages. Then next thing you know it is 8:50. So she goes back down the stairs like a mouse. Put the book back. And runs sneakily back to her room.

Then like clock work everyone woke up at 9:30. All went downstairs in their cozy, warm pajamas. Everyone had their morning routines and headed off to the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Smith head to the kitchen to make breakfast and get coffee. The twins help their mother make breakfast. Riley was curled up on the silky couch complaining of being cold. And Reese limps sleepily to the front door to get the Saturday newspaper of which is on the glistening green grass, as she yawns her way to the couch chair and falls back slumping trying to read with her squinting eyes.

Chapter 5

A Surprise

10:30 am

Mr. Smith walked into the room looking like he had something to say, he was smiling broadly. Mrs. Smith walked in hiding something behind her back. The Smiths all looked up. So did i.

“So...”, smiled Mr. Smith, “ Well, you all have been really good, so your mom and I scored tickets to a 4 night 5 day trip to… DisneyLand!” Mrs. Smith showed 6 blue tickets. The twins squealed, Riley laughed, and Reese smiled. “We leave today, so get packing!” Mr. Smith cried, they all ran upstairs and I followed. First the twins room. “I am going to pack a jacket, 3 shirts, 2 pairs of sweatpants, 2 pairs of pants, 3 pairs of underwear, 4 pairs of socks, pjs, and 2 dolls and a blanket.” said Lucy. “ I am going to pack the same, but I am going to bring 2 stuffed animals.” said Lyra. Next was Riley. She packed the same amount of clothes as the twins, but she is bringing her drawing notebook . Now, Reese, like all the rest, she packed her clothes, but her item to bring is her book.

Around 11:05 am everything is packed including snacks. All came downstairs hurrying, while I was sunbathing like a king. Lyra came up to me and explained who was going to take care of me, “ You remember Ms.Willard, she will be feeding you and watching you at the house.”

“Oh and she is coming over at 12:30 today.” said Lucy. I always had liked Ms.Willard, she had one kid younger than the twins, Ginny. Ginny is gentle, nice, and quiet. And they lived in a small house one block away from this house.

Chapter 6

Ms. Willard

12:30 pm

I heard the jingle of keys unlocking the green door. Then the squeaky door opens to find a tall, young woman wearing a long floral dress with some sneakers, her hair golden like the sun, and wearing red glasses. Next to Ms. Willard was a small figure, about 5 years old, the little girl was wearing a little lavender skirt, a shirt with a butterfly graphic, hair like her mothers, but in pigtails curling out of blue scrunchies.

Both walked in, little Ginny waddled over to the window, she petted me gently. Ms Willard, glided to the kitchen to find my food bowl, I heard the crackling of the bag, pouring the yumming food in the bright red boal. “Ginny, honey, will you please get Buddy’s water dish?” Ms Willard asked. “Yes, mommy.” Ginny said, pulling her hand away from me. I followed her to the kitchen and sat by the doorway, Ginny put my water dish next to me carefully, I took a small sip. Ms. Willard put down my food dish right where it was before. “Eat up Buddy!” Ginny chuckled. Ms. Willard had picked up Ginny and sat down on the couch. She pulled out a remote and turned the tv on. I did not pay attention from there on until I was done.

I was finished, so I walked over to Ms. Willard and Ginny, Ms. Willard, was chilling on the overly comfy couch, and Ginny was sitting on the floor with her legs facing out playing with a doll. I came over and sat in front of her. I pawed at Ginny, she patted my head with great laughter. Ms. Willard saw us playing and laughed along also. Then the phone rang, that ugly blue phone on the wall rang like a loud car horn. Ms. Willard got up, her dress drifting behind her. She picked up the blue phone and said, “Hello? Smith residents, Ms. April Willard speaking.” I sat by Ms. Willard's leg, she kept going oh, oh no, ok. She hung up and looked at me and ginny. “Well… Buddy is coming home with us. The smiths are stuck in snow, they said it would just be better if Buddy stayed with us!” Ms. Willard said, shaking her head. She had taken Ginny's hand, I knew what to do, I would just walk behind them, it has happened before, but they just stayed at my house.

Chapter 7

The next morning, again I woke up at 6:30 to sunbathe. But I was flabbergasted, I guess I had forgotten that I was at the small willard house. I always sunbathed on the weekend, on the weekdays, even at dawn. I frowned as much a cat could frown. A little later, Ginny came downstairs, but did not notice me. Her eyes were squinting. The beaming sun was too much for Ginny's eyes. She went to the “Oh hello, darling.” one of the faces said. “Hello, April.” the other face said. “I got to go, I love you both. Ginny is going to be so happy.” Ms. Willard said, as she left the house. Once the two figures came in, I could get a closer look. Both looked at each other, and back at the door. I could see better. The two looked like prunes, I do not like prunes, one was wearing a denam, floral dress with the collar down, her hair short and curly white, red pumps on her feet, almost reminding me of the shoes from the Wizard of Oz . The other was wearing round glasses, a plaid shirt, blue pants, hair of a full cloud, and boring brown shoes.


The dirt was dried up beneath my feet as I felt the sun's heat bake my skin. I lifted an arm to swipe the sweat along my forehead, looking up with squinted eyes at that damned ball of light in the sky. God, could sure use some rain about now. “We have water.” I’d said those words out loud. The voice beside me was melodious in my ear, and I turned to see a warm smile greeting me that I then returned. “Not quite enough.” “You whine a lot for a married man.” “Last I checked, you agreed to marry that man.” “Silly me.” Georgia laughed, and I could only let my eyes linger on her golden face before they trailed down to her leg. I noticed a slight limp as she walked beside me and couldn’t help my increasing worry.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” I asked. She was always a strong woman, I knew. Held her head high and her pain inside. Both a blessing and a curse, I found - What I both loved and berated her for. “Oh, quit worryin’.” She brushed my words off as she lifted her leg, rolling her foot and flexing her ankle. My eyes were trained on the torn sweater sleeve wrapped around her dark skin, and my mind thought of only the swelling snake bite underneath it. “We’ll find someone to tend to it, then we can get outta this wasteland.” I looked ahead to see the growing silhouette of the town before us. Sand Springs , the large sign had read as we passed it. That was when Georgia wasn’t limping as much.

The attack was fast - something neither of us saw coming. One bad thing happened after another - that being after we had to abandon our car on the highway. It had just become dawn, and I was only awakened by the loud yelp of my wife. When my eyes shot open, I’d turned to her to see her hand tightly clamped around her ankle, as well as the fading sight of a small slithering thing making its escape. It was black in the bright sand of the west, and it was quick; that was all I could remember.

Clearly, the wound was getting worse, as well as my confidence. But I swallowed it down, the urge to panic, and did my best to remain calm like Georgia was. “Think we’ll find what we need here?” “We better,” I could hear a faint huff beside me, most likely accompanied by a playful pout, if I knew that woman. “Otherwise, this would be a real lousy vacation.” I smiled and shook my head. It wasn’t long till we reached the edge of the modest town. The place was relatively barren, just what you’d expect of a residence in the middle of nowhere. Only two rows of maybe ten buildings lined up on either side of the dusty road - with an inn, a dry goods store, you name it - a large church standing tall at the end, towering over the rest of the town. Its shadow hung over the dry dirt, the tip of it - a lean, pointed cross - stopping right at my feet.

“Remind me again why I agreed to a road trip?” I asked, my voice flat as the land around us, only to earn a sudden bump to the shoulder. “Enough complainin’,” Georgia walked ahead at a much faster pace, despite her leg. “Just be glad that wasn’t our best van.” Our car had died in the middle of nowhere, leaving us a map, food and drink, but no signal. The best we could decide was to grab our bags and continue on foot. It involved dragging my suitcase through the dust and a heavy backpack over my shoulders, but I suppose it could’ve been worse. Neither Georgia nor I complained, only kept tight smiles and marched on towards the town. Even in the hot sun, when our bodies ached, with a snake bite , we stayed strong without worry. Georgia was a pro at it while I was getting fed up. “Look at them,” Her voice interrupted my thoughts from ahead- more lulled me out of them. Though Georgia kept her back towards me, I could hear the smile in her words. I followed her gaze to see people across the small dirt road. A few feet away from a group of adults, children sat by the inn, playing some sort of game that involved dice. They didn’t laugh nor scream - only played quietly - but Georgia seemed mesmerized by it. “Think we’ll get to have those someday?” “Maybe once we get out of here.” I joked and looked over at her to be met with an amused smile back at me. Her eyes seemed to light up along with it, but that was after they flickered beside my head. “Doctor’s office!” She exclaimed and rushed past me before I could turn my head. I glanced at the group of adults, half expecting Georgia's boisterousness to draw their attention, but we strangers didn't seem to distract the townspeople. They kept in their tight group, seemingly in quiet conversation. I was pleasantly surprised by the lack of attention, but shrugged it off and turned to follow Georgia. Attention was the last thing we needed. The doors to the office didn’t surprise me, being those typical swinging ones you’d find in an old western. This place really followed the cliche. My brows raised in amusement and what was almost interest - it would’ve been a lie to say the town didn’t lure me in.

They swung after Georgia, and before I followed, something in the distance caught my attention in the corner of my eye. I glanced over to see a black form surrounded by the bright, dusty landscape. A man, covered in dark clothing, head turned as if he were staring directly at me. I couldn’t see details with the distance between us, and only stared back before stepping through the swinging doors. Great. The room was empty, enveloped in silence. A dull, flickering lamp hanging from the ceiling and the yellow glow of the sun streaming through the windows were the only light sources in the place. I took in my surroundings - the bare counter, collecting dust across the room, the visible cobwebs clinging to corners of the ceiling - and couldn’t help but hesitate in my step. “Hello?” Georgia called in front of me, placing a hand on her hip and looking around. I watched her scan the counter, most likely looking for a bell or something to call anyone to the front. As said, it was completely empty of anything but dirt and dust, as if it’d been abandoned. The hum that left her showed how unimpressed she was. “Well, you get bitten by a snake, and this is what life provides.” “Maybe there’s no one here.” I said, the atmosphere of the rickety room worsening my unease. She walked further in, right up to the counter. “Nonsense. We saw people outside, remember?” As Georgia moved around the place, continuing to call out, I couldn’t help but feel a slight chill in my spine, as if something yet lingered in the air. A creak sounded behind me, and I turned my head back to look at the doors. One of them swung slightly, as if pushed by some invisible force or the wind. But we'd spent enough time outside to know there wasn’t any breeze in the air. I furrowed my brow, staring intently at the swinging door. The first thing my mind could think of were children, perhaps some kids playing a trick to startle strangers from out of town.

Then, I thought of that man in black, staring at me only a moment ago. “Something wrong?” I blinked out of my unnerved trance, then looked back to see my wife staring at me, eyes tinged in puzzlement. I glanced back at the door, only to see it’d stopped its swinging motion, still as if it’d never moved in the first place. “I’m fine.” I hesitated between those words, which most likely made my unease clear. “Just thirsty from the heat.”

My wife’s confused look relaxed into an easygoing smile. She walked up to me, only a few inches shorter, and lifted a hand to rub my shoulder. “You’re a terrible liar.” I felt a heat grow in my face, staring back into her mesmerizing brown eyes, glowing in the faint light of the sun's stream. “You’ve just learnt how to read me well.” “Wasn’t hard to learn,” her snip burned, but in a way that made the heat grow. “C’mon. I’ll look in the back room for something.” When her hand left my arm, its lingering warmth stayed. I stood up straighter, pursing my lips. “What? Georgia, I don’t think–” “We’ll just grab something and leave money on the counter. You can scare up a ten-dollar bill, can’t you?” Her back was already facing me, the smoothness in her voice a contrast to the irregular twist in my stomach. I couldn’t muster up another protest before she’d entered an open archway behind the counter – and her sudden gasp made my heart skip a beat. “Oh! I’m so sorry, sir, I thought no one was here!” I quickly followed her, floorboards creaking beneath my boots as I turned the corner. Georgia was silent, still facing away from me. I saw an old man before her, sitting in a leather chair and staring straight back at her. Reflexively, I moved a hand to rest on her shoulder, prepared for an angry lecture to be directed at my wife. “Georgia–” But she wouldn’t move, and it took me only a few seconds to realize the unnatural silence around us. I looked at the man and realized he was still. The eyes that stared back were dull and without life, accompanied by a pale face and a mouth agape. He was dead; He certainly had the qualities of a deceased man. I looked back at the floor, open bottles and pills scattered by my feet. I’d crushed a few in my rush. That’s when I remembered Georgia’s condition. “I don't even know which medicine could–” “Never mind that! We have to get help!” Georgia’s boots stomped along the wood before I could process her words. I looked up to see her gone, leaving only the sound of her panicked steps growing distant. “Georgia!” I pushed myself up, exited the room to see the entrance doors swinging and my wife nowhere to be seen. When I chased after her and ran out into the sun’s heated eye, her disappearance only left me more panicked. “Georgia, wait!” But I couldn’t see nor hear her anymore. As a matter of fact, any residents that previously filled the town were gone then as well. That stubborn spark of hers – the very thing I fell in love with so many years ago – only made my blood boil. Tight smiles. Marching on. Damn all that. I looked across the small town, took in its abandonment. The place was silent, void of any trace of where Georgia could’ve been. Where anyone could’ve been.

Then, movement as my eyes flittered about. They trained on the distant figure ahead of me. That man in black walking into the church.

“Hey, you!” I called out without thinking, but he didn’t seem to hear me, the door closing behind him. “Stop! Wait!” My feet moved, racing through the dirt-dusted land as I chased after him, reached the church door in only a few seconds. When I opened it, it swung with a tired creak, and behind it was just as expected. Nothing. A dim room with aisles filled with pews, the air full of lingering dust particles. Empty. “Hello?” I spoke into the large place, my voice an echo. Colored light filtered through the stained glass windows of the church walls, laying among the dark floorboards, reaching my feet.

Then, behind me, the door slammed shut. I whipped my head around to the point it strained my neck, quickly enveloped in that dimness that consumed the room. Didn’t ya see the signs? An old, gravelly voice spoke close into my ear as if someone stood right beside me, but when I looked forward again, there was only that man in black standing on the other side of the church. When no one would look at ya? He said - I thought. The voice felt so close it crawled beneath my skin. When you saw the life faded from their eyes? When they went an’ disappeared? “What . . .” “ What the hell is going on?” I would’ve yelled, but what seeped out of me was a whimper. My fear was on display for the strange man. I couldn’t see much with the lowlight, but even from where I stood, I could see his face was covered by a dark bandana or mask that matched the rest of his black attire. A large cowboy hat atop his head cast a shadow over his eyes. Even with all the darkness, my eyes took note of the whip in his hand. You should get outta here, boy. I watched as his heavy boot stepped forward, clumped against the wood floor and sent a ripple through my body. I remained still. You should see this town ain’t right. It’s lost. Sunken. A mere memory of what was before the venom.

Clump , his hand with the whip lifted.

And soon you’ll get poisoned just as well. He took another heavy step towards me, and when he lashed the whip against the side of a pew - akin to the flick of a snake’s tongue - that was when my feet decided to work. I turned and ran towards the door I came in, but when I grabbed the doorknob and jiggled it desperately, it wouldn’t budge. Stop. The voice said with another sharp crack of the whip. Turn back. Now. I didn’t know whether that was the man speaking or not - the voice definitely didn’t sound human. But whatever it was, it sounded close, and I could hear that man getting even closer. Leave Sand Springs.

The whips behind me became louder, snapping into my ears as I rattled the door knob. It wouldn’t budge. The voice shouted to go, but I couldn’t even escape. Was this taunting? A fear tactic? Was any of this even goddamn real ? Run. The cracking sound once more, and it sure fucking felt real. And again. And faster than the heavy pounding of my heart in my chest. Before you end up like them. Like her. “Come on, god damnit !” I cursed through gritted teeth, resorted to slamming my shoulder against the thing until I knew a bruise would develop. Before you get bit. But there was one other thing in my mind that overshadowed even the inhuman speech itself. Georgia .

With another crack, I felt a burning sting erupt through my back, tearing past my shirt and skin, but my teeth only tightened with no sound. One final slam into the door made it fly open. A crack through the air as I fell forward, body slamming hard onto the dirt below.

I felt the blistering heat of the sun on my skin, a heavy cough erupting out of my throat from the impact. But in my sputtering, I noticed the relieving sound of nothing at all. The whips had stopped, and the voice in my head had left along with them. Opening squinted eyes, I lifted my head, looking forward through blurred vision brought on by pain. The wavering town was ahead of me; I was outside the church once more. There was nothing but an empty clearing dusted in sand. No residents. Nothing. Just buildings. But when the vision cleared, when the puff of dust from my fall evaporated into the air, I saw her. That dark brown hair and dark brown skin. Georgia . My body moved before I could even command it too, pushing itself up and stumbling towards her. That sting in my back - from that whip - was completely gone. As if the burn was merely a dream or illusion. But it’d felt so real at the time. “Georgia - oh god, I’m so glad you’re okay–” But when I reached her, my words stopped by themselves. My wife didn’t look at me, didn’t react when I called her name. I stopped before her, stared down at her, and recognized the behavior as matching the one of that old man in the Doctor’s office.

After a beat, I sat next to her. The silence consumed us. The warmth of the sun scorched us.

“How does it feel, Georgia?” I asked, a break in my voice. Just as I thought, she didn’t answer. I could see it in her blank face the second I got close. The lack of emotion. That warm smile gone from sight. Replaced by a face glazed over by lifelessness. Just like the residents - that doctor in the office - Georgia seemed to be lost. Alive, but lost - carrying all the qualities of someone who was lifeless. I rested my hand on hers and garnered no response. What filled my mind was the words that man - that thing spoke to me in the church. Before you get bit . And in the corner of my eyes I noticed it. The small shape of something moving quick without hesitation. The snake from before slithered up to me, at a speed greater than my ability to process it. But I knew what it was. Its black exterior the same that fled from Georgia after sinking its teeth into her ankle, filling her with that deadly venom that I was too late in stopping – the kind that did worse than kill, but only numbed the brain.

I don’t move, and only wince as its fangs puncture my ankle, a sudden sting. Sand Springs seems to fade away, with us alongside it.


He filled the sink with water. This he did in the usual way. The painstakingly simple and boring way. He could have filled that sink in any number of ways, if he’d been feeling chipper, the sink would have been filled in an imaginatively miraculous way and there’d have been nerve strokingly lovely music accompanying this feat of his. But he just couldn’t be bothered. So he turned the taps on and watched the purest water imaginable fill the incredibly well fashioned stone sink, and not for the first time he wondered whether his spell of being-down-in-the-dumps was something a little more serious than that. “Am I depressed?” he asked himself. Then he wished he hadn’t. Gods weren’t supposed to be depressed. Depression was for mere mortals and was caused by the dark shadow of their mortality and the resultant struggle involved in living. For an immortal being, depression was not an option, for if it was, the very possibility of depression and its coming to stay for an eternity would be a right old buzz kill and gods couldn’t afford to be on a downer. Grumpy gods did

bad things. Gods were prone to grumpiness in any case, and one of the reasons why gods got grumpy was people. People were just so… contrary! They acted like they didn’t know what was good for them. People were part lemming and part donkey, self-destructive and ruddy well stubborn. What made it all even worse was that the gods needed people. They actually needed people more than people needed them. This was a fairly well kept secret, because if people realised they didn’t need gods, then they might form some sort of collective and rise up against their perceived oppression by the hands of the gods and do something very silly indeed. If people were a problem, then groups of people really took the biscuit. They took all of the biscuits and they didn’t even eat them. They wasted the biscuits and made life biscuitless and sad and just a little more pointless. The god turned the taps off. With his hands. That was how despondent he was. Then he stared into the waters he had captured in his bathroom sink until he was staring through them. He stared until he was no longer looking at the water or through the water. He stared until the water wasn’t a consideration whatsoever.

Once he’d tuned in, the god saw Norman. Norman cut a fine figure of a man. With a pair of scissors.

“At least he’s wearing a manly loin cloth,” said the hopefully optimistic god. It would’ve pained the god to learn that his optimism was blinding him to the fact that Norman was in fact wearing Y-fronts and that he’d been wearing the same pair of Y-fronts for two days now. He was in the midst of an action that he referred to as

laying fallow,

he justified this rest from hygiene because it was environmentally friendly. He had other justifications for his regular bouts of what was, in the final analysis, mildly horrendous laziness, but he didn’t have anyone to justify himself to, so his justifications were also laying fallow, as was his life. Norman arose from the table, he held the paper figure before him, it was haloed by the dappled sunlight that streamed in through the window. The god groaned, not at the very well executed paper silhouette of a dashing hero, but at the form of his chosen hero. Norman was a peculiar fellow who managed to be skinny and wiry, but also portray a state of unhealth that moved the god. Almost to tears.

Norman’s pot belly was impressive in that it didn’t seem to belong to the rest of him. That belly looked for all the world like an aftermarket upgrade that’d seemed a good idea at the time, having been ordered in the early hours of the morning when Norman wasn’t in his right mind. In comparison, Norman’s limbs were pipe cleaners that looked incapable of supporting the weight of his belly, let alone transporting it across the room. Norman looked like a bald flamingo chick with a human head. “Where did it all go wrong?” said the god in an uncharacteristic whine. Gods weren’t supposed to whine, they were supposed to wine. Full on, proper wine. Barrels of the stuff. Accompanied by song and a bit of the other. The god remembered a specific bit of the other. The time he’d transformed himself into a swan and made his presence felt amongst the mortals. This had gone badly wrong.

He’d drunk far too much wine and awoke in an animal sanctuary. When he pieced the fragments of his memory together he’d just enough to see a tawdry tale of abject failure that resulted in a family of remarkable swans. Despite his remarkable swan offspring, the god was quite ashamed of his drunken behaviour and he never spoke to mother swan again. He didn’t visit her, he didn’t call and he didn’t even write her a letter.

Very poor behaviour by mortal standards, but he was a god and he set the standards, he didn’t have to follow them. He’d resolved never again to take the form of a swan when he walked the Earth. Up here with the other gods, swan-form was very much in fashion, there was still a lot of fun to be had with it. He just didn’t feel it though. And he didn’t want to risk the flashbacks. When it came to the making of Norman, the god had stayed relatively sober. Just the two barrels of a fine, three thousand year old vintage. He’d made himself known to Norman’s mother, Janet, in human form. Boring, but effective. Well, it should’ve been, but Janet was having none of it.

The god had been nonplussed and intrigued in equal measure. Unfortunately, his intrigue went rogue and the god was led on a strange and perturbing journey of courtship that ended in a marriage that came along, threw a hood of bafflement over the god’s head and dragged him to the registry office before he quite knew what was going on. Having married, Janet allowed the god into her bedroom and that night Norman was made. The very next morning, the god told Janet that he was going out for some milk and never returned. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. The god would never admit to having regular moments where he experienced a pang of loss. It had taken him some while to understand that this pang was his missing Janet. He’d never worked out why he missed her. Furthermore, he knew he wasn’t supposed to miss her, but that didn’t help matters. For a while, everything went swimmingly and the god experienced a growing anticipation for a new age of heroes. A time where demigods would step forth from the mists of obscurity and herald an era of adventure, derring-do and scantily clad goings on.

He’d had a side bet with several other of the gods that his boy was going to out-hero the lot of ‘em, and in the early years Norman did not disappoint. He was round of face and chubby of limb in the way the cherubs were. He even sported locks of golden hair and eyes of a fathomless blue, flecked with gold for good measure.

The god watched his young son with an unparalleled joy. Maidens lost coordination of their knees and forgot themselves around the beautiful boy that Norman was. Norman was a promise that made the imagination soar. But when Norman reached puberty, instead of things getting really interesting, they dulled. Not tarnished. The god could have gone with tarnished. This was complete and utter dullery. Such a low level of dull that monks could only ever dream of aspiring to it.

For starters, Norman needed spectacles. Norman was supposed to

be

the spectacle. Instead he wore these thick lensed glasses that were a prophylactic for his eyes. If that wasn’t bad enough, most of his hair fell out.

Then there was his body. One day he was this beautifully proportioned angel of a boy, the next he had a tragic growth spurt that he never, ever recovered from. Nonetheless, the god had tried. Oh how he’d tried! But every time he appeared to Norman, the boy had run away, or fainted. There was no getting through to him. In the end, the god had relented and appeared to Janet.

Janet was having none of it. “You!” she cried, “after all these years!? You have a bloody nerve! You haven’t even remembered the milk!” The god had made his excuses and left. There is however, more than one way to skin a cat, so having indulged in a bout of cat skinning to calm his nerves and start afresh, the god attempted more subtle interventions. Norman won competitions that he hadn’t even entered. The spare room was filled with exercise equipment, protein drinks and a strange suction pump reminiscent of a spare part from a dairy’s milking machine.

The god had actually cried when he saw Norman using that interesting pump in a failed attempt to clear his sinuses. Almost daily, the god presented Norman with opportunities to show his true, heroic self. Cats stuck up trees aplenty. Damsels in distress. Flames to draw out the heroic in him. Chaos that demanded order. Chance after chance for Norman to cry “huzzah!” and save the day. The lad wore blinkers though, he missed each and every moment that the god presented to him. Even when the god nudged those around Norman to prevail upon him to step up and be the hero the god had made, he politely refused and made his way to the offices where he plied his mundane trade as a bookkeeper for a mutual fund. The god stared through the mystical waters of his bathroom sink and grudgingly came to the conclusion that Norman was a lost cause. The very nature of gods meant that this was a very big deal. More so because this was no mere god. This was the god of war and he was all about the heroic. But enough was enough. With a sigh that could power a windfarm for a week, the god of war gave up on the man who had never once truncated his name to the slightly more heroic Norm, let alone chosen a Name of Destiny. A name that would go forth into the world and strike dread into the hearts of his enemies and cause fair maidens to succumb to feelings Mr Grey had been aiming for, but had never quite reached. “I give up,” said the god of war, and with a wave of his hand he erased the image of Norman, his failed hero of a son, for what might be forever. “In your face!” cried a triumphant voice behind him. The god of war turned toward the source of this voice, wondering who it was who had broken into his godly palace and had the impertinence to cry triumphantly at his very naked bum. “Janet?” he said in a manner that fully conveyed his surprise at her presence here. “None other!” she beamed at him. “But how…?” he managed. “Even now,” she said, placing her hands on her hips in an all too familiar show of defiance, “you don’t remember me?” “Remember me?” echoed the god of war in a way that made him feel quite stupid. Janet shook her head. It was clear that her head was brim full of disappointment. Some of it spilt over and washed over the god of war, “Bill. Really? You don’t remember me from school?” Wide eyes of enlightenment fell upon Bob, the god of war’s face, and transformed it, “Janet, Janet the Teacher’s Pet?” “None other,” said Janet in a defiant and confident manner that was nothing like the girl that Bob had known. The girl that Bob had known and been really quite mean to. He went rather pale as he remembered the depths of his meanness. He’d not been a pleasant schoolboy. This wasn’t a double negative, for all schoolboys are not pleasant. As a kid, Bob doubled down on his unpleasantness and then some. He liked to think he’d mellowed since then. It was so difficult to tell. He was the god of war and a prerequisite for that was he was as mean as hell.

“Ah…” said Bob. “Ah indeed,” said Janet, “do you remember what you did?” Bob did. It was writ large upon his face, “not sure what you mean…” he mumbled downwards, as though he were talking to his warlike nipples. “Our very last day at school,” Janet stated. Bob looked up and found the courage to look Janet in the eye, but he said nothing. Instead he cast his mind back to that fateful last day. The last day at school was when the powers and attributes were handed out. This was a big day. The biggest of days. Days didn’t get much bigger than this. The key thing was to be front of the queue when they were handing out the “God of…” badges so you got one of the better ones. Being at the back of the queue, or even worse, having a day off sick from school, would be so totally tragic your life would not be worth living, even if you were a god. Who wanted an eternity as the god of lost socks, or the god of walking into a room and forgetting why you walked into the room? So Bob, ever practical, but also hyper-superstitious, had made sure of two things. Two things being the two sides of everything. The eternal balance that must be acknowledged if things have any chance to turn out alright. Firstly, Bob arranged to be at the front of the queue. He put in a lot of work in this respect. Mostly he beat any notion of anyone else being front of the queue so soundly and thoroughly from anyone and everyone who he considered to be his rival that he was actually ushered to the front of the queue having turned up a couple of minutes late to the badge award ceremony. Why was he late? Well, that was the second side. That was the balance. Bob had tricked Janet into an empty classroom and locked her in. In order for Bob to be at the forefront and to get the very best badge, he needed someone to be at the back and take the fall. That was the natural order of things, at least according to Bob it was anyway.

There were the victors and there were the vanquished. “So you didn’t…?” ventured Bob. “Didn’t what?” asked Janet abruptly. “Get a badge?” said Bob sheepishly. At that, Janet laughed. She laughed for quite some while. Janet went beyond the point that anyone should laugh and she made good her point with that laughter. Janet’s laughter made Bob uncomfortable. Her laughter bestowed upon Bob a dread feel. Bob wasn’t a fan of dread feels. Not when he was the recipient of them anyway. “You couldn’t be more wrong!” chuckled Janet, “you actually did me a favour you silly lummox!” “How so?” asked Bob, trying not to get too antsy at being called a lummox. What annoyed him most about this was that he had no idea what kind of animal a lummox was. He thought it was probably those hefty cows that were forever licking flies from their noses. Still, he’d been called worse and sometimes justifiably so, after all, war was hell. Janet smiled a disconcerting smile, “all you popular gods collected your badges and buggered off to drink wine by the barrel load, so by the time I’d climbed out of the classroom window and found my way to the Great Hall, there was no one left. The Head was about to call it a day.” “And?” asked Bob, knowing that there was always going to be an

and. Janet shrugged, “he said I might as well have all the other badges.” Bob’s mouth fell open and it was a bothersome struggle to close it again, “just how many badges are we talking about here?” Janet winked, “oh lots and lots!” “What sort of badges?” asked Bob. “All sorts!,” smirked Janet, “but let’s just say that when you have that many badges they add up to something like

karma. ” “Karma…” echoed Bob, oblivious as to whether he might look stupid now. He was too busy experiencing a terrible sinking feeling. “Karma,” said Janet echoing Bob’s echo, “and Sod’s Law, and Murphy’s Law, and providence, and mischief, and a breed of vengeful, malign malice that makes a snake’s toes curl.” “Oh,” said Bob. Janet nodded, “and you made me possible, Bob.” Bob’s brow furrowed as his thoughts twisted sideways and returned to the matter of Norman. He hadn’t sired a demigod he’d… “What have I done?” he whispered. “What have

we

done!” the triumph had returned to Janet’s voice, and with gusto. “Ye gods!” gasped Bob, “all I wanted was a hero!” “And that you have,” chuckled Janet, “perhaps not the hero you had in mind… but my boy is so much more than that!” Down in the world of mortals, dark clouds amassed. These clouds were drawn to a commotion taking place in a grey, nondescript office in Coventry. They came to bear witness. It looked like there was going to be a fight. A certain someone had returned to his desk to find that his box of colour coded post-its had gone missing. Again. Well, Norman had just about had enough, and there would be hell to pay. His face turned a vivid hue of purple and he fizzed with a powerful and unnatural energy. Norm really was going to give ‘em hell. Quite literally.


For fifty years the road stood unchanged. The road upon which an old man appeared. It was a cold day, gray as the man himself, who stood fixed upon the near ancient gravel glowering at the brownish cottage with white trim standing upon his right hand. His eyes turned away but his step failed to advance. He simply stood immobile, as if lost in thought, his weathered face and narrowed eyes reflective of a man struggling with a memory, a pattern of thought that would not form.

The old man stood thus for several long minutes. Repeatedly he seemed verged upon continuing, only to pause and glance rearward the way he had come, as if fearing perhaps someone or something stalked his steps until, at last, hesitation abandoned, he turned fully to the house and approached. He moved uncommonly quiet, his worn loafers barely scuffing dust, his outdated seaman’s coat and worn trousers emphasizing the contractions of his presence. Though not visible, the weakness of his step and hunched shoulders betrayed frail limbs and tired bones. From beneath a faded ski cap, a few strands of unruly white hair showed upon a brow creased with wear. His face and hands exhibited the color of old mud, the mark of a man used to many days spent toiling under the sun. In his right hand dangled a length of chain to which he clung with exaggerated earnest.

He now stood facing the front door. It was a simple cottage of no remarkable qualities. A few low bushes, tended flowers, white painted shutters. Yet the man gazed upon it as if before a church. His eyes distant and dreamy. Was it a memory he recalled or was his mind so lost he knew neither the where nor the why of moment.

And then the door opened. It opened to a young man of full black hair, solid of mind and bone. A man and third the age of his unexpected caller. In contrast to the benign equanimity of the elder man, the eyes of this younger soul fairly burned in emotion. His clean, clear eyes scanned the path before him but he saw nothing.

Something in the old man yearned the young man would see him. A distant hope he could define nor dissect. Why was it the young man did not espy him when he stood so plainly before his door?

But he did not see him and if he did, he did not recognize him and so the young man turned away and reentered his home. There came a touch of grief to the old man’s heart. A pain whose full thrust had come long ago but still ached his gut, haunted his sleep. He longed so to enter that house himself, a longing always in his thoughts, in his dreams. But all his dreams were distant as yesterday’s dawn. The old man turned away. He scuffled along the path to the road, his bloodshot eyes revealing a tired, tired soul. But then, at once, he seemed to have acquired a purpose. He walked with a steady if hindered stride. The road became wider and paved. Ahead rose a  farmhouse that had not been there a scant few breaths afore. When he reached the point where the road curled inward, the old man followed it, fondling his chain, beginning to mumble to himself.

He came boldly to the house and knocked upon the door. The minutes dragged along.  A rooster crowed. A few birds came and lit upon the eaves above the door. The door did not answer. A gust of wind blew down from the north. It licked his face and placed tears in his eyes. He raised a hand as if he would knock again, then withdrew it and himself from the farm. He knew no one would come forth. They never did. Not yesterday, today, or tomorrow. He simply could not knock loud enough that any could hear. Again, the old man returned to the road only now it was path meandering through a forest lain with leaf mold and twigs. A forest of tangled depths, of trees that crowded and cramped. The sun only a mottled intruder playing among the bent and sagging boughs. The old man slogged on, grim and determined, hearing the wind, feeling cold in the breeze chilled air. The journey felt endless but he knew better. All journeys end. So it was he reached the end of the forest and saw before him a sprawling village. A scene lifted from a Dicken’s tale. Homes and shops and busy streets, children playing and birds singing. But it was a village as old as he, older still, the village he recognized of his father so many, many years passed before him.

It drew him as few things ever had.

There again he saw that particular house and the young man. He saw too the farmhouse only now there stood framed in the doorway. She was very young, and beautiful, but with eyes holding a sadness far beyond her suggested years. The old man wanted to talk with her, oh, how he wanted to talk to her. He raced forward swift as his ancient legs could carry him but with every foot gained the road grew longer, the faces and places retreating. Bu going where? Where was there for it all to go? Soon the old man lost all breath and was no longer equal to the chase. The village raced away, swam as in a haze leaving him feeling dizzy and weak. At last, he turned away. His eyes closed. When he found the fortitude to open them again, there stretched before him a new trail that wound upward upon a sloping mountain to a broad, beckoning ledge near the summit. “A place to lie,” he spoke aloud. “Yes. I have slept there many times. Every night within my memory and God only knows how far backward or even forward that memory spans. Only that each and every night I must return there if I am to sleep. If I am to dream again.” And so he climbed the spiraling hillock. As he went, he found himself growing incredibly tired. Fatigue such as no man should ever know. And sounds came to him. Unnatural, uncomfortable. First there were screams, as if tortured souls flew upon the wind wrapped in the devil’s embrace. Then bodies materialized, sweating and swearing, climbing with him. They did not see him, they simply surrounded him, pacing him under a black sky and booming thunder born without rain. There was fire too. The heat ravaged his eyes, causing pain and an inability to see the rocky trail ahead. Still he went on, now moving on instinct, realizing it was like this every night.  Every journey to his place on the ledge an ordeal beyond comprehension. His legs ached, his chest heaved, he nearly fell to his face but staggered on. And never did he lose hold of the chain now wrapped tight about his fist.

Only a few more feet. Only a few more painful steps. Then he was there. The ledge where he could rest, the precipice to which he so desperately yearned. But he was not alone. No, before the old man stood that young man again. What was he doing here? And beside him stood that young woman of the farm, calm and beautiful. Yes, it was she who would not answer his knock. And now the old man saw that she had the eyes of the young man, eyes filled with tears and it gave him pain to see it.  And behind the woman and the boy miraculously crowded the entire town of his father. To the man, woman, child and dog they were there and they too cried and called to him.

Into this bizarre image walked the old man and he was invisible. He expected it for he knew this was not new occurrence. It was an oft repeated nightmare. Resolved, he found his spot and lay town. And though all about him peppered him with question after question, he did not answer. He had so much to tell them, so much about the fifty years passed. So much pain, anguish and suffering that it tore at his soul and robbed him of his peace.

None would ever know his trauma, his travails, his constant journey to and from the place of his sleep. Once more, the old man stepped across the threshold of infinity. Once more his body curled in sleep while his spirit fought on for his life, rebelling against the unkind, unforgiving fate he shared which all those who had raced up the hill shared with him. A thousand men, a thousand dog tags never returned. Such is the eternity of the old man. Fifty years passed missing in action.


“Hey dad, what’s up?” “I wanted to talk about your sister.” He was speaking fast, and I could almost smell the alcohol on his breath through the phone-line. “Oh, okay. What’s happened?” A dozen different scenarios raced through my head, but he sounded angry not upset. She’d done something, not had something happen to her. “Stop telling her to get a blood test. Her baby will be fine.” “But- isn’t it worth checking? If she’s a carrier for sickle cell-” “She isn’t. Your mother wasn’t a carrier, and neither am I.” All I could hear was the static of the line. “But… then how could I have been a carrier?” All the tests, all the checks, all the worry I'd had when I first fell pregnant came rushing back at that moment, followed by a void. It had to have come from somewhere. “What… what do you mean dad?” “Your father was the carrier. Not me. I- Goodbye.” All I was left with was the bleep of him hanging up and my world crumbling around me. The rest of that day passed in a haze. I went through the motions and did everything that was required, but I couldn’t think straight. Every time I stopped my thoughts drifted to the conversation, to the few minutes that utterly destroyed my life. My phone rang more than once from my sister, but I refused to answer it. What would I say? What was there to say? It was two days later before I was starting to process what had happened. I’d dropped Jacob off at nursery and had a few hours to kill. The plan had been to find a coffee shop, somewhere neutral where I could gather my thoughts. Before I knew it though my feet had brought me to the graveyard, and I was stood in front of Mum’s gravestone. “Hey Mum.” For a time I just stood there, breathing in the cool air, wishing it could blow everything away. Reading the dates on Mum’s headstone I couldn’t help but remember her wedding anniversary to Dad- no. Not Dad. To David. They’d celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary just before she’d died four years ago. I’d only turned thirty last year. “What happened Mum? Why… why am I here?” For my whole life Mum had been my touchstone, the person I’d most aspired to be like. She’d always been so strong and so fiercely independent, even while the cancer tore through her body. And now… “Why didn’t you tell me?” That was what haunted me the most. Mum had known she was dying, and she still hadn’t confessed. Was that when she’d confessed to Dad- to David? I racked my brain trying to remember how he’d acted throughout her illness, but he’d never been anything but supportive of me. He’d never had a favourite, he’d never shown any preference between me and Sara. If he’d taken one of us out for our birthday, he was always sure to make sure the other one got the same treatment on her birthday. And yet… The tone of his voice during that conversation still haunted me. It was so cold, so heartless. He was a good man, who I’d only ever seen getting angry, properly swearing-whenever-they’re-mentioned kind of angry, at two people in my whole life. He’d always gone above and beyond to help his friends, and got annoyed when people quoted the Bible at him while he did so. “We should help me because we’re kind, not because we’re scared of judgement,” he’d say. But he'd judged me. That was what his voice held that day; judgement. I hadn’t known that a crime had been done, and yet my very existence was a grievous sin against him that he blamed me for. I didn’t know what I was expecting to happen at Mum’s grave. Understanding ideally, acceptance perhaps, forgiveness maybe, though what for I couldn’t be sure. What I wasn’t expecting was for my fath- for David to turn up. “Oh,” he said when he saw me. “Hi. What are you doing?” He gestured at the grave with the bunch of flowers he was carrying. “I’ve been up here every day since… since that call.” I’d been too distracted to even notice the fresh flowers on her grave, and that sent a pang of guilt through me. What else had I neglected these past few days? There was an awkward silence between us for a while, until at last he asked if he could join me. “I should be going now anyway. I need to get Jacob from nursery.” I started to walk away, keeping my eyes down as I did. “Stay a while?” he asked when I was a few rows away. “Please?” As I looked at the man stood before my mother’s grave, it wasn’t the man who’d raised me. It was the man who’d stood there four years ago grieving the loss of the woman he loved. It was the man who’d never quite been the same since, no matter how brave a face he put on for his family. How could I say no to him? Side by side we stood, each of us lost in our own thoughts, both wishing a sign or some fresh words of wisdom would appear on the headstone. All it said though was ‘A mother and a wife, much loved by everyone, now safe with our Lord’. Nothing pertinent to the dilemma she’d left us in. “How-” David started, though he had to cough and swallow a few times before he could finish. “How’ve you been?” “I don’t know. I… I thought I knew her. I didn’t think she’d do something like to me. To us. I didn’t think she’d have let it gone unsaid either.” “She thought about telling you. At the end, when she knew her time was coming.” “So you did know? Before then?” “I’ve always know. Since before you were born.” “But-” That made both of them liars. They’d raised me and Sara as sisters, yet we were nothing but half-sisters. Half-sisters? Does that really change anything? “She told me not long after it happened. It was rough, I’m not going to lie about that. But I loved her, and she loved me. She made her peace with God, and together we got through it.” “And you kept me? Treated me as your own?” I watched his profile as he thought, and for the first time I noticed how deep the lines were around his eyes. “I thought it would be different with Sara. That I’d feel something more for her, some deeper connection with her. But do you know what? It wasn’t. I felt the same affection for both of you, even though I knew you weren’t my flesh and blood. You weren’t my child, but you were my daughter.” After so many days of loneliness that was too much. Before I knew what was happening I was in torrents of tears, bawling more than I had the day of funeral. But he was there, hugging me close as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry,” he said when the worst of my tears were over. “I’d forgiven her all those years ago, but having it brought up again… it gave me a fresh chance to be angry at you. But that wasn’t fair. You have nothing to be forgiven for.” The words I’m sorry died on my lips. Mum wouldn’t have wanted that. You don’t apologise if you’re not sorry, and I had nothing to be sorry for. “I really should go and get Jacob now,” I said when I at last pulled free of him, laughing as I wiped the tears away. “Come on then. I’ll come with you.” With a last nod to Mum we headed out. I could tell he wanted to say something, but I let David- Dad- get to it in his own time. “Do you want to find him? Your real father?” “No. You’re my real father.” I hoped that my grin hide the nervous excitement in my stomach. Despite what I’d said, I still found myself pulling out Mum’s old journals that night. She’d been careful about keeping records of her life, documenting major events and family struggles. I’d flicked past my wedding and Sara’s graduation, back to our high school days. Each page I turned made my fingers shake a little more, yet I was drawn on by something irresistible. It was like seeing the jaws of a shark, but needing to see how far back the teeth went. That journal started with Sara’s birth, so I dug out the older one and for a moment just held it in my hands. My mother had never gotten around to telling me herself; the words in this book were the closest I would ever get to knowing why she’d betrayed her husband and hidden the truth from me. The closest I’d get to knowing how much she regretted me. Before I knew it the book was open. The pages had been worn thin and were soft with age. Words in her careful cursive script flicked by, the odd one jumping out at me. Home. Born. Love. Forgive. Hurt. I couldn’t separate a single page any more, my fingers too uncoordinated to do anything other than fumble the book. With a shuddering breath I slammed the book shut and rested my forehead against. No. I couldn’t do this, not yet. The pain was still too fresh, too raw. And the fact I could talk to Dad about it, but not Mum? What if it changed how I saw him? I didn’t think I could bear that. There was one thing I needed to know though, and I was afraid it would break David's heart if I asked him. I just hoped that I wouldn’t learn too much else at the same time. The page I wanted was easy to find. It was the one stained with tears, the edges still crinkled after all these years. The writing here was faded even worse than in the rest of the diary, which was both a help and a hindrance. My eyes skimmed across the words as I tried to keep my mind blank to the pain that was conveyed on the page. Somewhere here there had to be- Andrew Tucker. I stared at the name to ingrain it into my mind then shut the book firmly and packed it away again. All I’d wanted was his name, but now I knew it I didn’t feel any urge to pursue it further. Could he be a better father than David had been? Maybe, but it was far too late in all our lives to find out. Knowing him now wouldn’t change the past I’d had, but it could damage my future. All I’d needed was the knowledge that I could look him up if I ever wanted to. While she’d taken the affair to the grave, she hadn’t taken his name with her as well.