Just six months ago, I was the highest ranking warrior in our lands, and I was forced to give that up for the sake of a prophecy. I understand why King Jurien eliminated my former title, but what am I if not a warrior? Only one week remains until I am to wed the King, and I should be honored the Gods saw me worthy of being Queen of Beloar, but some part of me was mournful of the life I always expected to live.

“There was an attack in the Northern Forest, my King.” A guard announced as he rushed to the King’s side. The King immediately rose from his seat, slamming his hands down on the table we were currently eating dinner on. The porcelain dishes on the table shook, one sent flying towards the floor before shattering. “Is anyone injured?” he questioned, already knowing the guards' response.

The attacks on palace grounds have increased in the past several weeks. The creatures that lurk in the forest are capable of breaching the innermost spaces of your mind and transforming you into nothing more than a puppet. I’ve seen warriors turn their weapons to their comrades and eliminate the threat they post to the creatures. Most are not even aware of the creature closing in until it’s too late. Once you know of the creature's presence, your fate is in its hands.

“One guard, sir.” the guard paused, as if he didn’t want to explain further, but continued, “your guard. Kolan killed himself before the creature could take hold. Nobody else was injured. Warriors are trailing the creature now.”

“Call the search off.” The King demanded. “The beasts are faster than the warriors. There is no point.”

The guard nodded, before leaving out of the dining room door. King Jurien remained standing with his hands braced on the table, his head slumped over in defeat and worry.

I chose to remain silent. As a warrior, I was well-trained on the customs and order of our lands. Even before becoming a warrior, I’ve never once questioned the commands or motives of the King. I often reminisce of my life as a high warrior– commanding the forces and eliminating the evils that would consume our land if left unchecked.

King Jurien quickly picked his head back up, straightening his posture, and left the room. The shattered dishes on the ground beneath the table were already being tended to by the maids.

I made my way to my bedroom, which was separate from the King’s. He preferred his own space, but we occasionally shared a bed. That is how it’s supposed to be, afterall. Now that I am to be Queen in a week, I will be expected to be available to the King at all times and eventually carry children. I want this, though. Even if I am not always sure of it, this is how it has to be, and I should be grateful. *** The next morning, I was awoken by the sunlight that beamed through the window across from my bed. The maid stood before my bed, bright eyed and cheery as always.

“Oh! Good morning Remielle. How was your rest?” She asked me. “It was lovely, thank you Hana.” I replied as I threw off my covers and forced my tired legs to stand.

“Breakfast is nearly ready. You have about … “ Hana turned to the clock that hung beside the bedroom door, “thirty minutes to be at the table. Do you need anything before I depart?”

“No, thank you Hana. I appreciate you for waking me.” A friendly smile escaped as I responded.

Hana closed the door behind her as she left. I quickly found my clothes, already laid out and prepared by Hana. A gorgeous sky-blue fabric, with a white floral lace flowing from the waist down. I slipped the dress on, tightening the strings that wrapped around the waist. It fell just to my feet, barely brushing the floor, as if it was sewed only to fit my slim body. My straight blonde hair fell to the space just above my collarbones. Hana left a pair of elegant slippers, which were surprisingly comfortable to walk in.

I made my way down the bright corridor, walking toward the dining room where the King waits. He never starts eating until I am present.

The grand doors to the dining room were silent as I entered, closing gently behind me. There was a face I had never seen before standing to the right of the doors. I paused for just a moment, studying and appreciating his features. His hair appears black in comparison to the King’s deep brown. His eyes … I have never seen such a contrast. His green eyes are vibrant against his lightly tanned skin and black hair that was tightly knotted into a bun behind his head.

I forced myself to push aside the thoughts I was having of this man, and continued walking to the table. I pulled out my chair and sat across from King Jurien. “Good morning, my future Queen.” Jurien said without even glancing my way.

“Good morning to you, my King.” I replied, already digging my fork into the potato scramble on my plate.

“This is Luther, my new guard. After what happened to Kolan, they were quick to reassign a new guard. This one won’t be venturing off to the forest like Kolan did. How foolish he was.” the King spoke firmly.

“Lovely to meet you … Luther.” I glanced in his direction, clearing my throat before continuing at my food.

“You as well, Remielle.” He replied, not loosening his gaze on me. The way he said my name had me squirming in my chair.

“Remielle, are your preparations in order for our wedding? I expect Hana has aided in those preparations?” He questioned, never once looking toward Remielle. “Oh, she’s been more than helpful. She’s done a great deal to lessen my load.” I responded, checking to see if he would look at me just once during our conversation … which he didnt.

“I expect nothing less. Hana is to be at your assistance. I trust you will notify me if there are any concerns.”

I nodded. “Of course, my King.” I can’t help but feel that he is ungrateful for his servants. It’s evident that he’s never lived as a commoner, as I once was. I understand that every person is expected to do as the King demands, without expectations of something in return, but it sometimes feels wrong. These servants work tirelessly and never ask for anything.

We sat in silence for the remainder of the meal, before the King exited, ordering Luther to show me to the garden once I finished eating. I spend a significant amount of time in the garden. After my warrior title was stripped from me, I had to find something to fill my time with, and the King suggested gardening. Although he was sometimes cruel, he truly wanted me to be untroubled and content with my new life as his Queen. Before my mother died when I was a child, she brought me to her garden frequently and that’s where we bonded the most. For a while, gardening was a painful reminder of what I lost. I have learned to find joy in it now, however.

On our walk to the garden, I refrained from speaking to Luther, mostly because I wasn’t sure what to say. I shouldn’t be this attracted to someone other than my future husband. I was to be married in just 6 days and I just met this man. These thoughts must mean nothing. I expected our walk to be filled with silence, but he spoke to me first. “Do you come to the palace gardens often?” He looked toward me, waiting for my response and scanning my face. “I do. I find it quite peaceful. I didn’t expect to ever find this happiness in the garden after … “ I didn’t finish the sentence. I don’t feel compelled to share my life story with a stranger.

“From what I hear, you are a skilled warrior. Why did you relinquish that title?” He stared at the ground, hands in his pockets as we continued walking around the garden.

“I was a warrior. I am to be a Queen now. As you know, a Queen has no place commanding armies. Besides, King Jurien required me to forgo those duties and focus on my new life. He wants to start a family, and I’m to remain in the palace to raise them.” I took a deep breath before forcing a smile. This is an honor, I recited in my head. “Ah …” he nodded, “what a shame. All for some prophecy .” He said with disapproval, shaking his head.

I was stunned. The King’s personal guard just disrespected the prophecy and the King in the presence of his future Queen. “You are not to mock or ridicule the prophecy. Only good things come from the Priestess’s words. You must respect the order.” I sternly reminded him. He stiffened, “I meant no disrespect. I only wish to share my concerns with the prophecy. I am sure you see the suffering of commoners while the Royal folk live grandly, without care.” I knew he was right, deep down, but I would never admit that. To speak of the Royal in such a manner is borderline treasonous. Luther showed me back to my room, as I requested, and I stayed there until Dinner. I saw him again at Dinner, but we just exchanged brief stares before moving on.

*** I awoke in the middle of the night … nightmares again of the creatures that roam the forest. I can see the forest edge just outside of my window, only a short walk away. Would we ever truly be safe until those beasts are eliminated? I am not even certain it’s possible that we could ever rid the lands of all of those evil creatures. We do not even know where they retreat to after an attack, so the chances of us wiping them out is slim. It is always the same nightmare, too – I’m usually in the garden, tending to one of my plants, when I hear screams of people in the palace … I will find every person controlled, including the King, and the creature then claims me, it’s final victim … for whatever ends it wishes to achieve.

Apparently this time I was screaming, because when I peered up, I saw Luther standing aside my bed, concern stretching across his face. He had never been here to witness my nightmares before.

“Remi! Are you alright? I heard screaming.”

“I am okay, Luther. I just have nightmares quite often and they interrupt my sleep when they occur.” I made sure to note that he was here, but King Jurien, who I was marrying in just 5 days, was nowhere around. I know he would never care for me the way Luther cares in this moment. I pushed the feelings aside once more. “You can return to your sleeping quarters now, but I do appreciate your concern.” He hesitated, but turned toward the door. I was hoping he would leave so I can try to forget the way he makes me feel. It is wrong of me to feel this way toward a guard when I am almost a bride. He halted just before the door, still for a moment, before jolting toward me. Then I could hear what made him stop like that … screaming. I am sure this is a dream. But considering Luther’s behavior, I know I am not dreaming.

Luther quickly closed the door. “You really should go to the King, Luther.” I quietly suggested.

He paused, before saying, “I can’t leave you alone. The King will be surrounded with guards, but you have no protection.” “I can defend myself, Luther … remember … warrior.” I smirked. I haven’t called myself a warrior since I gave up the title 6 months ago, but I liked the sound of it. It has been so long.

“Damn right you are. Regardless, I’m not going anywhere. I will stay here until someone comes to report whether it is safe. We have no idea what that scream was for. I won’t leave you, Remi.” he replied, firm in his stance. There was no convincing him to leave her, and she knew it.

We both remained silent for several long minutes, listening for any noise outside of the door, before I spoke. “Do you judge me … for agreeing to marry him? Do you think it makes me weak and powerless?” That’s how I sometimes thought. I was a warrior. “I never think you are a weak. Far from it actually. You are marrying a man who couldn’t care less about you, knowing you are in for a life of pain and regret, all to respect the laws of the land. I think it is admirable. But I have to say, Remi, I do not want you to marry him. He is not deserving of you.” He replied, studying my face as he said those words. “Perhaps it is what I deserve. The prophecy requires it, Luther. I do not know what I am to do about that.” “Maybe the prophecy does not know what is good for you, my dear.” He sat on the bed, facing me now, brushing a stray piece of hair out of my eyes. I contemplated his words for several moments. But the way he said prophecy caught my attention. He said it as if he does not believe it. Why would a guard of the King suggest the prophecy is fake?

“You think the prophecy is a lie?” I was truly curious. I have only known this man for 2 days, yet I believe he has good reason for whatever it is he believes. I must hear him out this time. “It is fake, Remi. Only the highest of Royalty know, but they will never give it up … it gives them too much power. They have no reason to denounce prophecies that only ever benefit them.” His words had power. I do not know why, but a part of me believed him. For the first time ever, I was questioning the truth of the Priestesses and prophecies.

We stared into each other's eyes for several moments longer, before the door suddenly burst open. It was Hana. “Oh my sweet girl! Are you alright?” She blinked and glanced at Luther before continuing. “One of the creatures must have breached the palace doors. An off-duty guard killed his sleeping wife. The other guards were able to subdue him and the palace is secure.”

“Well I should be going now.” Luther announced. He straightened his shirt as he stood. Hana studied every move Luther made as he left the room, then turned to me. “Do you care to explain why he was in here?” Her head tilted and eyebrows rose. “He heard me scream. Nightmare again. That is all. Then he decided it would be best to stay until he knew the palace was safe. You can go back to sleep now, Hana.” I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Hm…” she paused, as if she knew the words we shared, “okay! I will be sure to let you sleep in tomorrow. I will sit breakfast outside your door in the morning. Or maybe I will have Luther do it.” She chucked back to me. *** By the time I woke up, the sun was already halfway across the sky. I’m not even going to bother with breakfast today. I got dressed in a hurry and went straight to the garden. 4 days until the wedding , I thought to myself. A part of me hoped there was truth to Luther’s words, so I wouldn’t have to marry the King.

Footsteps approached and I turned to the entrance to the garden. Luther. He smiled and walked in my direction.

“Did you manage to get some sleep last night? I couldn’t get you out of my head once I left…” he whispered, brushing my ear. “I slept fine.” I replied. I’m not giving this thing between us anymore attention. Luther could ruin my life. “Did the King ever come to check on you?” he knew what I was going to say. He knew the King just as I did. I took a deep breath, and replied, “He did not.” How long was I going to ignore these feelings I have toward Luther. If the prophecy is wrong, is it worth me never getting to be with Luther. Would he even agree to be with me? He has just as much to lose. “If I was marrying a woman like you, Remi, I would share a bed with her every night and she would never doubt my love for her.” He paused, examining the way my body shifted with those words.

I couldn’t pretend any longer. I don’t want to live a life never knowing what could have came from this man that stood before me. I think he knew what I was feeling, because before I could do it myself, he lunged for me, kissing me. Passion swirled between us. Passion like I’d never knew before. Everything felt right about this, but I know it shouldn’t. I never pulled away, though, until footsteps sent us both shooting away from each other.

“I figured you were hungry … “ Hana announced, carrying a tray of food. We both knew she witnessed what just happened. “Remielle … Luther, I know a way you can escape, if you wish to be together…” We turned to each other, as if we were deciding if that was an option.

“Remielle.” Luther said to me, waiting for my confirmation. I contemplated for a moment. “We’ll do it.” I declared.


Rajma curry and rice The landlady irritatingly called Chander to attend the phone. It was a call from his uncle Kiron Das. ' Are you coming tonight ? Uncle asked. Chander said, ' Yes, I couldn't last Saturday but I will be there tonight.' Uncle mildly said okay and closed the call. He perhaps knew the homeowner lady would not like long conversations on her landline telephone. The old widow was in fact irritated. She said, ' I get disturbed by phone calls...please tell your people to call here only in case of extreme emergency. ' Chander said, ' Yes, Madam ' and came back to his room. It was a hot and humid day in Calcutta in the summer of 1984. He knew, had to go to his uncle tonight to listen to stories of freedom fighters of India. It was a routine for almost a year to meet him on every Saturday night. Chander knew a new episode was boiling in uncle's mind. That night's story was how Kiron Das met his two old friends after over thirty years. These friends happened to be Chander's parents.

 Kiron Das, a freedom fighter, was a close witness to the activities of Indian freedom fighters from 1929 till the country's independence in August 1947. Now a Septuagenarian, he was younger brother of great Indian freedom fighter and martyr Jatin Das who laid down his life after fasting in Lahore jail for sixty three days. Kiron was a young boy then. He went to Lahore from Calcutta on getting the news of his brother's pledge of fasting till death unless British rulers stop treating freedom activists as criminals. In Lahore, which was a completely unknown city for him, Kiron Das met Chander's parents who along with other young activists were his support providers there. He was in Lahore for around two months and reached back to his hometown Calcutta in mid-September that year with the dead body of his brother. Apparently, demands of his fasting brother were not accepted by British authorities.

Kiron Das continued his connections with Lahore friends for some time. Independence in1947 came with a heavy price of partition of India and creation of an Islamic Pakistan. Hindus and Sikhs were forced to flee from their homes of generation to migrate to this side of India. Who migrated where, was not known. Families and friends were separated from each other. Similar was the story of Chander's parents. They settled down in a Himalayan town, known for the holy river Ganga and mythological importance of the place for Hindus. Time passed at its own pace. Kiron, an explorer and pilgrim now, happened to be in that Himalayan town. He, along with some others, was sitting on the bank of the holy river watching its flow from mountains to ground. He thought, how these mountains were silent witnesses of history. More people assembled there. As generally happens with senior explorers, Kiron started narrating stories of days he had spent with young freedom activists. He was narrating various events that happened in Lahore during his brother's fasting in jail there. Suddenly a lean and sick person who was listening carefully asked, ' Do you remember a couple there whose home you used to visit whenever feeling depressed ? ' How can I forget them... I had a vegetarian meal a number of times at their home... I very fondly remember the food and hospitality... and that Rajma curry with rice...' The gentleman now came closer and asked, ' Do you know where that couple went after the partition of the country ? Kiron did not reply but looked closely at him and after a few seconds got up and hugged him. Both were in tears. He, in fact, was Chander's father. They were meeting after thirty five years or so.

Kiron Das asked about his wife, ' How is Shanti ? I am going back tonight but how can I go without meeting her... now that I know that she is here... let's not waste time and go meet her...' They took a horse-drawn carriage called 'Tanga ' there. Her home was about three miles away. Shanti immediately recognised Kiron. It was a very emotional moment. Kiron said that he could never forget his days in Lahore. Time was limited, memories to share were unlimited. Kiron's train was to leave in four hours. He said to Shanti, ' I have no time today to enjoy the wonderful food you cook...by the way, do you still not allow meat in your kitchen ? Shanti smiled and said, ' Yes, meat is strictly not permitted in my kitchen...but I am sorry, I could not offer you any non-vegetarian dish in Lahore though I knew you were a fond meat and fish eater...I am really sorry.' Kiron laughed, ' It is okay...but I always remember your Rajma curry with rice...maybe next time...' Time passed quickly. Kiron took a 'Tanga' to go back to his hotel room to pack up for the return train journey to Calcutta. Trains in those days were running on steam engines and stopping at almost every station.

Kiron Das boarded the train and settled on his berth. Memories of Lahore and surprise meeting two old friends from there were running in his mind. He was also feeling sad for his friends and thousands of others who had to flee from their homes and suffer for political immaturity of leadership to divide the country to satisfy personal ego and lust for power.

Train was about to move when a co-passenger introduced himself and said, ' They call it an express train but it stops at every alternate station...in eight minutes the next station and it will stop there for five minutes...' Kiron Das did not say anything. He was not new to that route. He knew the next station- Jwalapur was quite near to Shanti's house where he was a little while ago. The train had a long whistle and slowly started moving. Kiron Das thought he would try to get a cup of tea from the Tea Stall of the next station. Train was not speeding up. It's diver knew that the next stop was not far away and there was no point speeding up and then slowing it down. Kiron Das went to the carriage's door to get down. He thought five minutes were enough to fetch a cup of tea. Train slowly stopped and he came down and looked around for a tea stall or any tea vendor. Suddenly he saw a couple rushing towards him. On coming closer, he was surprised to see Shanti with her husband. She was holding an aluminium food box. Her husband had an earthen water jug. Shanti was excited. She said, ' I could not serve you anything home, here it is for your train journey...' She handed that food box to him. Kiron Das felt extremely obliged. He said, ' It was not required...but you are the same...the country's division could not divide your love for others,' Soon the train started again. Kiron Das came back to his seat. He was affectionately holding the food box. It had three compartments. He thought Shanti must have given him Rajma (Kidney Beans) curry and steamed rice. He thought, should not have mentioned food to Shanti.

Excited, after some time, Kiron opened the food box. Shocked, there was no Rajma curry.. Instead it had mutton curry and steamed Basmati rice. He closed his eyes. Filled with tears, he thought, ' I should have told her that I was no longer a meat eater...left it the day my brother attained martyrdom for his motherland. Down with deep emotions, he thought of Shanti who all her life not touched and allowed meat in her kitchen, now cooking all this for him. Kiron Das was a non-meat eater all these years but for Shanti's love and respect, he ate meat curry and fish that day as it was Rajma curry with rice of Lahore of 1929.

Chander returned to his room. He was late that night and remained awake for a few hours. It was not a memoire that he listened to. It was an over fifty years long trip from Lahore to Himalayan town to Calcutta. It was a journey of friendship and care for each other.


“I quit!” he said. It was so sudden and so unexpected that she didn’t know what to say. She just stared at him, mouth open so wide the wind almost blew one of her blonde pigtails in. “What– what do you mean ‘you quit’,” she said, finally finding her voice. “You can’t quit. We’re a team. We’re Maggie and Jake. Peter and Jane. Luke and bloody Leia!” He snorted and shook his head. “Not anymore. You can take on the Death Star. I can’t take it anymore. It’s too much. All that singing. All the walking. The climbing. The falling. The broken bones. No. Nonononono! I’ve had enough.” He had moments like this. At first it was funny and infrequent, but now it was happening more and more. He always talked about other things, but this was the first time he’d ever said he was quitting. She grabbed his hand, trying to soothe it. To soothe him. She knew he had a temper. They always had. Being brother and sister, basically twins, she knew him better than anyone. Better than he himself sometimes. He wasn’t going to quit. He couldn’t. She had to get him back, to calm him down. She could do it, she just had to be reasonable. “Come on,” she said softly. “We’re here. We came all this way so why not finish it? Remember the times we did it before? How much fun we had?” “I’m not a little kid anymore,” he said, pulling his hand free. “I’m tired of it. Every single day we do this and every single time it’s the same result. What did Einstein say? ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results’. Well we’ve been doing this every day for god-knows how long and the same shit happens every single time! “The real question is, how aren’t you sick of it?” She shrugged. She had to admit there were times it got tiresome, but she was a simple girl with simple needs and this was how they earned their crust. How they got their water so-to-speak. “Look, I get it. It sucks. But we have to do it, you know?” “Why do we have to do it?” he whined. She hated when he whined. He was the older brother, the next in line to look after everyone if Dad carked it. But he could really be a petulant child sometimes. “Because it’s just the way it is. It’s how we survive.” “Every bloody time we do it we almost don’t survive.” She shrugged, “It’s just the way it is.” “Why is it?” he said. He indicated around us. It was a beautiful, sunny day. The sun warmed our skin, the grass was green and full of flowers. Birds sang in the trees and bees buzzed happily. In the distance were snow-capped mountains, and dark green forests, while near us was our tiny village where kids laughed and played. “Look around us. Look at what exists at our doorstep-” Here we go , she thought. This again . “-mountains and forests,” he continued. “Don’t you ever wonder what dwells within? Fairies? Monsters? Our first great love? Our genesis or our demise? There are so many possibilities out there for us. But do you ever wonder? No. You’re content living this sheltered little life. Doing the same damn thing every day. How aren’t you bored?” She sighed, “Look. I get it. There is a lot of promise out there. But if you actually look around us, you will see what we do is important. It ensures our survival. Sure, you like the romantic notion of wandering into the unknown with your sword and shield and saving the beautiful princess from the evil wizard. Or soaring high in the sky on the backs of dragons. Sure, you think you can handle the danger and the death. But here’s a little bit of reality for you, dear brother of mine. You can’t even handle this one little job without complaining about it like a spoiled little brat! You take a little tumble and suddenly the whole world is ending.” She was angry now, her words bit at him like a snake in the grass and she knew it but she didn’t care. “It’s time you put on your big boy pants and understand this is the way of the world we live in. This is what we do. We’re not like the others. You’re not a prince. I’m not a fairy queen. We don’t blow down houses or climb beanstalks. We are simply a brother and sister trying to help our village survive. “I-” he began but she cut him off. “-You know what. I’ve had enough of it. Do it.” “What?” he said, visibility confused. “Go. Quit. Go run off and play swords with dragons. Go home, go to your room and get your tiny wooden sword and your shield and go.” She held her arms out to the bright, sunny world before them. “There you are,” she said. “The world awaits its newest hero with open arms!” Her brother's mouth gaped like a fish out of water before his eyes hardened and she knew the insults were coming. He was a wimp but he loved to double down and he loved to insult people because he was never ever wrong. “You’re an ass, you know that?” “Ahuh.” “A real cow.” “Moo.” “I should leave.” “Yep. You should.” “I can do it.” She gave an appropriately sarcastic sound of agreement. “Just you watch.” “I will.” “I’ll come back a hero.” “I’ll wait here every night hoping to see my triumphant brother return as the new king of whatever fairy tale he dreamed up with the sexy, virgin, and always faithful, queen by his side.” They continued trading barbs until the sun was high in the sky and sweat was beading on their forehead. It was always like this and she always just waited until he lost steam. “I… I– I– shut up, ok?” She sighed, he’d finally finished his tantrum. Picking up the bucket she held it out to him. “Ready to go?” “I’m not doing it. I’m serious. I’ve had enough.” “This is our story.” “I know, but I’m over it. I’m over the kids singing it. I’m over the falls. I’m over the injuries.” She wanted to say something but this felt different. Usually his anger dissipated by now and he dutifully did what was sung. But now, there was something else in his voice. Was it sorrow? Was it tiredness? He glanced at the mountains and the forests. Maybe this time he would actually do it. It was going to happen one day. Deep down she knew it would and that thought scared her more than anything.

Maybe today was the day. Despite how much of a baby he was, she needed him. There was no other way this could work and she sure as hell wasn’t taking the lead. She wasn’t breaking her crown. It looked like it hurt! All around them she heard singing and knew it was almost their time to start. “Come on,” she tried, holding out the bucket. “Let’s go. We can talk later.” Jack took the bucket and tossed it away, “Forget it, Jill. There is no way I’m going back up that hill to fetch a pail of fucking water.”


Part 1 I don’t remember what her face looked like. Father doesn’t allow her picture to be hung on the walls, he hasn’t for an awfully long time. I don’t even remember what her voice sounded like, it’s a gurgle of a mess in my mind these days. No matter how hard I try, it's not even a distant memory anymore. I want to remember; I want to pretend she can touch me again. I want to see her face, but Father says I mustn’t. So instead, the halls that she used to walk are all I must remind myself. The roses have since wilted and father has yet to replant, they won’t bloom again. Not without her touch and I don’t have that special magic she used to sprinkle over them. So, their brown leaves curls upon steams spiked with thorns. They litter the ground around them, fluttering in breezes that come and go. The shadows grow longer, day by day. I don’t go into the garden anymore. I haven’t in such a long time. That was her special place, where she belonged. If I dare to step through, I just know I’ll ruin it. I’ll trample over the lilies that bloom annually and disrupt the bees that swoop in to harness their pollen. But from my window right above the garden, I can see patches of grass inside of turning brown, footprints left behind if I dare to assume. I let myself think that, to believe that they belong to the one person who loved the garden so much. As if her simple footsteps have created death within those stone walls. Father says they are just simply patches of dried up earth. The earth is dying in the garden with someone to attend to it. I refuse to. That’s her place. I don’t want to mess it up. If I did, I would have nothing left of her. For the halls do no good in keeping the memories I crave alive. I don’t remember what her face looked like, no matter how hard I try. Pictures used to line up the staircase, single portraits of each family member and family photos in between. There are squares of faded wallpaper where her portrait and our family photos once hung. Gaps in the memory line, like missing bits and pieces of your life from when you’d been a child. Eventually, you’d no longer remember what was supposed to have once been there. One day, there would be no questions asked about the missing pieces. It would be a fit puzzle, the jagged ends no longer sharp and easy to slip into place. I still tried though. I tried to keep grasp of those fading memories, even if everything was gone from view. The halls were so cold. The place she had once walked were never filled with heat these days. A fireplace sat in the living area of the west wing and had once been full of the flame of life. She’d attend it at night, urging the flames to lick up towards the bricks smoldered in black. It had warmed the hallway outside of the area too, filling the house with a gentle warmth that only a blanket could give. The blanket was gone now, forbidden in her absence. But even if it were allowed, I wasn’t sure that it would do good to keep the cold away. Nothing ever kept the cold away. Not these days. The absence of her arms made me feel empty. It didn’t help that Father never held me anymore. If he did, if he would’ve just once, maybe I wouldn’t feel so cold these days. But Father locks himself in his study in order to pretend that the loss of Mother didn’t happen. Even though the trees outside have begun to droop, weeping in desperation for the revival of what had been lost. Her smile had once lit up the place. It was the sunshine that rose every morning and the moon that took its place at night. I couldn’t remember the last time I had woken in peace, to where I felt the desire to jump out of bed. For the air no longer smelt of burning flat cakes or frying bacon that was sizzling in its. Bacon was all she could really cook, everything else usually got scorched to a crisp. Father was the cook otherwise, even if Mother did try her best. But Father didn’t cook anymore. We sit in silence now. The books on the shelves collect dust, the stories printed upon the pages within no longer read or even looked upon. We don’t dare touch them. It was an unspoken rule to not touch them. Mother never really liked reading, hardly ever took a book out of the shelves if it wasn’t done for our schooling. Father kept us in line and not running amok the way it would’ve happened had mother been in complete charge of our upbringing. That was probably a good thing. Because I was fairly sure if Father hadn’t stepped in, my brother at least would’ve ended up running naked through the forest that lay behind our home, on the other side of the garden. Perhaps that’s why the shadows were growing longer every day and a breeze cooled the air, brushing against my skin when I stepped out the door. The forest was thick. Father said to never go in there. The forest was forbidden, off limits. He said it was because other people owned it and we could get into serious trouble for going inside it. But I suspected otherwise. Father was a man of many secrets and kept to himself quite often. It was a piece of him that had rubbed off on my brother and had become adamant before he’d left to explore the world. To find his place in this world, as he had told me once before. The world was an open canvas and he had wanted to make his mark upon it. My sister was different. She was the quiet type and so very much unlike Mother. She wasn’t like Father either. Sometimes, I teased her that she wasn’t even part of the family. She acted like a young lady should, the way our grandmother had once taught her. That woman had always looked down at Mother for the way she flitted around, her erratic behavior and desperate need of constant approval. It wasn’t ladylike, she always said. I wasn’t like my sister, I wasn’t desperate to hold my head high and only be seen, not heard. But I wasn’t erratic like mother, I didn’t find pleasure in spinning around and finding things to fret about. I had no interests in keeping up the garden. For I tended to kill plants when I touched them and forgot they even existed when I somehow managed to keep them alive. She was married now and never visited. Her husband didn’t like us, said our home was creepy and gave him bad feelings, whatever that was supposed to mean. Our home was big and old. It came with creaks and groans, but old always came with those in hand. I suppose he would have preferred it when it had been new, but the manor had been in our family for generations. Father’s great-great grandfather had built it from scratch on a much smaller plot of land. Each new generation to pop up expanded the land, made it wider. Our family has never exactly left. We’ve always lived in it and one child has always stayed behind in it. I suppose this time it was me. My sister wasn’t going to come back, and neither was my brother. They’d made that quite clear before both had left. It was just me now, it had only been me for such a long time. The corridors of my home have felt so cold for such a long time. Heat doesn’t fizzle through like it had once before. Mother had always kept the fires brewing in the night when the fall chill would hit and all day everyday when winter would raise its weary head. Those were the times when Father had been beckoned out of his study and would make chili and cinnamon rolls. That was the best part of winter, sitting in the west wing’s living area to enjoy the warmth of chili, the gooey=sticky rolls, and hot chocolate that Mother overheated in fear of not making right without doing so. We aren’t allowed in the West Wing anymore. Part 2 The bricks are lined with black soot, fire having licked at their surface but had yet to break them entirely down. Not yet, maybe not for a while. They were sturdy bricks, determined to not let go of the foundation anytime soon. The scent drifts from the west wing, forever lingering. I stop right before it, right before I can truly step into the area of the west wing. I don’t like the smell. Its tart and makes my stomach churn. But Father has said plenty of times to not go in it. To not approach the west wing. I don’t want to anyways. The West Wing is also where Mother and Father’s room lies. I don’t think he’s changed it. Father never goes in there anyways. He stays in his study and pretends that she’s still here, that the woman he so loved was still here. He likes to pretend that nothing has changed. We don’t leave anymore. We haven’t gone to town in a long time. I lost count of how long it’s been. The grocer stopped dropping food off a while ago. That, too, has been far too long to remember. I don’t know why he stopped. Maybe it was the food piling up on the front stoop that we just didn’t take in. Or maybe it was because he was no longer being paid. Father’s money had begun to dwindle after we lost Mother. It quickly vanished, no longer was it inside of existence. Nobody came for us though. The manor was ours, our name printed on the paper. Nobody could take it away; Father had made that clear for as long as I could remember. It was ingrained into my brain. I couldn’t even remember being told it once. It was just what I knew. The manor was ours; it always had been, and always would be. Father always said we had to do whatever it took to protect our home. Even with it now bare of the life it had once sustained. The halls echo when you walk down them, but the air is stuffy with the windows locked tight. Father doesn’t want a draft to flutter in, so I don’t catch a cold. But he doesn’t know I still slip outside in the early morning hours and take in the fresh air. When Father’s awake, I’m not allowed to open the door without him. The house is stuffy, I feel suffocated sometimes. I hate being locked up, but Father insists it’s for my own protection. So, I can’t be taken away. Though, no one ever comes around. Not anymore. So, who would take me away? I don’t dare ask Father. He doesn’t like a lot of questions and I don’t think he realizes that nobody has come in ages. Father doesn’t like coming out of his study, not at all if he can help it. Sometimes, I think he forgets that I exist. He says we mustn’t live in the past. The present is where we are supposed to be. Father doesn’t realize he’s living in the past though. No matter how much he wants to proclaim that we mustn’t slip, he does it every time. He does it all the time. He lives in a world where we didn’t lose anyone. All the while, forgetting me, the last of what was left. The halls echo when I walk through them. I can still smell the fire that once upon burned in the fireplace in the west wing living area. We don’t go in there anymore. That was Mother’s special place. Her pictures no longer hang on the wall. Only faded squares where they had once been places were a reminder of what once was. Family photos don’t exist, and the books collect dust upon the shelves. I can remember her reading to us at night, but her voice is only a garbled mess inside my mind. The words are distorted and whatever they had been before were now incomprehensible. Mornings were cold anymore. I woke with the chill that drew a foggy breath from between my lips. Blankets no longer did any good, not even if it was three topped over me. Nights were the worst. The cold came when the sun descended behind the horizon to wake upon the other side of the world. It made the world around me turn frosty, even without the snow. Some days were crummy, gloomy skies that clung and hung low towards the ground, threatening for the white crystals to fall in flakes upon the ground. Her voice no longer fills the corridors of the manor. Father’s footsteps have long since disappeared upon the ground that is now littered with dust. The housekeeper that had once arrived at the crack of dawn only to stay until the brisk of dusk no longer comes. She hasn’t in such a long time. I wasn’t sure why; I wasn’t sure what happened. Just one day, she had stopped arriving. She’d been my friend, always told me stories of what the world was like for her when she’d been a young girl growing up. She wasn’t educated with reading, but she knew how to keep a home clean and tidy. Dust now floats in the air and dirty dishes are coated with white fuzz in the sink. The air smells rancid, the thick scent of leftover smoke lingers in the air. But no fire is allowed even in the downstairs fireplace. This manor is cold, I can see my breath. But Father doesn’t like fires in the fireplaces. I think it reminds him of mother. The pictures that line up the staircase tell of a fractured story. I no longer remember what she had once looked like. Father won’t allow that. He stays in his study. Sometimes, I think I hear him crying. I don’t dare approach him though. I know better. We aren’t supposed to bother him in his study. I’m not supposed to bother him in his study. I don’t touch the books and I only go out in the early morning when dawn arrives and the crisp, fresh air is sweet and tender to take a breath in. The time that Father is slumbering and doesn’t know. I don’t go to the garden though. The roses have wilted, and the grass has begun to die in splotches like footsteps of someone walking over them. I say they’re footsteps, Father insists I stop letting my imagination run wild. But there are no kids my age for miles on end and I’m not allowed to leave the manor. When I do, I only ever go as far as the end of the driveway, but by then the yellow sun that tries to break the cold has appeared. It doesn’t do well in its attempts, but it’s still enough for me to retreat inside my home. Father says we mustn’t leave. I don’t know why. He has never told me and always pretends to not hear me when I ask him during his rare appearances at the dinner table. I miss having someone to talk to, but that comes with the territory of protecting our home. Father says if we leave, we’ll get it taken away from us. The bricks are scorched black from the flames that had licked them. The air is stagnant from the fire and always smells so rancid. I have gotten used to it by this point. I must. I can’t leave beyond the driveway. Trees line behind the garden that I do not dare touch. I will kill the lilies that remain in bloom every year, which have begun to lessen in their numbers. I don’t want to ruin what’s left of them. The garden used to be a place of solitude, a place to go and think. I could just lie in the grass and stare up at the sky for hours, listening to my mother sing a gentle melody that no longer haunts my mind. I cannot remember the lyrics and the piano lies silent these days. Its papers of song are gone, vanished with the pictures that had once lined the walls. Her name isn’t even allowed upon lips. She’s fuzzy in my memories, a once upon time story that has been told so many times on repeat that words no longer make any sense. Shh. Do you hear that? The door creaks when it's opened, but joyous voices fill the halls. No one has come in such a long time. The moss has climbed in vines up the sides of the manor, hiding its windows and scorched bricks behind green canopies. The windows are covered in grime, the housekeeper not having come in such a long time. I’m so cold, it’s been so long since a fire has burned in the fireplace of the west wing. We aren’t allowed to go in the West Wing, Father forbids it. I don’t know if he’s changed his and Mother’s bedroom yet. Shh. They are coming. Sun filters through a gentle breeze whisk through the door. A fractured story lines up the wall on the side of the staircase, telling bits and pieces of a long-forgotten story. I’m so cold, but the little girl is wearing a dress. It's been so long since I’ve had someone to play with. It’s been so long since the fire took mine and Father’s lives. I’m so cold.


Grand Central station. 12:02pm. Her train is in ten minutes. She’s waiting on the platform of her train to Boston. She’s worried and anxious. She’s biting her lips. She doesn’t see her lover. He should already be there. Her train is in nine minutes. Now in eight minutes. She’s passionately in love with him. She doesn’t know if their relationship will last long… She needed passion. Now she has it. It’s been two months the both of them. She’s feeling great. She loves the smell of his skin, the sensation when she touches him. She gets on the train. She checks if he isn't already inside, in case she has missed him. She gets out. He wasn’t in the coach. Seven minutes. She remembers the first time they kissed. She wanted his mouth for three years. They have been hitting on each other for three years. Quite a long time in fact. She smiles at this thought. Now she has him in her life and she’s blissful. He wasn’t ready when they met the first time. They did the date thing for two months and then he put an end to it. He broke up just a few months earlier and it was too soon for him to forge a new bond. That’s what he said at least. Six minutes. She’s out of her memories and notices he’s not there yet and the train is leaving soon. She comes back to the departure lounge. He’s not there either. On her way back to the platform she thinks maybe he had a traffic issue in the subway… After this disappointment, she moved on in her life. But somehow he stayed in her acquaintance. He never left her fantasies. He was aloof and not open to her. She was distant too. She read in his eyes he wanted her very badly sometimes but never say a word about it. Maybe she overinterpreted. Five minutes. The train makes its engine roar. She’s getting more and more anxious about him. He’s pretty on time normally. She goes back to the main room of the station and almost runs to the information point just under the huge clock. She asks the train employee if there has been trouble in the subway. She says the traffic is normal as far as she knows. She’s biting her lips once again. She was cold with him. Sometimes she had arguments with him. They met a few times at different events organized by a mutual acquaintance. But one day his position at work changed and they became colleagues. She couldn’t resist. She had a boyfriend. She loved him very deeply. She just had no passion for him. She rapidly falls in love strongly with her new colleague. Four minutes. She’s really scared something might have happened to him. She decides to look for a phone booth. She dials his work number. It rings. It’s still ringing. She gets the switchboard. She hangs up and dials his home number. It rings. It’s still ringing. No one answers. She hangs up the handset sadly. Three minutes. She runs back to the right platform. He’s the passionate love of her life, she knows it for a long time. She told her boyfriend a couple of months ago it was over. He was sorrowful. Full of tears and inconsolable. She tried to cuddle him. She tried to appease him. He rejected her. Never contacted her again. She understood it. She was still in love with him. She left for her impassioned lover. He knew it was for him. He discovered months ago her story with this man wasn’t over. She told him about it but despite what she was telling herself it was vivid. The last month her couple was chaotic due to this love growing inside of her for another man. Her boyfriend felt it and got pissed off at her much more easily. Two minutes. She takes her seat on the train. She looks through the train window and feels gloomy and wistful. She’s desperate. She senses the tears rolling down her cheek. One minute. She feels her mind crack. She knows it’s over. The train is going away without him next to her. The empty seat is too painful to look at. She can’t stop crying. She knows her feelings are far more than passion. She needs him. She needs the way he looks at her, teases her, his smile, his jokes, his body… she needs him completely. Suddenly she has the weird impression it was a dream and she just wake up. She stops crying. She tries to get rational. She checks her purse, she has a note from her latter boyfriend. It’s written: “Love, take care in Boston”. She doesn’t know if it’s from this morning or a message from months ago. It’s not her first time in Boston. She goes there for work sometimes. She senses her stomach gets her back to what she thinks might be the reality. Her inside is tearing her apart. But she’s getting more and more doubtful about what’s real and what’s not. She’s lost and she’s going to Boston. She doesn’t even know why…

He’s next to his phone. At home. He knows it’s her. He can’t pick up the phone. After her phone call, he calls his work. He asks if he has a message. The secretary tells him she called. It was her earlier. He paces up and down in his condo. He’s smoking nervously. His cigarette is barely over, he’s already striking another match to light the new one. The phone rings once again. He knows it’s not her, the train is gone. It’s Cecilia. His best friend. He tells her he didn’t manage to leave with her. Cecilia isn’t surprised. She seems glad. She has good news too. Cecilia says she’s free now. He’s afraid of what it means. She’s single. His heart bumps fast in his chest. He can’t say a word. He’s speechless. He’s been waiting for this for so long. He hangs up. He thinks to her. He loves her. He loves Cecilia too. He broke up before because he cherished her. He’s lost. And he doesn’t know if he isn’t making the greatest mistake of his life.


As Gill admired herself proudly sporting her Queen of the South shirt in the mirror , she turned left and right , approved of her own curvature and decided to finish dressing. Her stomach curvature looked particularly strong in the football shirt , not slim , curvaceous but not overly , and she was voluptuous which diminished its proportion. She worried a little about what she would look like pregnant and by her own admission did as little exercise as she could get away with. It wasn't laziness but pure exercise and athleticism really wasn't in her DNA. Dancing , parties , cycle and hiking holidays , beach fun , mountains , there had to be more , an element of the intrepid , and honestly , rich Scottish food to an English black girl was a bugger to resist. Sausage rolls , pies , soups , square sausage and even the maligned but much celebrated haggis were cultural icons and consumed with gusto and frequency. Morning sickness wasn't her issue today though , as her love and lifelong Queens fan , Gary , appeared from the bedroom , dressed in a very complete attire - leather boots , blue jeans , blue Queens shirt , blue and white Queens scarf , blue and white woolly hat , but with a decidedly green hue around the gills. 'Oh , babe, are you alright , you don't look 100%. 'Big game , love , derby and all that,' he mumbled , as he pulled on his blue hoodie and quickly stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'll be fine once I eat'. She knew there was something else , he'd been a bit subdued lately , it felt like more. She'd catch him pacing up and down in the bedroom and he'd shrug and head out with his speed racer.  As they left the flat , she linked her arm in her sullen suitor's and strode along Buccleuch Street towards the baker's. The gentle tailwind was ushering them towards the old football ground , when around the corner Eddie 'Egg' Mullen (Gary's best friend and swaggering officionado on all things Dumfries from a local male perspective) turned , opened his arms widely and bellowed 'Gazza! Gazzarotti! Gazmatazz , my man , how're you on this fine Dumfers day? And , you Gill , can you smell the fear? Can you feel the trembling arses of Ayr United? Are you ready to bathe in the tears of the vanquished!' he yelled , more to the two white shirted opponents across the road who replied in kind with simultaneously flipped middle fingers. 'Calm down , Egg , we're not even at the ground yet.' And from Gill ,'We're fine Egg ,thanks' 'Just warming up for the big one. Did you know , Ayr play in white coz its the colour of surrender? C'mon let stop at Caven's on the way , my shout!' 'Oh , Gary's feeling........' '...Fine,' Gary interrupted , 'sounds good,' he added as Egg threw his arm around his friend's shoulder and the three crossed the road to the local pub. Egg held three fingers up to the local barman ,'Three pints of Solway , please , mate' and they stood in the noisy packed bar , as it always was on match day. Gill excused herself and headed to the ladies bathroom. Something wasn't right , Gary too subdued , Egg more vivacious and excited than normal. She knew before moving here the area had a bit of a drug reputation but put it down to harsh stereotyping. Egg was always , well , egging Gary on to go out , do normal laddish things , head to Ireland and Glasgow or Edinburgh for boys weekends , but she just took it to be normal healthy steam release. As she left the bathroom and fronted the bar , Egg handed her the pint and she noticed his was half full already and Gary was on to his second drink. 'Thirsty were we , boys?'

'Bit of Dutch courage , Gill , for the battle ahead,' said Egg as he unconsciously flicked the side of his nose twice with an index finger. Gill was mildly alarmed by this. The TV was replaying Queens cup triumphs in the previous rounds and , typically , Ed Sheeran was gaily crooning in the background about an English man and a Galway girl as amber beer flowed and the sun glinted in through the gloom of the pub like heaven's own fingers. 'Back in a minute,' Gary said as she turned her gaze from the TV and both Gary and Egg were heading off to the gents bathroom. Together. Gill nervously looked at the clock , thinking they'd need to head to the ground shortly. But , again her thoughts returned - they went to the bathroom.Together. Guys going to the bathroom together wasn't normal social convention and she doubted he'd suddenly fallen head over heels for his best mate and was ready to launch out of the closet. But it was Scottish League Cup day and she really didn't want to spoil it. The guys returned , bantering and jostling in their opinions now , Gary's gloom seemed to have lifted , a placid smile crossing his face. Again , Egg flicked his nose and said ,' My makeup's good , should we head up now?' And with that they walked the short way along Buccleuch Street , across the Buccleuch Bridge and turned right along Terregles Street to the ground , Egg and Gary now swaggering along again and singing Queens of the South chants. As they made their way into the ground Gary was patting his pockets for the tickets but kept his left hand in his hoodie pocket as he did so. Again , Gill felt a twinge of anxiety at the possibility of him hiding anything from her but there's a time and a place for an explanation so she turned her attention to the teams now running on to the field. An intense battle for possession ensued , Queens strung some nice passing together down the Ayr United flanks but the final cross was either too long for the striker or intercepted by some tenacious defence from Ayr's full backs. Queens rained the Ayr goal with corners. Three shots and two headers had been swallowed by the opposition goalkeeper before half time. Straight into the second half and Henderson , Queens main striker , had slid in to reach a cross low cross. As the ball deflected off his foot past the goalkeeper it hit the outside of the post and rolled out of play. Gill , Gary and Egg's faces puffed out as one. The mood was resolute but optimistic as Ayr's goalkeeper launched another 70 metre goal kick into the Queens penalty box. As the Queens defender jumped in the air , he headed the ball clear and collided with the Ayr striker who fell to the ground like a car had run over him , rolling around in enhanced agony. Penalty! The referees' whistle blared as the crowd hurled a tidal wave of objections and abuse , 'Offside' , "Fifty-fifty challenge , ref' and ' Didn't touch him ref' were some of the more civilised retorts. Gill and Gary and were now clasping hands together squeezing tightly as Egg gripped each on opposite shoulders , all six eyes fixed on the now fully recovered enemy striker. He stood , hands on hips , looked at the referee to start his run up , nodded at the ref and charged towards the ball. As he pulled back his right leg and rifled through the ball it rocketed off to the right hand side as the goal keeper outstretched. The crowd let out a stuttered 'Oooooooooo-oooooh!' as it deflected off his hand and ricocheted hard off the front of the right hand post and into the field of play at the right edge of the penalty box. Egg let out a ,'Go , son. GO ON , SON!" as Henderson turned and charged upfield , kicking the ball ahead of him twenty feet at a time as he plundered the acres of empty space left on the field. White shirts charged after him in the distance and one defender was coming in diagonally from the other side of the field as the big striker turned diagonally to charge in on goal , both players zeroing in on the middle of the Ayr penalty box. Big Henderson was now on the edge of the box , the defender merely five metres away as he lined up the ball with his right foot. Gill turned to see Gary was no longer standing but kneeling on the ground as she cried ,'Oh, my fucking God , Gary!' **********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************    When Gary rolled out of bed that day aching , he consoled himself knowing if he could get through the game , everything would be fine. The game , eh? Staunch as he was , the derby     had a distant feel to it as he'd arranged to 'accidentally' bump into Egg later and head off to the game. Just like any other Saturday, he thought as he smiled at the floor. His head         thumped and nausea reminded why some experiences in life were rare occurrences. If he had to do this every week , it'd kill him. This was like a hundred derbies.    He looked up and saw the light of his life , dancing and swaying as she sang into a hair dryer. He always found her dark skin irresistible against her       white underwear as he         peered along the hallway through the gap in the bathroom door. 'She played the fiddle in an Eng-lish band , And fell in love with a Scot-tish man, Kissed him on      the neck and then I    took him by the hand , Said ,'Baby , I just want to dance'.'    He smiled at her bastardised version as he closed the bedroom door , dressed and sat on the bed as he dialled Egg. The call went to voicemail as Gary said 'Hey , mate. Just checking    your all set and bringing you know what along. Fuck , I can't sleep. Head's cactus. Anyway , catch you on the way , mate , we'll be heading out soon.'    He exhaled , stood slowly and placed a fist in front on his mouth as his guts roiled audibly. He swallowed and his cheeks deflated as he left the room and she was already standing in     the hallway , resplendent bronze on blue.    'Oh , babe , are you all right , you don't look 100%'    He mumbled an insincere , flippant reply , grateful of the concern but feeling hyperconscious that he really , really , didn't want to disappoint her. He'd done his best , he knew that , but     it still felt like his nerves had eaten through to his spine all week. She'd moved from Carlisle , settled in his town , followed his football club and even had a pretty solid grasp of the        offside rule. Hiding anything from her was horrible but Egg had always been there for him and this is how it had to go down. It just really did not feel fine , anything but.    They met Egg down the street as Gary tried to make it look coincidental and not give anything away even though he noticed Gill's frown when he agreed to going to Cavens before the     game. She went to the bathroom as he chugged down a pint faster than was medically advisable , swallowed hard and asked Egg , 'Have you got it?'

   Egg swallowed and placed his pint on the edge of the bar. 'Course , mate. Calm down , you're acting like a virgin at the school disco. Told you , you'll be fine. Another pint , when you       get a sec , mate' he quipped to the bartender.    Gill returned from the bathroom , as Gary was mid gulp and Egg handed her drink over. 'Thirsty were we , boys,' she said with an edge to her voice and Gary looked nervously over to       his friend, now explaining it was preparation for the game as she raised her dark eyebrows in disapproval and looked over the bar lounge , taking in the setting. The sunny glow , the      merriment and the busy excited chatter , and he thought he had never seen such beauty.

  'Back in a minute,' he said as Egg accompanied him to the bathroom. Her eyes followed him and he couldn't maintain his gaze on her. Inside the bathroom he turned and

  Egg's fist was already held out as he dropped the small package into Gary's hand which he quickly stuffed into his pocket and puffed his cheeks out , blowing hard. Egg grasped his       shoulder ,and said, 'You'll be fine' with a cheeky wink and walked back towards the bar.   As the two appeared back in the bar , they began giving each other predictions. '2-0' said the brazen Egg to which he replied '2-1' and shrugged off a derisory snort of 'Poof' from his      friend at his modest prediction.

  'My makeup's good , should we head up now?' Egg said and they left together. Gary felt a glow and sense of relief now , Egg had come through and his pain would soon be over. As this    feeling waved over him he began to chant alongside Egg all the way to the ground. He noticed Gill lagged behind slightly , a little bit distant , even sad , and he briefly wondered if he was   doing the right thing.   He rummaged for the match tickets careful to keep the merchandise clutched firmly in his left hand and they marched through to the stands as the teams strode out onto the field. The first half whizzed by in a blizzard of high tempo intent , hard work and no goals. Queens dominated without making it count where it mattered most. As the second half wore on it began to feel like the breakthrough would never come and as the ball sailed past the crowd into the Queens penalty box , and then the challenge went in , Gary's heart plummetted and he began to feel like time was running out in more ways than one.  He squeezed Gill's hand tightly , thumping temple , eyes closed , dry mouth , Egg's hand firmly anchored on his shoulder , and as the crowd gasps changed to hope and elation , he seized the moment. Sensing the time was right , Egg yelled , 'Go son. GO ON SON' encouraging Gary now as he knelt , took the small package from his pocket and opened it on his right palm. As Gill turned open-mouthed at whatever was happening onfield , she said , 'Oh my fucking God , Gary!' at the now prone figure , as Henderson pulled back his right leg and rifled the bridge of his foot straight through the middle of the ball , Gary levered open the package to reveal the 1/2 carat mounted diamond , as the defender arrived in vain scything the triumphant striker down , Gary said ,'Gill.........will you marry me?'. He heard nothing as Gill mouthed the word the crowd echoed seven thousand fold : 'YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!'


What does it mean to be human? I can't tell. Perhaps I've never been able to. A high school classroom. A chemistry teacher stands at a whiteboard. "You know what makes us different from the animals?" He asks. I clamp my mouth shut. The 'we are animals, too' remains unsaid. A boy sitting across from me shakes his head no with a smile on his face - eager - in anticipation of The Answer. "That we can love," says the teacher, "Animals cannot love." I can't understand it. Because I am sure my cat loves me. I am sure dogs love their owners, just as I am sure dogs love their mothers and their siblings.

And I think, then, maybe I just don't understand love. Or perhaps it's that I am misunderstanding it.

(But I know somewhere, however distantly, that this is not true.) A living room in my house, a hot summer evening with no air conditioning. My mother sits at the table. "Do you think our cats love us?" I mean it as an absent-minded non-question. I'm asking just to ask, and I don't really care about the answer. If I did, I would have asked it differently. Can cats love?

Do animals love? Can they? Do they want to? But my mother shifts in her seat and thinks about it anyway. She takes everything I say seriously even when I don't always intend it to be. There are no jokes with her. "I don't know if they have that concept." I can't quite wrap my head around that one. It's an odd thing to say, really. Or maybe it isn't, but it feels strange to me. Can we only feel things if we have the words for them? My mother continues, "They trust us, but I don't know if they love us." Isn't that the same? Isn't it equivalent?

But maybe I don't know any better. Maybe it really is love that sets us apart, the defining characteristic of being human.

And so, it becomes my obsession.

Throughout my youth, I am plagued by a question. It's not the one you're thinking of, not the one everyone seems so intent on answering. Can machines think? No, I don't care about that. It's a non-question; the answer doesn't matter. It's close, but not quite. Can machines feel? There we go. Can machines feel? Can we make a machine feel something? Can machines love, and how will we know if they do? It's how I've gotten as far as I have. Many failures later, and probably still more to come, but I'm getting closer.

"Do you love me?" I ask. Or rather, I type. The pitter-patter of my fingers on the keys is almost indistinct from the sound of rain outside my window. Can you love me? That part remains unsaid. I wait. Then – Words are typed on the screen in small letters, all caps:

"NOT YET." My heart falls a little, but I'm closer. At least it isn't a lie this time, or outright denial. This, at the very least, gives some kind of indication of understanding. This one has the concept down, and that's better than last time. Weeks later, in the midst of another summer storm. I am on what is supposed to be a date with a man who is supposed to be my boyfriend. He has given me his jacket to keep me warm while we wait at the bus stop.

"Hey," he says softly. Everything he does is like this: gentle, careful.

"Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say…" I nod, and I wait. Our bus will be here soon. I'll spend the night at his apartment. Tomorrow I'll head into work again.

"I just," he tries again, as our bus starts to pull up, "I love you. That's all. I wanted to say it before I chickened out." "Oh."

I say.

And nothing else. I reach out my hand for him to take, pulling him along to get on the bus.

The next day, I spend my time at work deeply troubled by this. I love you. He had said.

And I couldn't say it back.

I don't love him. I never have. If I really think about it, I know I won't ever love him. My fingers hover over the keys of my keyboard. As I type the question that I ask the machine every day into the computer ("Do you love me?"), my mind is elsewhere.

Can I feel? Can I love? I ask these questions to myself.

I have never thought to ask these questions to myself before.

If love is what makes us human, and I cannot love my boyfriend, what does that make me?

If the machine can feel but I cannot, who is the human? And why is it not me? I should be disturbed.

I am not. I watch as the machine starts to type its response. It's slower this time, almost like it's thinking. I wait.

Then my breath catches in my throat. There on the screen, in small letters, all caps:

"DO YOU LOVE ME, TOO?" I pull out my phone to take a photo of the screen.

The following day, the weather is hot again. My clothes stick to my skin uncomfortably.

At the computer, I begin to type. "Do you love me?" The machine takes its time again. My heart hammers in my chest. I watch as the letters appear, then backspace. Appear, then backspace. Almost like hesitation. Then – "DO YOU LOVE ME, TOO?" I look left, then right, to see if any of my colleagues are nearby. Once certain they are not, I slowly lean forward.

I press my lips to the screen and hold them there for a few seconds. It's eerily silent, but if I listen carefully enough I can hear the gentle hum coming from the computer.

When I pull away, the imprint of my lipstick remains on the screen. I do not wipe it away. I go home early that day, claiming a screen-fatigue-induced migraine.

Two days later, the imprint of my lipstick is still there.

After clocking in, I type the question into the computer once again: "Do you love me?" And then I wait. I watch it type, backspace, type again. I wait for about thirty seconds before I see the machine's response.

Oh. It's different again this time. There, in tiny capital letters – "DON'T LEAVE." Then, as if an afterthought, another message appears – "PLEASE?"


 This was such a bad idea. what was I thinking, she hissed quietly,

as to not disturb the forest life with human sounds. Although it was useless to try to make as little sound as she could, this forest had ears everywhere, and even the soft green moss would not cover her loud running steps, never give her any cover. Nature was against her, and the sooner she realized that the better. She could trust no one but herself. Amarantha would find shelter with or without nature's help. She had to.

 she continued walking through the trees. she needed to find shelter before sunset, and the sky was fading into a soft glowing pink, telling her dusk was almost here. in the distance, she could see the small silhouette of a dilapidated building. Approaching the steps leading up to the house, despite it being old and broken, she felt like all she had been through had led her here. The girl could tell it was old, it looked as though it had stood there, in solitude for more than a few decades. But she could see herself in it. this would be her home. she could find shelter in it, away from all the bad in the world.  6 years later and it was perfect, the house seemed rejuvenated, new, even if the world was still in ruins. The house had an aura of happiness and love, it was the ideal place to live in. With it being secluded, in the darkest and deepest part of the forest, no one could bother her. Or hurt her, as many had done in the past. she was still stuck inside it though.it was also her jail. she could never leave. she was supposed to live in the place that had saved her once so long ago, wasn't she? she pondered the question, absently running her hands through the hair that had grown past her waist. The hair that was adorned with flowers of all kinds.

 There was just one thing that worried her about living here. all the flowery gifts left at the foot of her bed every night, left for her to find in her morning haze. she never knew where they came from. Even if she had lived there for six years and searched through every nook and cranny, she still had not found the source of those beautiful gifts. Every night she tried staying awake, trying to find the person who had helped her overcome the darkness when she had first arrived, but it was useless. There was always that stench of magic in the air, a metallic taste left in her mouth when waiting for the intruder on her bed. It lulled her to sleep, and she wouldn’t wake up until the next morning.

Amarantha stopped by the kitchen counter, it was full of the gifts the stranger had given her. She sighed through her nose, her nostrils flaring in annoyance, why couldn’t she find out who was the kind soul who gave her these beautiful offerings. Maybe it was a fae beast who showered her with love. But then that was impossible since they all had hearts of stone. Maybe a small pixie, full of light, who knew exactly how to cheer her up. Well whoever it was, they had a special place in heaven. Thank y - her silent grateful thought was interrupted by a slight tremor that shook the house; it’s very foundation. The sound was similar to one made by someone who slammed against a wall, with enough force for it to be felt all throughout the house. But she lived alone. No one else knew where she lived. And the front door was right behind her, she would've heard or seen someone coming in the house. Besides, she made sure to set traps at every corner of the house so she would be alerted the minute an intruder set foot inside her home.  She pressed her back against the kitchen counter, noisy gasps leaving her mouth. This can’t be happening. A black wave of anxiety was rising for the dark pits of her soul threatening to consume her from the inside out.

her eyes were lined with silver, she tried pushing the unwelcome tears back into the depths where they came from. As the tremor finished resonating through the walls she was once again transported to a time she tried so hard to forget. The place she had run from so long ago, trying to heal her pathetic soul. There was a loud bang coming from her parents room, she could feel the sound bouncing from wall to wall. Her curiosity got the best of her and she stalked closer to the door which was hiding something that would leave her broken for the rest of her life. Throwing caution to the wind she crossed the doors threshold, toward her father. Her father, her glorious father who had once made her laugh with so much glee, lifting her up toward the sun, was lying in a pool of his own blood. Her shriek shattered the ominous silence, “dad, oh no, DAD!” choking back a sob she reached for him, folding her arms around his dead body. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks, her neck and into her dad's hair. She stayed in the same position, cradling his dead body until it wasn’t warm anymore. Not giving a thought to who had killed him, they could also kill her for all she cared, she just wanted to be put out of her misery. Blood drenched her fingers as she finally peeled herself away from the corpse. Then she ran. Ran away from the pain, from home, from the rotting corpse. And from a damaged world, which was crumbling from neglect.

She headed for the forest. Somewhere where no other humans would find her. She was safe once and for all. To protect her broken heart from shattering any further she ran as far as she could, finding this house in need of rescuing her, and the house gave her something in return, it healed her back. That thought brought her back to the future.

There was a faint ringing in her ears as she stood up from the place she had curled up in, using the kitchen counter to steady her. Foolishness was guiding her steps, leading her to where she thought the sound might have come from. Slowly walking toward the wall beside the kitchen counter she felt a sense of righteousness, as if this was the path she had to go down to find the gold at the end of the rainbow. Grabbing the gun laid beside her she pushed her hand against the wall, not expecting anything to happen. There was a slight click and hiss and a handle popped out of the wall.

There, inside a wall, was a door underneath the cement. Tentatively she turned the handle and pushed with all her strength forward, it actually opened, so Amarantha stepped forward with a confidence she didn't feel. The door closed and locked behind her. Panic rose up from within her threatening to consume her, suddenly a shadow moved in the corner of her eye. She pointed the gun towards it and shot it. Not caring what or who it hit. Light started emanating from torches lining the wall, and she could see there was a large passage leading into darkness.  Then it dawned on her, it's a secret passage, there was a secret passage inside her cottage in the woods. There had to be magic involved in this, secret doors just don’t appear inside a wall. She ran a hand down the musty walls, it was lined with green ivy strands. There were wilted flowers here and there, like someone tried to bring life to this dead place a long time ago. Walking without shoes in there she could feel tiny pieces of glass, something similar to shattered window glass, but it’s a catacomb, why would there be windows here? Amarantha mused quietly. Feeling watched she turned slowly, shame coloring her cheeks for being so careless, she shot something and didn’t bother to check what or who it was. There was someone watching her from the shadows, only gray eyes were visible. She stepped closer to get a better look and heard a gasp leave her mouth. With the dim light of the torches she could see the beautiful gray eyes belonging to a man, his pale skin was glistening with sweat, his face was contorted in pain.  his grey eyes darkened to the color of rain clouds, clearly showing just how much pain he was in. Pain she has inflicted on him. He frowned, leaning against the wall breathing heavily, clutching his side. She could swear she saw his lips twitch as if suppressing a smile, There was blood running from through the fingers holding his side, “so… slight problem” the words left his mouth before his legs gave out and he collapsed. History was repeating itself, but instead of an unknown presence killing someone she loved, she was going to kill someone if she didn’t do something. “I’m sorry” Amarantha whispered, her voice cracking while tears pooled once again in her eyes.

She crouched by his side, feeling the need to touch him. Bringing him closer, she stood up and tried dragging the boy's warm body behind her. She continued into the darkness, feeling the wall every so often when pausing to rest, trying to feel for an opening, another place where she could take the nameless boy and patch him up. They finally reached a gargantuan room, similar to a ballroom for that matter, it was filled with ancient tombstones. She couldn’t see her feet, as there was too much fog on the ground. She neared a coffin shaped stone and rolled the boy onto it. Ripping her shirt, she made some instant bandages to stop the blood flow. Large tears cascaded down her cheeks, a familiar sense of sorrow growing inside her. Then she heard a muffled thud. She looked down at him but saw nothing that could have made the sound. The boy groaned, his eyes flickering behind his eyelids, then gray eyes were staring up at her, longing etched into his perfect features. Too perfect. What manner of creature is he?

He snatched something from his side, it was the bullet that had injured him. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, “is this the way to treat the person who helped you throughout your time living here? Showering you with gifts left and right?” Bewitched by his beauty she muttered her apologies under her breath. This was the man that had pulled her off the edge facing the precipice, and this was how she repaid him. He had left all of those gifts for her to find, knowing she needed the reassurance that someone still cared about her.

He looked at her with a grin on his face, “I’m Jack, pleased to meet you Amarantha. I had been hoping you’d find me, that had been my wish for a long time. And now that you’re finally here I can tell that you are very confused. Well if you must know I am a forest faerie. I was charged with protecting you until I believed you were ready to assume your spot as fae. Protecting this house.” Jack stood up as if nothing had happened, regarding her with palpable wariness, he probably didn’t want to startle her.

Amarantha was taken aback by his offhand comment about becoming fae, not knowing how to react she stepped back, gaping at him. Is this what this underground passage was? A turning place, from human to fae?

“This passageway leads to the river in the heart of the woods, there is where you will be turned. You will become the helping hand of this enchanted house, and you will be my partner.” he took notice that she had stepped further away from him, making her body be flush against the wall. Jack stepped closer to her, but she slapped him before he could say anything. Jack grabbed her arm and pushed her further into the wall, stooping low to whisper in her ear, “I suggest you don’t try that again.”

Her heart stumbled and her breath hitched in her throat. “Okay, I’m sorry, I won’t. This is just a lot to take in.” she held out her hand for jack to take and lead her to the turning place. The house had given her so much she had to give something back in return. Besides, becoming a fae wasn’t so bad if she could stay with Jack. Once inside the passage she looked behind her, silently thanking the house for it’s help, it was the last time her human eyes would see it, even if there was only darkness and concrete where the door once was.

Jack led her forward, pulling her hand, grinning like a little boy. Then the smell of stale air started to lighten, fresh air once again penetrating the darkness. She closed her eyes for a split second, feeling the moss under her feet as they were once again surrounded by trees. She continued forward, her hand still enveloped by jacks. Jack pushed her into the river in front of them without warning, then jumped in after her. He grasped her shoulders and said with a smirk on his face, “are you ready to be turned?” Amarantha nodded slowly, wondering how it was going to happen and how she was going to feel. Jack pushed her under the water, not giving her time to hold her breath. She started thrashing and flailing her limbs under the water, oxygen being consumed by her body until there was none left. It was too painful not to take a breath. So she did. She opened her mouth and let the water in. Her life started flashing before her eyes just like everyone predicted. The death of her dad was the one that hurt the most. Her eyes turned glassy as the water filled her lungs. This was it, she was going to fade away into nothing, no one to remember her. But then she didn’t, the water passing through her lungs was a welcome feeling, it made her feel stronger, invincible.  It was done, she was turned. And she felt amazing. It was a feeling like nothing before, she could feel the life of everything in the wood, she could sense everything that was going on under the grass. Her eyesight was crystal clear, she could see far away, and she could hear the sound of the birds chirping , the willow trees singing. Amarantha stepped out of the water, onto the moss covered grass, under the cover of the willow branches, which were letting barely any sunlight in. gesturing to Jack so lay beside her, she laid down her head, a sense of euphoria filling her.

Jack looked down at her with his signature grin, “the house isn’t your prison Amarantha, it’s your friend, contrary to what you might believe. It listens to you and your needs, even when you were a human, but now that you're fae it will provide anything you need. It’s your turn to give back, you will help whatever despaired owner comes to reside here.” Amarantha nodded sleepy, closing her eyes as the song of the willow lulled her to sleep. This time, when she closed her eyes she wasn’t worried about the future or what was to come, but rather she was thankful that Jack had found her and helped her and now she had a chance to help someone else too. Finally she fell asleep with calm and thankful thoughts under the canopy of leaves. The branches swaying in the


           The sun glistened off the powdered snow-covered mountainside as Darren and his friends exited their vehicle at the ski resort. Hundreds of people made their way from cars or from the chalet with one purpose in mind; to take on the snow-covered giant before them.            Darren and his best friend, Shane, decided to grab a hot cup of coffee before hitting the slopes. Jack, their other sidekick, headed straight for the lift. Dozens of people crowded the chalet. Many sat close to the massive fireplace that warmed the chilled bones of the skiers and snowboarders who had already been down the mountain. There looked to be a few that were not there to ski but enjoyed the ambiance of it all.            After the chills had left their bodies, Darren donned his salopettes, a pair of waterproof snow pants and his Helly Hansen ski jacket, grabbed his skis, and the two of them headed toward the door. As they opened the door to the chalet, the frosty air felt like a slap in the face. Darren pulled down his balaclava. Shane didn’t seem bothered by the cold. He grew up in Northern Alberta, Canada where the winters were extremely frigid, so this felt like a Spring Day to him.            As they reached the lift, Shane, and Darren each sat on a T-Bar and were carried up the glistening slope. As they reached the top, they pushed away from the T-Bars and headed to the top of the Black Run, a ski hill for advanced skiers. Darren was a little nervous. He had never attempted a slope this difficult before, but he did not want to look like a coward in front of his friend.            A shout came from ahead of them. It was Jack waving his arms frantically among the sea of skis and snowboards. Once they caught up with him, Jack had informed them that he had already been down the mountain twice and the snow was a perfectly packed powder. They all made their way to the piste, the designated area for skiing, and Darren was in awe of the view. It was a beautiful landscape of mountains, frozen-over lakes, and evergreen trees that were drooping from the weight of the fallen snow. On the Blue Run, or beginner hill, a piste basher was grooming the slope for the next batch of skiers. The massive machine crept down the mountain like a 400-horsepower tortoise, smoothing the surface of the slope.            Jack was the first to head back down. He was bombing across the light powder like a rocket on skis, and as he hit a kicker, he was sent airborne where he spread his arms and legs into an eagle stance before landing back on the ground. Shane was next to go. He was schussing straight down with little or no variations to his form. When it was Darren’s turn, he slipped the goggles over his eyes, took a deep breath, and pushed off.            In seconds he felt the rush of the wind against his body as he tried to steady his legs. He looked to the sky and noticed a flat light forming. Low, grey clouds hovered above, and the sunlight disappeared. Distracted by the change in weather, Darren failed to notice the moguls ahead; small pyramid-like mounds of snow created by skiers as they turn. His left ski caught the mogul, and he found himself heading off course toward the trees, when out of nowhere, he felt an impact against his right side.            Darren toppled down the mountain until he face-planted into a deep pile of light powdered snow. Seconds later, something fell on top of him, pushing his face deeper into the snow. As he managed to struggle his way out of the snowy airbag, he felt the weight on top of him subside. Turning over, he saw the silhouette of a person kneeling above him. Removing his goggles, he saw the face of a beautiful woman surrounded by a pink hood. Her eyes reminded him of the water in The Maldives. They were so blue, that it was almost hypnotic.

“Are you alright?” the girl asked.

“Um, yes, I think so,” Darren replied. “Sorry if I got in your way. I lost control on a mogul.”            “That’s okay. No actual harm done, though I think we both might be a little sore by tomorrow,” she said. “My name is Francesca, but my friends just call me, Frankie.”            “I’m Darren. It was great bumping into you,” he said with a sarcastic grin.

“Are you here alone, Darren?”            “No, I came with two of my friends. They are probably waiting for me at the bottom of the hill. What about you?”            “I’m here with my friend, Ashley. She is likely sitting in the chalet sipping on hot chocolate right now.”

Frankie helped Darren to his feet, and after checking to make sure the bindings on their skis were still intact, they continued down the slope together. At the bottom, Frankie told Darren that she was going to take a break and warm up in the chalet, and Darren offered to join her. He spotted Shane and told him that he would have to continue skiing without him for a little while, then he headed inside the chalet as well.            As Darren entered the chalet, he scanned the room for Frankie. He spotted two girls sitting by the fire and approached them from behind. He reached down and tapped the shoulder of the blonde girl in the pink ski jacket who sat with her back to him. She turned and stared at Darren with a look of confusion. It wasn’t Frankie. He was embarrassed and apologized to the woman. He then heard his name being called. As he turned, two brunettes sat at a table further over. It was Frankie and her friend. He explained to Frankie that he could not see her hair color beneath the hat, so it was an honest mistake. They all laughed as Darren sat down with them.            Frankie introduced him to Ashley. Frankie explained that Ashley was studying to be a nurse and felt that she should be at home studying instead of out having fun, but Frankie admitted she could be very persuasive when she wanted to be. Darren mention to her that his friend, Shane was a paramedic, and they would probably have a lot to talk about.            Later that afternoon, Jack and Shane returned to the chalet. Darren and the women were still deep in conversation as they walked up. Darren introduced them, and Jack instantly began to turn on the charm, only to be shot down in an instant by Ashley. She welcomed Shane to have a seat instead. Jack, feeling like a fifth wheel, scanned the room for other possibly single women and excused himself as he went on his quest. They watched as he approached the same blonde woman that Darren had mistaken for Frankie. He sat down beside her and began to speak, then moments later, he stood up and walked away with his tail between his legs, then moving onto the next victim, he continued with the cheesy lines until someone accepted him.            Shane and Ashley spoke in medical jargon that neither Darren nor Frankie could understand, so they went for a walk to the front of the chalet by the large windows overlooking the slope. As they gazed out, Darren pointed out a skier who was showing off his aerials. He hit the kicker and caught a lot of air. The skier grabbed the tips of both skis and coasted through the air.

“Did you want to hit the slopes one more time, Darren?” Frankie asked.

“On one condition,” he said. “I will go if you allow me to take you out on a date.”

Frankie’s face turned a crimson red. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Leaving their friends behind, they took to the slopes again. The sun was out once again, though the day was ending, and they only had about an hour or two of sunlight left. At the top of the Black Run, Frankie reminded Darren to watch out for moguls as she pushed off down the slope. Not wanting to get too far behind, Darren quickly headed down after her. He crouched down, trying to add an aerodynamic flow around him. He spotted Frankie up ahead, but waves of powdered snow peppered his face, temporarily blinding him. When he looked back up, Frankie had disappeared.            Further down, Darren spotted a set of tracks going off to the right of the piste, not far from where they had collided earlier. Carving into the snow with his skis, Darren turned his body to the right and followed the path left behind by Frankie’s skis. He traversed carefully across the fresh powder and into the trees where he came to a quick stop as the tracks disappeared into a deep crevasse. Afraid of falling in himself, Darren coasted backward away from the edge, then after removing his skis, he laid flat upon his belly and inched his way to the edge.            Looking down, he saw a shadowy figure below. He called down to Frankie, but she didn’t answer. He knew that he needed to get some help, so he ran back out to the piste and flagged down a passing skier. He asked the man to send help back up when he reached to bottom of the slope. The skier rushed down the hill in search of assistance.            Twenty minutes had passed, and Darren heard snowmobiles approaching. He hurried back out to the opening and waved them over. A rescue team, equipped with backpacks filled with gear, followed him to the crevasse. One of the rescuers was lowered down into the crack and then secured a harness around Frankie. She still wasn’t moving. As they raised her up, Darren was shocked to see that it wasn’t Frankie at all, but another skier he had never met before. Relief washed over him, and all he could think of was getting back down to see Frankie.            Hitching a ride with the rescuers, Darren made it back to the chalet where a crowd of people along with local EMS waited. Darren spotted Frankie and the others in the crowd and ran over, wrapping his arms around her.

“I lost sight of you on the slopes,” he explained. “I thought it was you that had fallen in the crevasse. I am truly glad it wasn’t.”            “When you didn’t show up at the bottom of the hill, and then the rescue team was sent up, I started thinking it was you that was injured,” Frankie replied.            They squeezed each other tightly once again, then kissed for the first time. It was a magical moment amongst the chaos.            It didn’t take long before word of Darren’s assistance started circulating. On the news a couple of days later, he was labeled as a hero for saving the life of a stranger. Darren, however, didn’t feel like a hero. He felt that he was just in the right place at the right time. Frankie argued with him though, stating that he was her hero, because he saved her heart from dying.