Taj and Raj --- They are two brothers. They live in village. Taj is elder one. When he is 12 years old, Raj is then about 4 years old. One stormy night, the thunderbolt attacks very fiercely to destroy their home. At that time, their parents are died and they are going to live in a mournful state. Raj is very young. He can’t control emotion. The hardship attacks their lives as demoniac verse. Taj is started to do any work for leading a lively life and asking Raj to continue his study  so sincerely and perfectly. Taj had passed only five (05) classes. His dream is to see Raj as a successful one. He is succeeded in this mission. Now Raj is an established engineer in the professional platform. The story was turned to a new look. From village to town… Raj lived in town and Taj was in village. Raj had bought an apartment and called Taj to come and live with him. Taj came to town and the life was going on with a new verse, to touch the dreamy wave. That day was Raj’s Birthday. He will step in a new year---30 years of age. A party was held in the apartment. So many guests were came. Taj was also there but he felt so nervous. That was a very hard task for him. He thought about Raj--- “Raj is such a popular one and the guests are esteemed; within them, he can't withstand. He is a villager. He can't talk properly with anybody. He doesn't know about the decorum of a party. There's music and dance. This is known as DJ. So harsh sounds!!! How can they tolerate this??? He can't feel so good within this atmosphere , but still exists here for a long time." Raj asked me to come for joining the party. He told me--- "dear brother!!! Plz, stay with me. Don't feel shame. You don't need to copy anything . You're my parents, my family!!! You have spent your entire life for me. Even you never agree to marry. You always look after me as your child. Let me give you some lovely kisses. I can't return anything but I can recognize you as respectable one in front of all. I feel so proud to get you as my family, my dear brother!!!" I try my best to adjust but it's so tough for me. Still, I can't go back. After sometimes, Raj announces on the stage--- greetings dear all. Thank you so much to come and join with me. This day is very special for me. A new year is coming to welcome me. Let me pick your blessing shower. This year of my life is most outstanding.... I'm the In-charge of the Shah enterprise Ltd. They have offered me this appointment letter. It's a great achievement for me and I want to give this award to my dear family, my dear brother. I want to recite something only for my brother--- *** For a new turn**** "Amidst the darkness site I'm waiting for a divine spark You come with lovely heart Help me to sketch dreamy art Every moment turns to millennium By touching that cascade of love My heart is glowing like stars Angel comes in my earth Amidst the tumultuous verse I have lost my righteous way I'm waiting for God's gracious touch You come with pretty verse You hold my hands Shower the angelic rain Make the dreamy tower A new birth with spiritual power I get back my strength To stand up again The essence of lively life Spreads the eternal mirth I show my gratitude to Lord For helping me with magical plot Amidst all alluring sites A gemstone is still preserved Need a bit more time To pick that magical balm It will provide soothing verse At last the new turn of life is appeared onward verse" " A big hand for him--- Mr. Taj , please! come to the stage and cut the cake with me." I am so glad and feel so happy; also- so nervous. I' was not an educated person. How can I face all of them??? Raj comes and takes me with him. We are on the stage. All are clapping. We cut the cake. Congrats!!! Mr. Taj and Mr. Raj. The microphone is here--- Everyone asks me to tell something. What can I say??? I don't know so much. Very poor - my language!!! Raj tells--- brother say something. I take the microphone and start to say... " Thank you so much. I’m nobody at all. All is God's blessing. Raj has tried best at all times and achieved this goal. I am so happy for you, Raj. I have nothing to say, anymore. I lived in village. Raj asked me to come and lived with him. I love him so much and can't deny those words. I try my best to adapt the rules of digital era. So many errors are figured out in my speech….Sorry and thanks to all. Still, Raj never shows any objection. He gives me such a honorable platform in front of all you... that’s my big achievement, indeed !!!" I can't hold my emotions. I am crying. Raj holds me and all say-they are great brothers. Great bonding!!! The party is persisted for a long time. We are sitting in the dining table. They eat by forks but I can't eat by using forks. I tried and failed. I feel so shame. Raj tells- brother, use your hands and feel free as you like. Nobody says any word. I am enjoying my meals. After dinner, a little chit-chat is engaged all souls. I'm sleeping. Guests are leaving. I have slept at the table. When I wake up, it’s almost morning--- I find myself in my room. Raj comes with the morning tea --- good morning dear!!! I told--how could I come here? He told me the whole story. I was astonished this time.

Raj says---Taj, oh my dear brother! Don't bother. You lost all lovely moments only for me. Now it's my turn. I want to give you that happiness shower. And you must set your mind to marry. What are you talking, Raj? I can't. No, dear brother. You must do that and then our lives will enter to a new era in earth. Brother you're great, indeed!!! We hug each other!!!!!! Raj recites a tiny poem----- ***My dear brother*** "When I was in deep pain, You brought me laughter. When I lost life's rhythms, You brought me in divine hub. When my sky had no light, You brought me sunshine. When I was in lost mind, You brought me happiness verse. It was you--- only you!!!! As a fairytale, you helped me  to write my story with lovely heart. Now I can touch the pinnacle of hill, I can sketch any dream. I can walk for onward verse. Along with you to design my earth. You're my heart, my life--- I love you so much---- dear brother!!!" Such a miracle, still exists in this beautiful universe!!!


Come on Imogene! This thrift store is supposed to have the best stuff!” I was not as excited as my sister, Kathy, as she tried to drag me to yet another store to look at what she called “ good thrift store stuff”. Lately, I hated thrift shopping. It seemed like every time I picked up an object, I just felt depressed. Over the last few years, I got better about not picking up the objects with violent histories at least, but in a thrift shop more often than not, the objects were just sad. The dishes sold after their grandmother died, furniture after a divorce, toys that still wanted to be played with, but were abandoned when the child grew up. All of it just, not something I wanted to feel. After Covid, the world has gone through a bit of a shift, not that most people would notice. In fact, most people would call me and others like me crazy. But a shift has happened nonetheless. The shift has happened in the margins. The places where people don’t like to look, or are afraid to think about, for fear they themselves will be called crazy. People have developed gifts. Some have developed gifts of foresight, some healing, some the gift to commune with the dead. Not very many of us want to talk about it, we know how people look at us. My gift is psychometry. When I touch objects, I get a sense of their past; who owned them, what the owner was like, if they are alive or dead. Sometimes I can see how the owners died, if it was violent. I can tell if the object was important to the person, if it was well loved. I can tell if the object was lost, or stolen, if it is with its original owner, or newly bought. I wear gloves a lot when I go out. It is easier to blend in in the winter than it is in the middle of July.

“IMOGENE! Why are you just standing there? Let’s go in!” Kathy waves at me from down the block. I take a deep breath in, adjust my gloves and enter the shop, hoping that there is nothing in the shop that will set off a panic attack or some other trigger. Entering the store, the first thing I notice is the smell of old things. This is definitely an antique thrift store, not the usual store Kathy picks. Looking around I can see bureaus and desks made of wood in a style that is at least one hundred years old. I am actually cheered by this thought. If the original owners of these objects are long past, I may have an easier time. We make our way through the aisles. Kathy excitedly pointing out pieces that she can use in her office, or for possible future clients. She recently started a business staging offices and homes for a real estate firm. She does some interior design for rich homeowners as well, but mostly she stages them for potential buyers. Most of her clients are big businesses in office parks and office buildings who are looking for “ old world charm”. So while she looks at thrift shops, she usually ends up buying new. The rich business owners may want to “look” old world, but they certainly don’t want second hand. She hasn’t had a chance to grow her business past a few clients outside of family or family friends so she still tries to save where she can and still shops second hand for herself however, which is why she still drags me to all of the thrift shops she can.

Kathy is now currently looking at a booth with a Japanese theme. There is a Japanese silk screen, a Lacquer Kodansu cabinet with golden dragons painted on the front, and various tables and chests. While she is looking at the larger furniture, I wander the edges and look at the paintings on the walls and the smaller items. That is when I notice the umbrella. Or I should say the umbrella notices me. I am standing in front of what I think is a print of “ Under the Wave Off Kanagawa'' when an umbrella tries to attack me or ….. Lick me? Did an antique Japanese umbrella just lick me? “Aggh!” I whip around quickly checking my surroundings. I duck out of the booth and into the hall to ensure that I am alone in this area before cautiously approaching what I thought to be an antique rice paper umbrella. I slide closer, hands raised in a defensive position “Hello, are you alive?” With a slightly trembling hand I reach out a finger and tap the top of what I thought licked me. To my shock, one large eye pops open and a large grinning mouth with long slimy tongue is soon to follow. “Oh! You were alive.” I stumble a bit in shock. Do you also talk, or only lick? I feel a bit ridiculous talking to the thing, but it could be worse I suppose. I could be talking to one of the creepy antique dolls or ceramic clowns that seem to fill stores like these.

“Cough, ack, ugh, grr… uh.” The umbrella tries to speak but seems to be trying to clear its throat a bit. “ hell… hello. Who are you? My name is Kasa.” It speaks with a bit of an accent, but not much of one.

“ My name is Imogene, How is it that you are an umbrella, but can talk to me? I creep a little closer speaking in whispers. I do not want Kathy or anyone else finding me conversing with wet weather accessories.

“ I am what is known as a Tsukumogami, an everyday object that comes to life on its 100th birthday. You are the first person I have talked to, even though I have been able to talk for five years now. My last owner gave me to this shop after I first became sentient and tried to move around the house. ``Kasa floats to eye level as it peers at me as if sizing me up and judging my worthiness. “ Would you be willing to take me home with you? You don’t appear to be as afraid of me as my last owner. They thought their house was haunted. It was of course, but it was that well before I arrived.” If an umbrella could shrug, I believe it would have then. Instead if just rolled it’s one eye.

“What will you be like as a house guest I wonder? I do have a job and cannot imagine taking you to work with me each day.” “I can help you out. I may not have been sentient for all of my years, but I remember them. I can help you with whatever your job is. I can be a good house guest. I can act as your security, your friend, a confidant to confide your secrets in. No one would be more trustworthy. This I swear.” Kasa flies around my head as it explains its usefulness as potential houseguest and friend. I can’t leave the poor thing here. But, I am not sure about taking it on either. As I think about this, I take off my glove. When I reach out to grab his handle I get a flash of the lives that have touched this umbrella. When Kasa was brand new it belonged to a young woman newly arrived in the United States. It was bought as a courting gift by a potential husband the family was hoping would be a suitable match. The marriage did not work out, and so the umbrella was placed in a closet for several years. When the woman was eventually married to another and had children, the umbrella was brought out and given to the daughter of the family and was much used and well loved, until it was lost. Kasa was left behind at a café, a careless mistake. That is the family that eventually sold him to this thrift store. But not after more than twenty years. The last five years, the years Kasa has been sentient, have been lonely. It has been stuck in this booth at this thrift shop. A few people have picked it up and looked at it, but no one has taken it home. I can’t just leave it here, knowing what I know.

“It’s your lucky day Kasa, I am rescuing you” As soon as the words are out of my mouth Kasa flies to the ceiling and twirls around the room in excitement. I panic and look out again to be sure that no one has seen this, and that no one can hear the commotion it is making as it celebrates the fact that it can now leave the store. “ Calm down, I have conditions. I will change my mind if you do not stop what you are doing this instant!” I place my hands on my hips and glare up at the ceiling with my fiercest expression. Kasa closes his side and falls back to the floor. He props up on his handle and looks at me with a one-eyed version of the sad puppy dog look waiting to hear my conditions.

“First, there will be no flying around and attacking or licking my clients when they come to the office. I run a private investigations firm and I need to know my clients will be safe. In exchange I will take you out with me as often as possible, and give you free reign of the house. Second, no more licking. I Hate to be licked. Third, you can go anywhere in the house that you want, but you cannot sleep in my room- if you sleep at all, and you cannot stare at me when I sleep. Also, do you eat? Do I need to feed you? Are neighborhood pets in danger around you? What exactly am I getting into here?” To myself I think that it might be too late to worry about that last bit, but it was probably good to ask.

“ I can agree to your conditions. As long as you take me out into the sun and rain from time to time. As for what I eat- Meat. I like lots of meat. All kinds of meat. If you tell me that some sources are off limits, I will respect that, but if you don’t say, I don’t know and so I will eat it.” With a disturbing smile and a lick to his lips it then floats back over to me and hovers near my shoulder. “Now that we have settled the rules, I think you should purchase me and we can get out of here. Five years is too long to stay in one place. I want to enjoy the sun and see what kind of mischief I can get up to being your new companion.” I grab the handle of an antique rice paper umbrella and make my way to the cash register acting as if nothing in the world is more common. But inside, I am still panicked at what I have just done. “Here goes nothing.” I say to Kasa and step into my new life as the master of a Kasa-Obake and hope that I have made the right decision. Only time will tell if it was, but I am sure I am in for one heck of an adventure.


"Can you give us any comment on your latest triumph?" Camilla silently substituted the word 'triumph' for 'murder'. Outdated though the term was, she still liked to use it privately. "The Brixham one?" Camilla nodded. Her older brother had covered the story; Ordinary murder made headline news by the popularity of the killer. And to think that she was interviewing him herself! "There's nothing much to say." The restaurant was busy and the man had to shout although they were only a table apart. "My employer paid less than my average rate, but to be completely honest I haven't had a job for a while. It was the best I could get." He shrugged. Camilla scribbled in her notebook, embellishing his statements a little because she knew her brother always did. So he was mercenary! Fantastic! Finally, a motive. She could see the headlines now. "May I ask if you have a new employment yet?" "You may ask," he said grandly. Camilla waited, but he didn't continue. She asked him another question, leaning forward in her eagerness. "We have 26 of your murders on record. Are there any more?" The mercenary turned green, then red, and Camilla cursed herself for using the word 'murder' in front of him. She had forgotten that murderers had a curious aversion to the word; they preferred to say they were 'playing God'. She herself preferred to plainly call it 'murder'. Despite religion's decreasing popularity, she still believed in God, and thought it was blasphemous. Camilla apologised, but it seemed no good. The man excused himself and walked off. Sitting alone at the table, surrounded by the ordinary bustle of a busy Saturday night, Camilla thought. She thought back to that morning, a week before. Roddie (her brother Roderick) was out when the letter came. It had been addressed to him, with his name in big, printed letters. She really shouldn't have opened it, but she couldn't resist just one little peak. The writer of the letter accepted Mr. Carlisle's invitation to a dinner interview, asking if it could possibly be delayed to the 2nd of June, as he had some urgent business on the date named? It had been easy, Camilla thought, just to change the date from 2nd to 3rd, and wait for Roddie to come home. She had felt a little guilty afterwards, but, she thought, it wasn't that bad, was it? It was about time for the spotlight to focus another Carlisle. Her thoughts were interrupted by the waiter's return with their first courses. "And where is your companion, Madam?" He asked. She murmured something vague about something urgent coming up and said that he could take the second plate away, but to her surprise the mercenary reappeared. "I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly. Could we possibly continue the interview?" he said. He sat down and gave her an apologetic, boyish smile. Just like his great-grandfather, thought Camilla absent-mindedly. (She had been researching his family history the night before, eager for the upcoming interview.) She drew her chair closer and once again took out her notebook. "I'm the one who should apologise. I was rude. I'm very sorry for offending you." There was an uncomfortable silence as the waiter appeared out of nowhere to serve their second course. When he had retreated, Camilla fired her companion a question. "You said that you... Play God... By employment," she said, gently skirting around the forbidden word, "Have you tried any other types of - any other types?" In her head Camilla reeled off the types: Mercenary, Gain, Mercy, Justice and the debatable fifth type, Passion. (Psychologists argued that Passion was a weak motive at most, with another of the five types behind it. Because of this, murderers who pleaded 'Passion' were considered weak in themselves.) The man considered her question, then flushed. He spoke quickly. "Don't tell anyone about it, don't add it to your report and I'll tell you." Camilla nodded, but her fingers already itched for her pen. "I was young and irresponsible. No one was told... I strangled my first fiancé. And like the miserable worm that I was, when my parents heard of it and told me off (they were mercenary in their own way; My fiancé had been rich), I - I pleaded Passion." Camilla choked down a gasp, then asked another question to cover it up. "When did you decide to become a mercenary?" "I was 26. Significant, don't you think?" He continued without waiting for her answer. "I had tried various jobs, and eventually got one in a library, cataloguing. I can't remember how, but one day I found an old one newspaper article on my great-grandfather. Believe it or not I'd never heard of him before.” Camilla interrupted, “So you decided to become a – to play God, like he had, but for a living. And you took his method and stretched it to 26 – 26 times instead of his 4.” The famous mercenary fiddled with his food. He looked at her oddly for a moment or two. “28,” he said. “28?” “Your earlier question. You asked if there were any more that weren't on record. I didn't answer; There were 2 more.” Camilla unconsciously shuddered. “You're Roderick Carlisle's younger sister, aren't you?” The man asked irrelevantly. She nodded, looking down into her food. That was all anyone remembered her as. The mercenary seemed to read her thoughts. “That's what you're known as, isn't it? You haven't been given a chance to be your own person, maybe to be famous on your own.” He smiled. “I know how that feels. Growing up I was overshadowed by my great-grandfather, and all I could see of him was the darkness that he cast on me.” Camilla smiled back at him. It made her feel more comfortable to know they had that in common. “You have to do something really amazing, really worth-while then, don't you? Something astounding that gives you your own light to shine. To cast your own shadow.” They sat meditatively for a while, then her companion beckoned for a waiter. As the waiter weaved through the maze of seats to their table, the mercenary began again. “I can see why my great-grandfather cast such a long shadow though. Imagine playing God four times, in a world where it was considered a crime. You had to be secretive about it, and extremely clever, or you were found out and hanged.” There was a light in his eyes that made Camilla shiver. The waiter reached their table, and her companion whispered something to him that Camilla couldn't quite hear. She leant forward inquisitively and only just heard the waiter's reply. “Not in our restaurant please, Monsieur. Perhaps if you went outside? The night is not so busy.” The mercenary turned to Camilla with a boyish grin, and she shrank back into her seat, only to rise again as he suggested for them to go outside. The air was warm, with a faint, pleasing tingle. Camilla breathed it in deeply. Much better than the stuffy air inside! “Camilla Carlisle of Churston,” said her companion. Then he repeated it. Camilla turned towards him. “Yes?” she said. He laughed, and his voice echoed along the empty street. “It's an alliterative name. A nice one.” He repeating it, staring vacantly at the house opposite. Then he put a hand on Camilla's shoulder and faced her. She felt goose bumps prickle her skin like small thorns. He reached out his other hand and clutched her throat. She couldn't breath, and the world slowly dissolved to black. *** Full explanation in the comments.


“May, this is a bit of a random question, but do you ever wonder what’s up with that guy on our street who only goes out at nighttime?” It was a bright Saturday afternoon, and May Farrowday was eating lunch in the park with her best friend, Casey Collins. “Well, yeah, of course I do. He’s real strange, isn’t he? He avoids sunlight like the plague. That’s like, something only vampires do.” May gave out a little snicker. Casey stared off into the distance, letting her blonde hair flutter in the wind for just a moment. “You don’t think that man’s an actual vampire, do you?” May instantly burst out in a fit of laughter on the spot upon hearing that. She found the thought absolutely absurd. “Of course not! Vampires are obviously fake. Let’s suppose they are real for a second. So they die if they’re hit with sunlight? Well, moonlight’s just light from the sun reflected off the moon, so that should kill them as well!” May gleamed with pride after stating that fact. Casey nodded in agreement, and then asked, “So then what do you think the deal is with that guy?” May thought to herself for a moment. She thought of multiple reasons and scenarios, but they all just were illogical to her. “Hm. What a good question. I’ve never seen the guy really interact with anyone, so I doubt anybody else knows why. Maybe I might just go meet up with him later this night and ask about it. Could prove to be interesting.” “Yeah! Go solve that mystery! I sure hope you get good results from your interrogation.” And on that note, the two finished their lunches together and both went home to continue on with the rest of the day like normal. After a long day, nighttime finally fell. May’s entire neighborhood was quiet, except for one house which finally opened up its door that day. A man in a light beige shirt with extremely pale skin came out. Unbeknownst to the man, May was silently watching him come out from behind a bush.

“This man…” she thought to herself. “ He has the color palette of a vanilla ice cream cone!” She carefully watched him slowly walk down onto the street, and made her move. “Hey.” As she came out of the bush, the man jumped. “Who are you?” He asked, startled. “Name’s May Farrowday. I wanted to ask you some questions about your… unique behavior.” “Unique behavior? I’m the one with unique behavior? You were the one who jumped out of a bush! Why couldn’t you just walk up and start a conversation with me like normal?” May looked away in embarrassment. How in the world had she not thought of that? “Look, that’s not important. The main point is that I just need you to answer a simple question for me. That’s it.”

“Well... I have no clue who you are, but I can sense that you have no malicious intent. So, I guess I can give you my permission. What about me do you find so very odd?” “I just wanted to ask… why don’t you go out during the day? “Oh, that? Well, you see…” May was waiting for the man’s answer with great anticipation. She just stood there gazing at him awkwardly. The man took an unreasonable amount of time to finish his sentence; he took over thirty whole seconds to do it. After that perplexing interaction, he finally spoke. “I have a really bad allergy to sunlight. Even just slightly being hit by it would probably kill me.” May’s jaw dropped to the ground. She could not believe what she had just heard. She knew that having an allergic reaction was entirely possible, but with how extreme he made it out to be, she just could not accept that. “If it’s really that bad, then how do you know that for a fact?” The man simply smiled at that. May was completely unprepared for what he said next. “Just a gut feeling.” May was completely and utterly blindsided by the man’s simple statement, and she was unable to not let it show. “Just a gut feeling? Really just a gut feeling? How in the entire universe does that prove a thing?!” “Well, you can’t prove that I’m wrong.” At that moment, she wanted to scream. She could not comprehend the man’s logic one bit. Her mind was furiously racing around at the sheer absurdity of it all. “I literally can prove it wrong! Moonlight is sunlight reflected off of the moon, so if your allergy is that extreme, you shouldn’t be able to go out at all !” “Well... can you prove that that fact is true?” Every single interaction with the man made May feel closer to exploding each time. Every single sentence by him existed solely to infuriate her. Every single word that the man said was uttered purely to leave her hopelessly perplexed. She was speechless for the next ten seconds, which made the man continue on. “You have no argument, therefore I can conclude that that statement is false.” ‘BUT WHAT’S YOUR ARGUMENT FOR BELIEVING YOU’RE ALLERGIC TO THE SUN?!” She was unable to resist shouting there. Because of that, she ended up grabbing the attention of a few others living on the street. The man did not, in fact, answer the question that she had asked. Instead, he just stood there, smiling forcefully. For an extended period of time, the two were silent. Everyone spectating watched with great interest. Suddenly, the man started once more. “Oh! I just realized I haven’t told you yet! My name is Peter Arkins.” “WHAT. DOES. THAT. HAVE. TO. DO. WITH. ANYTHING?!” She had legitimately stomped her foot with every single syllable there, unable to contain her unbridled rage towards him. “Well, I sure am hungry. I definitely could use something to eat just about now.” “DON’T JUST TRY TO AVOID THE ENTIRE DISCUSSION AND ACT LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED!” She verbally protested with all her might, but the man had pretended to not hear a thing and simply walked away. She was infuriated with the entire situation, however she did not attempt to further continue the debate. She realized that it was ultimately all futile, and that she should not have even attempted to try in the first place. As everything was starting to dissipate, she suddenly heard the man cry out. She did not see the event it its entirety, but she immediately knew what had happened. The man had simply tripped over a rock, fallen, and was now lying face first on the ground, without movement. A small crowd of seven people had been watching it all play out without even the slightest bit of interference, but after the man’s fall, one of them finally spoke. A small eleven year old boy with red glasses had asked, “Is he dead?” Silence. “I think he is,” replied a young, dark-haired teenage girl besides him. A tall, brown-haired adult proceeded to walk up towards him and check for his heartbeat. “Nope. He’s still hangin’ on.” The teenager let out a disappointed sigh, then quickly realized that she had done that out loud, looked at all of the others in the crowd nervously and scuttled away. At this point, nobody really knew what to do now, so they all started to leave one by one quietly. May was the only one left now. She felt a bit reluctant to leave him there without doing anything, but she was still mad about the previous discussion, so she had decided to go home in the end. The man was unconscious for the entire night. When he finally woke up, it was 6 AM, and the sun was shining right in his face for the first time ever. May and Casey happened to be walking along the street at the same time he woke up, and May smugly smiled when her and the man locked eyes. “So, are you sure you’re so allergic to the sun now?” The pale skinned man was now being fully basked in the rays of sunlight that had traveled all the way through space solely to spite him and all of his previous beliefs. May was confident that the man could do nothing but accept the cold, hard truth right in front of him. The man gazed down at the path beneath his feet for a couple of seconds, and had finally answered. “This light probably comes from a fake sun.” May had passed out on the spot.


The coughing was deep and relentless. The huffing noises from the ventilators was hurting my head. I worked in a dermatology practice to avoid this kind of medical work. The covid ward was too much for me to handle. I wasn’t sure I could make it thru my shift. A long time ago, my granddaddy used to say something like, “the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be”. That old mare would be me right now. The noise and deaths are breaking me. I am working insane hours. It’s nine o’clock on Friday and I still have two hours left. This is my sixth straight twelve-hour shift. Even worse, the shifts alternate between day and night hours without notice.  I need a good night’s sleep, without nightmares, and some regular mealtimes with nutritious food.  My stomach is making weird kitten-like noises from all the coffee I’m drinking. Rates of covid are so high in my town that the nurses in my dermatology medical group are all working in the main hospital. Appointments for our regular patients are cancelled until further notice. Apparently, I missed the fine print in my employment contract that stated the hospital had “broad employment discretion” over me during a medical crisis. Covid is our current crisis. My feet ached and were sweaty and swollen. My back hurt as I leaned over to check my patient. He was an eighty-year-old man, barely conscious. I put on my best smile thru my mask and face shield and spoke softly to him. There was no reaction, but I sensed he knew I was there and caring for him. Sadly, he reminded me of my deceased dad. I had been the primary caretaker for my dad when he was diagnosed with cancer. I tried to be the best daughter that I could be, and I began to read medical journals and anything I could find online about his cancer. I  discovered that I was particularly good at deciphering complicated medical information and then explaining it to my dad. I was able to help my dad thru some of his worst days. Nursing my dad thru his cancer was awful, but it inspired me to study and become a nurse. I wanted to be a nurse, but I didn’t want to work in operating rooms. I thought perhaps pediatrics or oncology might be good specialties. I loved children and I had learned a lot about oncology. Before  graduation, I received an offer to work in a prestigious dermatology practice. I gladly accepted the offer complete with a sign on bonus! Now, after fifteen years in the practice, I never complained about my job. The hours and office location were perfect. I enjoyed my lowkey schedule working Mondays thru Fridays from nine to five. Most of the patients were very pleasant and reasonably healthy. This was in stark contrast to my current position. In the covid ward, the thought of tomorrow’s activities was keeping me going. I was babysitting my baby niece and nephews, ages nine and seven, for the weekend. My sister and brother-in-law were finally attending a friend’s wedding, postponed twice already due to covid. The bride’s family decided to have the ceremony and reception at a friend’s large house near the water. This meant overnight travel for my sister and brother-in-law. At this point in my life, I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to meet someone that I wanted to start a family with. For now, I loved my niece and nephews as if they were my own children.  As soon as this exhausting shift was over, I would rush home and get a good nights’ sleep. Amazingly, I slept deeply for six hours. I jumped out of bed as the sun peeked thru the window blinds. The local weathercaster promised it would be a beautiful, sunny fall day. The kids and I would be able to spend lots of time playing outside in the fresh air and sunshine. I couldn’t wait for our special weekend.

When I arrived at my sister’s house, she was dashing from room to room, checking the piles of kids’ clean clothing and diaper supplies. This was the first time they were leaving the baby overnight, and both seemed stressed. The baby had just turned one. To ease their worry,  I reminded them that I was a nurse and they had nothing to worry about. Besides, the kids adored their only Auntie.

I scooped the baby out of her playpen so my sister could gather the last of her belongings and pack the car. My brother-in-law was scoping around the outside of the house, checking that things were in order.  He casually mentioned that the boys had been playing hide and seek all morning and were full of energy today. No worries, I was taking the kids to the park and spending lots of time outdoors. Forty minutes later, I was relieved when we all waved goodbye and blew kisses.

The baby promptly fell asleep minutes into our ten-minute walk. We began our adventure at the playground at the local elementary school. There were kiddie swings and a huge jungle gym surrounded by a green fence. The ground was covered with protective rubber to keep everyone safe.  It was a perfect place for the kids to play and for me to keep an eye on everyone. The boys had a blast climbing and jumping off all the different levels of the jungle gym. They were excited to show me how well they could go up and down the small climbing wall by themselves. Everyone was having fun and using up lots of energy. The boys asked if they could leave the park to play hide and seek. I said no, but let’s go home now, eat lunch, and continue our adventures. Back at the house, we had delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with fruit. Now fully awake, the baby had cereal and sweet potatoes. After everyone made a mess at lunch, I helped everyone wash up.  We all sat in the living room to watch some TV. I enjoyed being off my feet for a change. After about an hour of cartoons, I suggested we go out and play in the fenced backyard. Once outside, we blew bubbles using lots of different wands. The bubbles came out in different colors, shapes, and sizes. The kids filled up small pails and dumped water all over the yard. We were making quite a mess with water, soap bubbles, and dirt. The baby got especially grimy and needed a bath.  I asked the boys to wash up and change into some dry clothes. I told them very clearly to meet me  in the dining room when they were done changing. It took a while longer than expected to get the baby cleaned and dressed. She wiggled every which way, and I was not used to getting her into her diaper. Finally finished, we went downstairs to meet the boys. I called out to them, but there was no answer. Figuring they had started their game of hide and seek, I went along with it. I said loudly to the baby, “ I wonder where your brothers are?” She just looked at me. Carrying her, we walked slowly to the sofa. Except for some dust, there was no one behind or under the sofa. I continued my little game of asking the baby where are the boys? Are they behind the chair? NO! Are they in the toy chest? NO! I walked all over the first floor calling out for them, but no one answered. I went down to the basement with the baby. I flicked the switch that put on the lights. I searched  behind boxes and chairs.  I opened the tops of the washer and dryer, but they were empty. I found only frozen beef and chicken Inside an extra freezer. There was not a sound. There was no sign of the boys in the basement or the rest of the house. I had hoped to hear them giggling by now.

Lugging the heavy baby back up the steps. I retraced my steps. I went back into each bedroom and bathroom.  I opened and shut hampers, peered inside the tub, and swung open the shower stall door. I got down on the floor and looked under every bed and the crib. I checked every closet in the house. Nothing. No boys. I decided to try a different strategy. I would lure the boys with ice cream. It was their favorite dessert. I shouted, “Who wants an ice cream sundae?” And “Last one at the table is a rotten egg!” Silence. No one came running. Now, my heart pounded loudly in my chest. I heard a door slam and smelled the faint aroma of smoke, but I didn’t see anything. Was my imagination running wild? Returning quickly to the kitchen, I opened every cabinet and looked under the sink. I put the baby in her highchair and took out four sundae cups, a scooper, and a big box of chocolate ice cream. As I put the ice cream into the cups, I tried to maintain my normal voice. Talking loudly to the baby, I explained that I was going to cover the ice cream with sprinkles and whipped cream. Just as I was topping the sundaes, I realized I hadn’t looked on the front porch. I went out and looked around and under some tables and chairs, but there was no sign of the boys. I thought to myself, my sister is going to kill me. The phone rang, and it was my bother in law. He was calling from the car to get an update on how things were going. “How’s is everyone?”, he asked. I couldn’t lie. I told him things could be a lot better. I said, “we had lots of fun at the park and in the backyard. Lunch was good, but now we have a problem”. I explained that the boys seemed to be playing an extended game of hide and seek. I hadn’t seen or heard from them for almost an hour. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem that concerned,  but he did think it a little weird that they were playing for so long. He asked if I had looked in the shed out back. Wow, that was one place in the yard that I hadn’t looked at yet. I thanked him for the suggestion and told him I would look and call him right back.

I ran outside and opened the door to the shed. Inside it was dark and musty. There was a slight smell of smoke. I pulled on the metal chain that turned on the single low wattage overhead bulb. Smack in the middle of the shed, I could not believe what I saw. There were two piles of neatly folded boys’ clothing. They were the same ones that I had last seen them wearing. I felt like I was going to throw up. I realized I had left the baby alone in the house in her highchair. I hurried back and the phone was ringing. This time I didn’t recognize the number. A strange man’s voice asked if I knew where my children were? I froze and yelled, “Who the hell is this?”. The phone clicked. My hands were shaking as I called my brother-in-law. He sounded relieved because he thought I was calling back so quickly because I had located the boys. Instead, I could barely talk thru my tears. I told him I hadn’t found the boys, and that I had just received a terrible call from a man asking where my children were. I told him I checked the shed and the boys’ clothing was there, but not the boys. He told me to call the police right now. They were turning the car around and coming home. Just then, I  looked at the highchair. It was empty. Now, the baby was gone too. Two police cars pulled up to the front of the house with their lights on. Then a third police car pulled up right behind them with search dogs. The Officers tried to calm me down and get my version of what happened.  The Officers with the dogs asked for articles of clothing recently worn by the children. Was it possible that all three children were gone? I went upstairs and grabbed the boys’ dirty pants and socks off their bedroom floor. I picked up the dirty short set that the baby had been wearing before her bath and gave it to the men. I was sobbing. They were asking for descriptions and height and weight information about the kids. I looked around the house to find recent school pictures of the boys, and some pictures of the baby. I told the officers about the terrible phone call. They were looking at me as if I were crazy. They informed me that I was now a suspect in the disappearance of my niece and nephews. How could I lose the boys? How could I lose the baby? This could not possibly be happening. My sister is going to kill me. I am hearing sirens, dogs barking, and I am smelling smoke again. Where are the children? I begged God to please help us to find them.  I am cold and going into shock. I am going to pass out. I hear my sister calling out to me and the boys. She is crying, “Where are my babies?” She cannot believe that now the baby is missing too. I cannot comprehend that I am the primary suspect. Everyone is looking at me with disgust and disbelief. Did I have something to do with the kids’ disappearance? I can’t think straight. How can I convince them that I am innocent? Everyone tells me to sit down on the sofa and not move out of their sight. I can hear the dispatcher calling out police codes and locations on the radios all around me. The radios are beeping in between comments. Now the sirens are blaring full blast. I keep hearing beeping and beeping. It won’t stop. The beeping is my wake-up alarm. “This is my worst nightmare.”


I take a sip of my beer and watch as the man on the TV has a mental breakdown. Tears stream down his face, and he sobs uncontrollably. I had thought watching a character drama would make me feel less alone. Maybe the urge wouldn’t hit me so hard. Maybe I could fight back. But it’s happening again. Bringing my hand up to my head, I feel the cold metal of the neural implant. The buttons wait patiently, and my brain longs for me to press them. I squirm on the couch and take another sip of beer. No matter how much dopamine I give myself through movies, food, drinks, or video games, my brain constantly wants more. It’s like there’s a hole in my soul that needs to be filled by my implant. I need it. But I had promised myself I wouldn’t use it again. I had seen videos and read essays about implants. It would keep me from wanting to meet new people. It would make me want to stay on my couch and watch TV all day. It would make me miserable for the rest of my life. The articles online suggested that I find a focus group to help me with my problem, but I refused. I’m too cowardly to talk to other people about my problems. It’s much easier to sit at home and let the implant keep me company. I feel for the button under my hair, but I stop myself. Would it be worth it? I keep pressing that stupid dopamine button over and over again every day. I promised myself I would stop. I wouldn’t be any happier if I did it, and I might even feel more miserable. That’s not what I want. I want to be happy. I want this feeling of loneliness to go away, which is why I got the implant in the first place. Every time I press the button that fills my head with dopamine, I’m not alone anymore. For as long as I press that button, I’m happy. But am I really happy? If it doesn’t last, can I even consider it joy? What’s the point of happiness that fades? I don’t want that. I want to always be happy. I don’t want to have to hold a button down to keep the happiness flowing into my brain, like holding a key on the piano to stretch out the note. Even if I hold it down, it still fades after time. That’s not happiness. Yet I still feel the urge. I want it. I need it. I keep telling myself it's not worth it, but my brain doesn’t listen and keeps shouting at me, urging me to press that stupid button and flood my mind with chemicals. I long for it. My mind starts to come up with excuses for allowing myself to do it. It’ll only be this one last time. I don’t have to do it again afterward. Just once more. Then, I can go about my life, ignoring the metal machine surgically implanted into my head, forgetting it’s there, and pursuing happiness in other ways. I reach my hand up again, but I remember this isn’t the first time I’ve told myself that. There have been many other “last times.” Yet here I am. I’m still hooked on pressing the button and making myself feel good. Why can’t I just be happy? It seems that everyone is except me. The man in the movie is saying the same thing, crying out in anguish and frustration. Why? Why couldn’t he be content with his wife? Why couldn’t he stop drinking? Why couldn’t he just be happy? Now, his wife is gone, and no one can help him. I squirm again on the couch. The man in the movie is eyeing a bottle of alcohol. I feel my implant, which is a big mistake because the urge to press the button only gets stronger. I long for it. I need it. Just this once couldn’t hurt, could it? It would only be one more time, feeling the pleasure course through my body and filling my mind, replacing that gaping hole in my heart called loneliness that I seem to be the only one suffering from. It would be ok. Right? But I had been over this before. I shouldn’t. I can, but I shouldn’t. The ads for the WonderTech brain implant are very deceiving. They convinced me that it would solve all of my problems, turn my life around, and put a wonderful smile on my face, replacing the existential dread that haunted me day after day. I could be as happy as the people in the commercials. There have been many lawsuits against WonderTech for false advertising, and I am considering adding myself to the list. Despite what some believe, the therapy business has exploded since implants emerged. I don’t have a therapist. I’m broke. Heck, these movies I’m using for therapy are almost too much. My journal is helpful, though. It’s affordable, and I can discuss all my problems without facing anyone as their gaze pierces my eyes. I like it. That’s good; thinking about other things distracts me from my implant and makes me forget about the strong impulse to press that button and hold it for as long as I can stand. But realizing what I’m doing brings me back to my implant, and the impulse returns, stronger than ever, causing me to squirm on my couch some more. Crap. I grab the armrest to keep myself from reaching up to my head. It’s not working. But then again, nothing has worked for me so far. Everything fails, and I always press that button, no matter how many promises I make or how many things I replace it with. I need to meet new people and form deep, personal relationships with them. I need to cure myself of this loneliness before it gets out of hand, and I give myself so much dopamine it kills me, which has happened to other customers of WonderTech many times before. I need to take care of this. But that can wait. I don’t have to take care of it now, do I? I’ll be ok. One more time won’t hurt. The man in the movie crawls across the room, reaching for the bottle. He grabs it, slowly sitting up and looking into it. Before I know what’s happening, my grip on the armrest releases, and my hand lifts to my head while my fingers feel under my hair for the cold, solid metal of the implant and the rubber nubs that are the buttons. I feel around until I find the right button and press it. The man brings the bottle to his lips and begins to chug the whole thing. I shut my eyes and feel the dopamine rushing through my head, filling my mind with pleasure and filling that void in my soul. My squirming stops. I don’t feel the urge to do anything anymore except to hold that button for longer, basking in the pleasure that rushes through my body, filling my head, drowning my thoughts, and curing my disease, which is loneliness and hopelessness. I sigh and hum. It feels amazing. My stomach begins to churn. It’s the side effect of holding the button for so long, but I don’t stop. I hold the button for longer, and nausea continues to build. My implant lets out a warning beep, letting me know I’m almost at the maximum dopamine level. But I ignore it and continue to focus on the pleasure of the chemical rushing through my head, flooding the hole that once existed inside me. The beeping stops, and the implant activates its emergency shut-off. The dopamine stops flowing into my brain. I don’t feel pleasure anymore. I’m hollow again. Alone. Empty. The nausea has reached its peak, and my body is ready to hurl. I stand and saunter at first but begin running to the bathroom as my nausea worsens and the pressure inside me builds. It doesn’t take long. My apartment is small, and I reach the bathroom in only a few seconds, which is lucky because I am just in time for my stomach to push its contents up my digestive tract, which spills out of my mouth into the toilet. I taste the bitter tang on my tongue and vomit again—my core aches. I hurl a final time and stand in front of the toilet for another moment, ensuring that my body doesn’t want to push anything more out. I slowly stand up, stepping over to the sink. I cup my hands under the stream of water and put it up to my face, washing the strings of vomit off my lips and chin before cupping my hands again and bringing it up to my lips, rinsing out the tang and the extra vomit under my tongue. I rinse my mouth out a few times before looking up at the mirror. I see my reflection looking back. The green eyes are watery. The face is pale. The brown hair is a mess. The lips are quivering. I breathe deeply. In through my nose and out through my mouth, calming my body, allowing the oxygen to flow through my muscles, relaxing my core, and closing my eyes. I feel my lips stop quivering, and I open my eyes again. The same mess of a person is still staring back at me. I take a shaky breath. Why did I do that? It wasn’t worth it, just as I said. I’m not any happier. In fact, I’m not even as happy as I was before, which was pretty hard to beat. The void has returned. I’m lonely again. There isn’t any hope. I’m doomed to live like this forever, always pressing that button, always thinking it will help me someday, feeling good and letting chemicals flow through my head, creating pleasure throughout my body until I vomit, washing myself up in the bathroom where that stupid wretch looks at me with judging eyes. Tears flow down my face. I start to sob, but that sob turns into a scream. The voice from the TV floats into the bathroom. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The tears slow down, and my breathing calms as I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, my breath fogging up the mirror in front of me. I trudge back to the couch and plop down onto its cushioned surface. I look at my can of beer and decide not to pick it back up. I wipe the tears from my face. The man in the film wipes his tears as well. I cover my face with my hands. I'm a wreck. I'm a complete wreck of a man with no purpose. I've dug myself into a hole that I can't dream of climbing out alone, but I'm scared of what others will think of me, so I don't ask for help. Why am I this way? Why don't I ask for help? Why must I be so alone with no one to be there for me when I need them? The movie cuts to a new scene. The man wakes up with a tear-stained face and a bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. His sheets are stained, presumably from the whiskey. The man goes to the bathroom to wash his face, cleaning the tear stains off his cheeks. This isn't the end of the movie. It's the beginning. The man's story doesn't end in despair. There is always tomorrow, and with tomorrow comes another chance. Not everything is lost, and he can still make things right if he wants to. I sigh and look around the couch for my phone. When I see it, I pick it up and open it, going to my web browser and searching for implant support groups near me. There's always tomorrow. It'll be ok. I will not do it again. Sitting on the couch, watching my movie, I renew my promises.


Her unexpected smile—from a bank teller, no less—was like a spell. Wanting my traveler's cheques cashed—in Vienna, I was charmed, vulnerable to her whims, colored cheeks, and rosy lips… This international language of twenty-somethings overcomes everything. Smiles are the start, followed by delicious looks and touching what has been touched. You know, papers pass between us. Then her halting English trumps my abysmal German so that we’re transcendent together, dreaming. Until she hands me too much money. Uh, what? I fumble for my phrase book. “ Er ist ein Kanadier.” She cocks her head, a frown crashing my mood. So then I panic. I'm a kid again, and the corner store proprietor's daughter has just given me quarters for change instead of nickels. While the ornate chandeliers cast a benign glow over the crowd, I could hear footsteps marking time on the marble floors of this grand old Viennese bank. I hurriedly counted the bills again, just to make sure, mindful of the restive lineup of muttering Austrians behind me. This was long before cell phones did the talking. Long before, every European wanted to take English as a second language. Sighing, I threw that wretched phrase book in my bag and slid everything through the bank wicket back to her. Her face crimsoned so attractively. She offered me chocolates. How often have I replayed this hero script I pulled on myself, especially since I never got to ask her out? My traveler's cheques were Canadian, but she assumed I had given her American cheques, dispensing too many Austrian schillings. If I hadn't alerted her, she would have gotten in trouble when her till didn't balance, but at least I would have her number! I could have spent the bank's money on drinks and seen that slow smile at the end of a romantic evening. But here I am, so heroically honest, the ideal customer, a charming addition to anyone’s life, any time or place, an honest... dolt? Doing the right thing is overrated. Is that why everyone shies away from being that sort of person? For instance, who wants to be the designated driver? Or worse, at eleven or so, one who announces that it's been fun, but they need to hit the sack? Is that why when someone rescues a family of five from a five-alarm fire at five in the morning for the five o’clock news, they’ll five and dime what they did? “Aw, shucks, anyone could do it!” they'll sheepishly say, as if embarrassed. I must have a gene that predisposes me to heroic gestures. So when that cyclist, gliding off the sidewalk, where he shouldn’t be, is out in front to run a stop sign or red light, God help him! Except it’s me he’s cutting off, me not driving a big black truck, not getting from A to B in the shortest time possible, watching everything, the sniveling preschooler with his helicopter mother, the teenager on their big cell phone, the jogger, not looking, paying attention to their headphones…it’s a workout let me tell you. I don't hit anyone, but I'm always a designated driver . So if someone asks, yeah, sure, I'm a hero—an everyday one! # They say that when you are stuck with lemons, make lemonade. So, if I'm an everyday hero, I might as well be a flush-with-cash one. You know how people do things these days. I’m so different, so divine . I’m up for the time of my life anytime. Want to ride along with me? Here’s my formula, my snake oil for sale—an app! What else could I think of? It's an app for two kinds of people: the heroes and the unwashed. How does it work? I'm glad you asked. It's just like how everything works these days. Ai powered, Internet-connected, server-tethered, privacy-busting individual monitoring. You get these little blasts sounding off in your ear, micro-dot-inspired graphics where you stare, or pixelated emojis to make you aware… That you messed up! Or not. It depends because it's like Mom talking. She blows hot or cold, depending on the circumstances. There are no hurt feelings, no recriminations. You're not mad forever, as if she was there. It's only five bucks a month, or what? By the year? # The following day, muscle memory worked on my cell phone. Half awake, I poked at my financial app, rolled over, and nearly choked on my bank account. It was the biggest steal ever—by me. “Thanks for not listening to me all my life!” says my wife when she sees those round figures. “Now, we’re rich?” I looked at her, and then my hero app started up: She feels left out—a classic! Men who make sacrifices and work until midnight to score big financially typically get super angry because they feel unappreciated. Forget about it. It's not personal. Now, you will be supportive. Include her in your plans. Make her feel like she was there from the beginning. Yes, my invention, my app, working even for me? I get her to do the math. I get her involved and part of it. "One hundred thousand people downloaded my app in twenty-four hours," I started. "Freeloading basic tier aside, how many who paid five bucks?" “One hundred thousand dollars, from twenty thousand,” my wife chimes in—math wiz in high school. "Less Google/Apple percentage, server rental, AI charge, and what?” I say. “Software maintenance, employee wages, taxes, and aggravation?” She says. “Miscellaneous queries, nonsense requests, computer glitches?” I reply. “We’re speaking in tongues,” she sighs, sitting down. I sit with her. We cry. # After that cry fest, I got down to business. What more could I do or not do? Thinking back to that Viennese teller, I tell her that how we react to things matters, not so much what happens. “What?” my wife says. “Sure, as shooting!” I say. “What happens isn’t nearly as interesting as the human angle! Take that teller in Vienna. Was the mistake she made as important as my reaction?” “And?” she says. “And that is it! There are other ways to monetize this, but data is the gold pot at the end of everything. “And?” she says again. "The more people sweat the minutia, the more data points we have! It's not the pot but what fills it. It's not the gold but the gold digger!" “I get it,” she says. "People love stories, and we'll have millions of them. The more people sweat the details, the more stories there will be." "Break even on the subscriptions and sell the data!" I say. We high-five it, and my wife turns it up a notch: "People are so lonely these days. What if the app automatically connected with strangers who would welcome a chat or a friendly nod?" "Chatting without texting?" "Real. Like Mom and apple pie!" she added. "So, are you receiving?" Her eyes had me, like that teller in Vienna. "Hmm, I had no idea," I say. We both toss our cell phones aside. "Apps are so overrated," I say. "Especially when you're my hero," she says. I wink at her then notice our of the corner of my eye, her app, and what I could read there: Male egos, tread lightly. But I didn't care.


Rivers of fabric between my fingers. A lovely shade of blue. Sapphire, cerulean— or is it closer to teal? It doesn’t really matter. So soft; I sigh— Staring into space— into time. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ A floor length gown, swirls about the room. His arm about my waist. The scent of Old Spice lingers between us. His smile; that mysterious smile. Release— it ripples back into the box. The moment fades. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Digging deeper: beneath the satiny blue. Wool— no, it’s tweed. For a jacket perhaps, a stylish high waisted jacket. A matching skirt. Perfect for my honeymoon suit. “Mother,” I turn excitedly to find— not my mother. It’s a young woman sitting beside me. “Oh—” I’m covered in confusion. A saleswomen? Glancing about I look for mother, but wait— This is not a store. Where am I? “Mother,” I call, rising to my feet as panic grows steadily within me. ~~~~~~~~~~~ A hand is placed over mine. A gentle arm around my shoulder. Her voice is soothing. She guides me to my chair. She is kind, and my fears are calmed. I sit quietly for a moment, or maybe three. My thoughts, like pearls on a broken string. Where am I? What am I doing? Gazing down— boxes. I look up— a smiling face. Oh, yes. I am sorting. My granddaughter, Becca, is here to help. A lifetime of things— memories. ~~~~~~~~~~~ She is speaking. Do I want to take a break? No, I’m okay I tell her. A small, chipped pitcher is in my hands. White porcelain. A rose pattern. I don’t remember where it came from, but I always loved it. The chip is small. Not enough to ruin it, at least not for me. Red roses, with variegated leaves— Such fine attention to detail. I trace the lines of roses. How do they make it look so real? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Reality begins to blur. Flowers, yes, I look at the flowers in my hands. Roses, and trailing ivy from grandmother’s garden. Music, coming from a distance. It is time to go. Papa takes my arm, leading me out of the bride's room. Down the hall, we enter the chapel. My niece spreads flower petals— Rose petals. Looking up, I smile. His eyes. Pools of cobalt blue. Like the lake at sunset, just as the light is leaving the horizon. I could get lost in those eyes. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The pitcher is taken from me. I am back. Did I really leave? I feel unsure. We discover a smaller box. I open the lid. Seashells! So pretty. I take them out, one at a time. I tell Becca where we got them. I hold one to my ear. They say you can hear the ocean. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The waves make a rhythmic cadence. We walk on the beach. Holding hands. Those deep blue eyes, looking into mine. Handing me a small shell; he calls it a periwinkle. He tells me he loves me. The shell is perfect, like our love. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I want to organize the shells. My hands are shaking. Why are they shaking? Wrinkled hands are placing my shells on the tray. Whose hands are those? Where are my hands? Frustration rising— tension. Why won’t people leave me alone? Let me do things for myself. I try to push the old person’s hands away. A shell falls. It hits the floor with finality. I stop. Tears slide slowly down my cheeks. A voice tells me it’s alright, but it isn’t. I slump in my chair. A gentle hand is on my arm. Is it time for tea so soon? She says it is. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The kettle is whistling. A calming sound. Becca pours the water into each cup. Minutes tick by as the tea steeps. She chose the teacups from the living room cabinet. We haven’t used those for a while. She hands me my cup. Chamomile tea; very soothing. What is that— What is she asking me? Some pictures she found in an old album. Yes, it’s her mother when she was young— And my mother when I was young. She is right, they do look alike. She hands me a plate. Cinnamon coffee cake. Great Grandmother’s recipe she says. She found it in my card file. I take a bite. So delicious. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Happy Anniversary!" Three young voices are shouting, “we made breakfast for you!” Tumbling onto our bed, trays in hand— I grab for it as the plates begin to slide, settling it just in time. Fortunately they carried the juice glasses in by hand. The eggs are cold, Jenny informs us. It took so long for the coffee cake to finish baking. I tell her it is delicious. It was so thoughtful of them. They’re smiles more than make up for the less than perfect eggs. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A penny for your thoughts, Becca says as she cleans off the table. My thoughts— they are worth a good deal more than that I think. I am ready to go back to our task. Becca isn’t sure. Maybe it can wait, she says. Wait for what I wonder? I return to the tray of shells. The broken shell is gone. Becca must have swept it up while I was washing before tea. I sit down, gently replace the shells in their box, setting it aside. —I feel the waves going out with the tide. Reaching into the box— A cravat. Burgundy silk. Closing my eyes, I hold it to my cheek. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jenny, arriving on her father’s arm. What a beauty she is. I hear music. He places her hand in her future husband’s. Turning, he smiles. His beautiful eyes. The music ebbs, drifting away. I reach for him. He is gone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Grandma,” Becca’s voice feels far away. “are you okay?” Am I okay? Oh yes— I mean, no— I’m not sure. What are we doing? Becca takes me into the sunny living room. She helps me sit in the plush armchair. "We will continue another time," she says. I smile, another time will be fine. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ She raises my feet with the recliner. Covers me with a light blanket. "Time to rest," she says. Yes, time to rest.  I hold the cravat close to my heart. “I love you,” I whisper. She kisses my cheek. “I love you, Grandma.”


“Ugh, I’m bored.” Chase moaned, sprawled on a beanbag in her treehouse. She was accompanied by her best friend, Nico, who was also laying on a beanbag and futilely trying to fan himself with a couple of coloring pages that had been left on the treehouse floor. The treehouse was stuffy from sitting in the hot sun all day, the tree's leaves doing little to deflect the sun’s rays away from the wooden structure, and both kids were racking their brains for ways to cool themselves down as well as entertain them. “We could… turn the treehouse into a tropical island.” Nico suggested lamely, mopping sweat his brow with his shirt sleeve, making his bangs stand messily. Chase looked at him out the corner of her eye. “How would we do that?” She asked, slightly intrigued. Her enthusiasm was inhibited by how sluggish she felt. Each move she made reminded her how her clothes stuck to her skin, and how uncomfortable the claustrophobic heat felt to breath in. “I dunno, I guess we can’t have any electricity up here. I was thinking we need a fan, and like, a mini fridge with popsicles would be cool.” Nico sighed, his head lolling back as his eyes closed with exhaustion. Chase, however, had an epiphany. “No wait - that’s a great idea! Nico, run back to your house and grab some beach stuff or whatever. Whatever you think will fit up here. I’m gonna go grab some stuff from my house. We can create a tropical island here!”

“Whatever.” Nico groaned, grimacing as he unstuck himself from his beanbag. “I need a break from here anyway. It’ll be nice to be in air conditioning.” “Be back here in about an hour at least.” Chase said sternly as she watched him climb down the ladder. As Nico trudged back to his house, Chase threw the bean bags and the rug on the treehouse floor from the hatch and onto the ground below. She then followed them by climbing down the ladder, jumping the last three steps and landing on the bean bags. She took a minute to drag them away from the ladder and store them in a bush nearby before turning towards her own house. Chase entered through the screened backdoor with a loud bang, her blond hair swishing around her head as it looked around wildly. “Mom!” She shouted into the house. She listened for a minute with pursed lips, and when no one answered, she sprinted towards her mother’s study. Chase stopped her momentum on the doorjamb, peeking into the study. There her mother was, typing away at her computer, surrounded by reference books and stacks of paper alike, an open notebook resting between her arms. “Hey Mom,” Chase gasped, gulping for air for a minute from her haste. “Is there an extension cord that can reach the treehouse?” Chase watched with waning patience as her mother typed for a minute more before turning around in her chair to look blankly at her daughter through her round rimmed spectacles.

“I’m sorry what?” She finally asked, unable to process her daughter’s request. Charlie blew her hair off her face with exasperation.

“Is there an extension cord that can reach up to my treehouse? Nico and I are trying something.”

“Oh! Yeah I think there is a heavy duty extension cord in the garage. Just be careful of the car and your dad’s stuff, okay?”

“Awesome! Thanks Mom!” Chase grinned before dashing off to retrieve the extension cord. The garage was even worse in the heat. It was dark, and extremely dusty, which made the sticky heat even worse for Chase. She coughed and choked as she waded through all the tools, until finally she spotted a coiled up orange cord. After shimmying her way around her dad’s car, she grabbed the extension cord and slung it over her shoulder. Squinting, she looked around the garage to see if there was anything else she needed before she left.

Suddenly, Chase’s eyes widened as she saw her old inflatable plastic pool. “Oh my god this is perfect!” She whispered to herself excitedly. She grabbed the dusty pool as well, and then exited the garage into her backyard. After dumping the inflatable pool and electrical cord in front of the treehouse ladder, Chase headed back inside, this time walking upstairs quietly. She didn’t necessarily have permission to enter the room of her sister, Amber, but Amber had some items that Chase felt were necessary for her tropical treehouse.

Chase stood outside of Amber’s bedroom door for a couple of minutes, trying to discern if her sister was inside. Then she remembered that Amber was at the pool with a friend for the day, and hurriedly barged into the room. The room smelled like too much perfume and a scented candle. It wasn’t bad, it just made Chase a little dizzy if she stood in there too long. Trying to get out of there quickly, Chase first grabbed the mini fan that sat at the end of Amber’s bed and unplugged it from the wall. Then, by making trips, Chase emptied all of her sister’s masks and creams from her mini fridge into the fridge downstairs. She then unplugged the mini-fridge, and after placing both the fridge and the fan in the hall, closed the door to Amber’s room as quietly as she could. On her way back to her treehouse, Chase grabbed a box of popsicles from the freezer in the kitchen and some scissors from a drawer and shoved them into the fridge she was holding before kicking her way through the screen door. As she walked out, Nico was sitting on the grass in her backyard. It looked like he had brought a really long hose, which would be perfect for the pool, a large bucket, and had changed into swim trunks and a muscle tank. He was also holding a box of ice cream sandwiches, making Chase’s stomach rumble as she considered his superior frozen treat. “Hey. I figured you wanted to do something with water.” Nico gestured to the coiled black hose at his sandaled feet.

“You were right. Also help me get this fridge up there so we can cool those sandwiches.” Chase said, handing Nico the fridge before turning to plug in the extension cord into the side of the house. The sun had started to cool down considerably since when they had started the creation of the tropical treehouse, but the kids were too determined to see their creation through to give up. After the fan and the fridge had been plugged in, with the extension cord in a taut wire leading from the house to the treehouse, Chase had Nico blow up the pool while she figured out how to get water and some lawn chairs Nico had also brought into the house. Eventually, they figured out a pulley system using the large bucket, a piece of rope, and the window of the treehouse, and before long the kiddie pool was inflated and filled. After working so hard to collect all of their equipment and set it up, Chase and Nico were finally able to enjoy the fruits of their labors. Nico had even nicked his older brother’s iPod, so as they cooled their feet in the kiddie pool and ate popsicles and ice cream sandwiches alike, they could feel the breeze from the fan on their face and listen to the tunes of some reggae singers that Chase didn’t know the names of. Nico swore it was the perfect music for their tropical theme though, and she privately agreed. Content and smiling, Chase said with a sigh, “Well done Nico. Thanks for coming back to help.” “This was totally worth all the work honestly. We should do this all summer. You can keep the bucket here and we can just refill the pool when I come over.”

“Yes! Tropical treehouse, all summer long!” Chase declared, raising her sandwich over her head. Suddenly, they heard the screen door from Chase’s house open with a slam.

“CHASE!! WHERE IS MY FRIDGE?”

“Uh oh.”


We hadn’t seen each other in two years, hadn’t spoken or even texted since then, until she liked my post about moving to the city and asked, in a comment, if she could show me the best coffee in Chicago. And I, having no friends and a roommate I’d just met and didn’t care for, said yes. She called me twenty minutes before we were supposed to meet. Her name flashed across my phone and I was momentarily confused. I hadn’t heard from her since our conversation in the Facebook comments, and had convinced myself we weren’t still meeting. After all, college acquaintances say all the time that they want to meet for lunch or coffee. They rarely mean it. I answered the phone and pitched my hello so high that she laughed. “Still on for today?” she asked, and I laughed too, because she sounded the same as always, and because it was a question that anyone else would have asked hours ago. She didn’t apologize for the late call. I told her yes, and she said she would put on shoes. It turned out that she lived above the coffee shop, not directly above, because that would be too cute, but above and slightly to the left. When I arrived, she was leaning against the wall, talking to a woman, and not looking for me. Though it was only February, she wore a long, flowing floral skirt and short boots, no jacket. Her hair was longer now, dyed a slightly darker brown, but aside from that she looked the same as I remembered: a summer day in the middle of winter. When she finally saw me, I lifted my hand in a small wave, suddenly uncertain of what I was doing here. We’d been classmates only twice despite majoring in the same subject. The two classes we shared together were the worst I took in all four years of college. We worked together on projects a few times, and she would grin at me across the room when our professor said something obnoxious. Once, we got lunch together, on a day when class was moved to 11 AM and got out at noon. I recalled her trailing me to the dining hall and sitting down at my table, without asking if she could. I walked towards her, suddenly very aware of my arms and legs, and trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with them when I was close enough. She solved that for me by pulling me into a hug. I stiffened, then relaxed as she pulled away and said how good it was to see me. I said it was good to see her too. And it was, in the way that it’s always good to see someone you haven’t seen in a while, like a reminder that you’re still alive, and there are people who know you even when you don’t see them and you never think of each other. A reminder that even in a sea of strangers, there are faces that you recognize and people who know strange little facts about you, such as where you put your pencil in proximity to your notebook when your professor is on a particularly rambling lecture. I felt anchored to the streets of Chicago for the first time since I’d arrived, no longer adrift in an unfamiliar sea. It wasn’t just her; it could have been anyone, and I would have felt the same way. Even if it was someone I hated. It was much nicer to feel anchored by someone I didn’t hate, though. When she released me, she waved me towards the door. "Shouldn't you say goodbye to your friend?" I asked, gesturing towards the woman. Her eyes crinkled and she said, "Her? I've never met her before today." We went inside, and my eyes drifted around, taking in the abundance of houseplants on the tables and counters and framed watercolors on the walls. She saw me looking and pointed, saying, “That one’s mine.” Somehow, I already knew this, even though I hadn't known she was an artist. The painting depicted a landscape, all hills and squat buildings bathed in early morning light, a dreamier version of our college campus. “It’s really good,” I said, because I wasn’t in the business of complimenting art or girls. She pointed again, this time to a chalkboard menu. “Tell me what you want to order, and then I’ll tell you if it’s a good idea.” I squinted to read the tiny print and said, “Maybe just a latte?” “Wrong,” she said. The line was getting shorter. “Cold brew?” “Wrong again,” she said, but her voice was teasing, not rude. “Do you want to just tell me what to get?” “Nope,” she said, “This is a teaching moment. Also, a learning moment. ‘Just a latte,’ really?” There was only one person in front of us. I frantically read the specials. “Honey lavender matcha latte?” I tried. She grinned. “Good choice. What kind of milk?” “I have to pick the milk?” It was our turn. She ordered for both of us, a honey lavender matcha latte with oat milk for me, and a black coffee for her. I waited until she had paid to say, “Really? Black coffee?” She laughed out loud, and it sounded even better than it had on the phone. I just shook my head, at a loss for words. We sat at a high table carved from wood. Her feet dangled from the stool and she swung them back and forth a little, making her skirt flutter. “Welcome to Chicago,” she said. “Why on earth are you here?” “Here with you, or here in general?” “Here in general, of course,” she said, casting a raised eyebrow at me. “I know why you’re here with me—you lack for fascinating company.” I told her, then, that I was going to grad school at UChicago in the fall but decided to move early. It wasn’t that exciting of a story on its own, but she nodded politely. The barista called our order then, and she got up to retrieve it. She placed the black coffee in front of me and winked. I thanked her, relieved, and got up to stir in sugar and milk. When I sat back down, she was sipping her matcha and looking at me with a curious expression. “I don’t think you’re being honest,” she said, and I didn’t have to ask what she meant. I started talking then, being honest. I told her that I had to get out of my parents’ house, and that my anxiety was getting worse, and that I’d hoped moving would help. I told her that I wasn’t sure why I was going to grad school, but that it seemed like the only logical next step. I told her those things and more, and the whole time she just sat there, sipping her drink. I felt compelled to tell her my secrets, as if bewitched. And maybe I was bewitched, in a way, but not because she was trying. After that day, I didn’t expect to hear from her, and I didn’t. The hour we’d spent in that coffee shop didn’t feel entirely real, and I held onto it as a sweet memory and nothing more. My time was occupied with unpacking, and learning my way around the city, and taking care of administrative tasks like opening new bank accounts, then figuring out how to use the ATM at my new bank. Grocery shopping, buying stamps. New adult, unglamorous things. And then it was March, and just as I felt settled, everything fell apart. Two months into the shutdown, when being stuck inside no longer felt like a fun challenge, I had given up any hope of it being temporary, and was beginning to contemplate cutting my own hair, my phone buzzed with a FaceTime notification while I was watching TV. It was so rare for anyone to call me that I jumped, and my confusion only grew when I saw her name. I answered, assuming it was a mistake, and expected her to hang up immediately. But there she was, wearing glasses, hair pulled back in a braid, sitting in a bedroom with the walls painted a deep purple, and she didn’t hang up when she saw me. “Hello!” she chirped. “How is the apocalypse treating you?” Dumbstruck, I started to say Oh, you know, holding up . That’s what I told everyone else. I knew it was what I should say. But one rogue brain cell struck out on its own and I said instead, “Honestly? Awful.” The words started to spill out then: “I feel awful all the time, and I wish I hadn’t moved here, and I hate that I feel awful because I’m just sitting in my apartment playing video games and watching TV, and people are dying or working in hospitals, and, and—” “Hey,” she said, her voice gentle. “It’s okay.” “Sorry, I’m rambling.” “No, it’s fine,” she said as she shifted to lay down, feet kicked up behind her. “Do you want to talk about it more, or do you want to be distracted from it?” I thought for a moment. “Distracted,” I finally said, and she pushed her glasses up on her nose, as if preparing for a complicated assignment. It was a move I’d seen in class before, a gesture she did when she had an idea, always before she raised her hand. “Okay,” she said. “As you can probably tell from the hideous paint, I had to abandon the city and run home to the suburbs. So I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, but it’s been kind of crazy. I take a lot of long walks around cul de sacs these days.” She rolled her eyes, but there was a small grin on her face, suggesting she enjoyed those walks more than she wanted to admit. “Anyway. Time for a tour of my childhood bedroom!” She stood, and the video shook a little as she readjusted her phone and walked over to a closet. “This is a choose-your-own-adventure tour,” she said, and turned the camera so that I could see into the closet. I held my phone closer to my face, as if I were peering into it with her. “Pick a box. Any box.” “The one with the green lid.” “Diaries, notebooks, and old report cards,” she announced as she pried off the lid. “You got the jackpot on your first try.” For the next hour, she read to me from her journals, which were embarrassing, as expected, showed me her notes from high school classes, and disputed her teachers’ comments on her report cards. When I went to sleep that night, the only thing I could think of was a surprisingly poignant line from her seventh grade diary: I just want someone to acknowledge that I’m here, and I’m me, and they’re happy about it. She called me again the next night and told me that it was my turn. I reminded her that I had just moved in and didn’t have any exciting childhood memorabilia. “So? I didn’t say you had to do the same thing. I just said that it was your turn.” She was right, so I gave her a tour of my kitchen and made her guess which items belonged to me, and which to my roommate. She guessed correctly on almost every single one. Every night was like this. She would call me and have some new idea of how we could make our unchanging environments exciting. I assumed that eventually, it would fade away. She’d forget one night, and then another, and that would be that. I also assumed that she was calling a lot of other people, keeping herself busy, always the socialite, but when I told her that, sometime in the first week of June, she gaped at me. “You think I have the energy to be on FaceTime all day?” she asked. I shrugged. “I don’t even like FaceTime! I hate holding my phone up!” It was my turn to be surprised. “Wait, what? Why haven’t you told me? I hate FaceTime too. It’s the worst.” We both dissolved into giggles then, occasionally choking out something about how dumb we were, and after that I stopped assuming it would end. And we stopped using FaceTime and finally switched to Zoom, like everyone else. One day in July, she called me and when I answered, she was wearing a party hat and blowing up a balloon. She held the balloon between her fingers, keeping the air trapped inside while she announced, “It’s our fiftieth phone call!” It wasn’t until a week later, just before phone call 57, that I understood what was happening. I’d like to say it was gradual, but it wasn’t: basically, one day, I woke up and realized I loved her. I didn’t even feel dumb, like I should have known sooner. I didn’t feel nervous either. It was odd. I didn’t call her right away. I waited until our regular time, and for the first time ever, I was the one to call. She gasped dramatically when she answered and mimed a swoon. “To what do I owe the honor?” “I love you,” I said, and she laughed, and that only made me love her more.