Make no mistake about Bethelda, though she’s five years old. If anyone dares to misjudge or overlook creatures like her, God help them then. Go ahead. Look at her. The curling brown hair, the scrutinizing eyes. The make-believe ballet executed with authority. The rumba, punctuated here and there by her fierce roar. That night at dinner you could see her stiff lips when they told her to shut up. “I could kill,” she muttered under her five-year-old’s breath. She wanted to discuss the artfully seasoned string beans. It wasn’t case law, but Bethelda was wise enough to love her moments with string beans. If our dinner companions had let her speak, they would have heard Bethelda’s operetta, a passionate and powerful string bean description including the mystery of how string beans become flesh. "What are you talking about?” they said. “What is she trying to say?" Bethelda couldn't catch her breath to explain. I knew if they just listened, they’d be charmed this time. But she began to stutter under the mean air, and they mimicked her. You could see it as clear as the fine crystal. You could taste it along with the tapenade. It was Bethelda getting through dinner. You could see her trying to work out the humiliation in her child’s mind. Her eyebrows narrowed together into one knotted focus, like arms trying hard to hang on to a lost declaration of love. You could see how the shock drugged her and how her eyes got slow.

It occurred to me she might never return. I tried to get her attention to flash her the biggest grin I could, but her eyes were as far away as fish at the market that have been dead for hours. I may have been a little scared. About this time at these family reunion dinners my habit has been to devise the world’s greatest swashbuckled kidnapping. We would steal foreign identities, live in Paris, create a secret code, wear black eye patches and rescue all the rebels who wander this world damned. I needed to believe the plan that night. I struggled to remember where I put the 800 number for United Airlines. Ha! As if an earlier flight out could have saved either one of us. As if by some miracle they’d leave us alone. I wondered how I could crawl under the table unnoticed and stay there so I could avoid making chit chat over the slumped figure of a dead child. My foot explored, measuring the space under the table. I was about to drop my napkin and claim to search for it when the hostess, my sister-in-law, announced we should all move to the family room for after-dinner drinks.

Bethelda took a deep breath, walked herself to the upstairs bathroom, and bathed large tears in warm basin water. She did this alone, she’d tell me later, all by herself like a big girl. She braced her small head in front of the mirror and watched the tears in her eyes. The best photograph of Ralph, my handsome, irreverent, deceased husband, lives in their family room. It says, “Hey there, kiddo!” whenever I've passed it once a year for ten years now.  About this time at these family reunion dinners, I cry.  This evening is no exception, and Ralph’s ghost photo intructs me to rally.  “Baby, I’m here,” it says. “Don’t let reality fool you.” He’s laughing in the frame.  He’d know how to rescue Bethelda.  He’d love the wound out of her and make her giggle. He had a knack for that. “I think it wouldn’t be worthy of Bethelda to let her crumble under pressure or teach her how to fit in.” I blurted that sentiment to the hostess, my sister-in-law, as she measured shots into glasses. “What?” “I said, I wonder if Bethelda is okay.” “She can take care of herself. You know she gets too excited.” “Kids need to get excited. Bethelda does anyway.” “From the woman who never had kids! How would you know what Bethelda needs? She needs to control herself, that’s what she needs.” While cocktails were handed out I imagined a neatly placed bomb in the family room’s armoire and found my digestion improved. Kidnappings and bombs. What a unique would-be mom. “I’d like to take that trip with her,” I said, rallying per Ralph with extra confidence, nonchalantly leaning on the armoire right about where I’d put the plastic detonator. “She wanted to go to Hollywood, remember? You and Carl could spend some time alone.” They couldn’t be right. What tiny kid should learn to control herself? Hollywood was the place for us. Not a full blown crime, just a week’s worth of kid stealing. Often when I acted like I didn’t care, I’d get my way with Sis Karen, the hostess, and her husband Carl, the host. Also, if I came on like a confident commercial or channeled a narcissistic corporate tycoon they’d trust me. Sis Karen, the hostess, picked up a ritz cracker crowned with trout paste and shook it at me. “She’s always talking about going away with you, but she has to learn she can’t get everything she wants.” “Could I stay a couple extra days? You’ve got so much room. I won’t bother a soul. It'd be fun! ” I was wrong to say it so soon. Maybe I was a little desperate. My sister-in-law sensed I was planning a Mission Rescue Bethelda. “Don’t be weird. Leave it alone.” I hate tragedies. I get very angry when I smell them. So I’ll ask you not to believe in them, please. And, please, make no mistake about this. Meanwhile, the imaginary bomb helped me feign interest in the family’s heartless after-dinner debate. It’s explosion ripped them all apart the way they ripped each other apart. It liberated the oppressed. All would be right with the world. If they knew they’d be annoyed, but the truth is something graced Bethelda that night. She told me all about it once we found a far away room to play in. (I made a search in that huge house for love one day and came up dry. Luckily, in lieu of love there were many far away rooms where you could conjure up happiness under the family radar.) In the distance, Bethelda had heard a bird outside the bathroom window. She thought it was probably a miracle “because birds don’t sing at night after dinner.” Indeed, the song made her look into the eyes in the bathroom mirror and love what was there. Let’s not underestimate that split second though it may get continually lost and regained over the long and agonizing years of a lifetime. Bethelda owns the deep brown of a sprite eye. A potent color. Make no mistake. Bethelda promised never to think badly of herself again. It’s really something a Parisian woman in her mid-30s might do, nevertheless, she reasoned, why shouldn’t a five year old have such grace as well. Why not try on the Parisienne’s clothes, lipstick and the Parisienne’s attitude to boot. Bethelda liked “to actress.” That’s Bethelda, bouncing down the stairs from the bathroom, tying the ribbon of a story around her fingers, weaving a story of magic and abandonment around the room. The puffs of air that are her whispers! Puffing out her Milk Dud breath through caramel lips. Puffing out her story while sitting on my lap. In our far away room she could be as loud as she wanted. Far enough away even for us to sing imaginary opera or pretend our baseball game. She told me about a trip a person can make to the stars. “Any time they want!” She talked about that night bird outside the bathroom window. “I tell ya,” she said to me, “I couldn’t get much lower than I was.” But the bird wouldn’t buy it. The bird wrapped its beak around a strand of her hair and lifted her to heaven. “We landed on another planet!” Her shout resounded tough and clear. I wondered how she could seem so happy after the torment at the dinner table, but she came through, the self-preserving kid. “They made me eight inches tall. They asked me to cook my most delectable pie. That would be my sweet potato pie that has the secret ingredients. Cardamom and lemon peel. It’s ‘exquisite.’ Do you know that word?” The cardamom lemon peel delighted her heartily, and she sighed while she searched for her place in the story. “In return for my cooking they allowed me to sit in the throne of a real honest-to-god

mystery .” Bethelda’s favorite word, uniquely formed as she pulled a string of chewed Milk Dud from her mouth. There were friends on Vextar, friends who were only inches high. And though they couldn’t wrap their arms around her, they soothed her with kind words and loved to rumba too. They shrunk her to their size, sat her down in a tiny space age wisdom chair, and she felt like her old self again. “You have to be as tiny as they are to understand them. Otherwise communication is extremely compromised.” She took a serious pause to read my face for scientific comprehension. There was a beacon on the tiny neato space age wisdom chair that glowed apple green light throughout the galaxy. It was a healing throne. “An honest-to-god, god damn mystery I swear to GOD!” It blasted wild music, “like surfing music", and the light moved too fast to even see. Swirling coils in the chair made deep vibrating tones and her body started shaking and there is a wonderful strength that comes from all the fun the chair is having. There is a wonderful strength, she told me, and it is this: The chair gives you the strength to be hopeful. The Vextarians knew! They knew exactly what she needed! Allow me to get carried away, without scrutiny, without judgment. We're all just fighting to find some way to live anyway, right? Bethelda acted out the Vextarian national anthem. She fashioned her microphone from the air as she’d often do when portraying punk legends. She ran in circles while her feet, confused by deep hip gyrations, grabbed the floor whenever they could. She shouted “hope” several times, dropped to her knees, then posed for perfect final seconds. She jumped into my lap, made like a buddha, and fell asleep in minutes. So I carried her upstairs and placed her in her bed. She’s made herself a stage up there and a chemistry set and a very large red book on which are scrawled the words “Notes About My Life.” As I thanked the fates for Bethelda's imagination and reached to turn out her little lamp, my hand caught on a small object. It fell on the soft shag rug by her bed. I couldn't make it out at first, but as it came into focus I stopped breathing. My eyes didn't want to see it. Her bedroom shadows overtook it, but I knew what it was. The tiny hope chair. The honest-to-god mystery. I felt sick and reached for her wastebasket. I mumbled something about getting my shit together. Of course, we of the sane and secure know there is no such place as Vextar. There are no kind people to soothe us in just the right way. Vextar is a lie we tell ourselves to stop from dying right here on the spot. If you're small enough and alone enough, you teach yourself how to make a little chair. Everthing suddenly smelled as rotten as month-old flowers. Bethelda's room got close to me, snuggled up to me. My needy happy drunk, it breathed all over me. And while the shadows got longer and more intimate in there, I remembered Ralph telling me he was afraid of suffocation. I remembered the sound of his breathing as his lungs filled up with water in the hospital. The dark in Bethelda's room could have picked up one of her stuffed frilly pillows and finished me off real quick and clean. My old cold sweaty hands started shaking. I stopped trying to pick the honest-to-god-mystery up from the floor. Every time I tried a wave of nausea started. Just leave it alone, I said to myself. The blood will rush to my head if I reach for it, and I’d be gone. What good would this passed-out faux mom be to Bethelda then? But I’ll be gone anyway, I thought. It’ll be weeks before I can come back. Damage weeks. Weeks alone in her imaginary world. There is no outside help. I reminded myself that I was an adult. I reminded myself I had a plane ticket. You’re a grown-up, I thought. You can get away. Bethelda the tantalizer. Bethelda the nuisance. Bethelda herself could be some child I invented, clawing me up with her “hope chair.” Her stupid uppity brilliance. They'd never let me have her, but she'd land on her feet. She's self-taught. Then I caught a glimpse of her small sleeping lips, her eyelashes, and the skin on her face glowed in the moonlight. Lucky brilliant sleeping girl, glowing without lifting a finger. Bethelda will never die. She's much luckier than I will ever be. I hated her. Yes, the smell of tragedy had entered her little girl room. It laughed. It asked me why I chose to ignore fundamental facts. I always have ignored them, but it asked me in a way that made me feel doomed. I lifted my head from the floor and managed to lean over her Disney quilts. Bethelda’s stuffed animals watched me from the corner of her bed. The fact they weren’t real made me tear up, and I hated myself for not being smart and careful and numb. Strange, I thought, how my desire to live or die depended on proving the existence of life on other planets. I went over the facts: I wasn't nearly what I should have been. Not enough of anything to be able to save anyone from anything, just a heap of crumpled feeling without legs or speech or courage. Logically speaking, it was time to get up off the god damn floor, walk to the door and shut it behind me. How had I let this happen? It was time to stop being an idiot. It was time to be productive on this earthly plain. In a shaft of moonbeam which lighted my shaking hands, I started the resolve. I didn't have to slam the door, I could sneak out quietly. I didn't have to make a big production, I would simply never contact my sister-in-law, the hostess, ever again. I would never return a phone call, never write. I would make excuses, become busy with many passionate pursuits and simply, graciously, never have enough time to visit. The resolve quieted me, and I felt a calm numbness novocain over the panic in my chest. I was finally able to breath, dry my face on my sleeve, lift myself up. I walked to the door and grabbed its cold brass knob, like all its impressive coldness would save me. But I was mistaken. Big deal fates wouldn't allow me luxury. The Vextarians had their wacky hold over my universe. I threw up. I had no rights to Bethelda, but I couldn’t leave. I gripped my hands together to stop shaking and knelt before the exit door, trapped in between worlds. I would have gnawed my leg off, but I was weak and sick. Losing one more thing made me want to die, and this mistake's heart pounded loud.  This mistake stopped breathing. Not breathing is one way to escape any trap, though it doesn't pan out the way you'd expect. It can fool you, finality can clear things up, then living takes over. Death's the healer, Ralph used to say that. Strange that a child could mean so much. It was just ridicule at the dinner table. No one really died. Strange that she would keep on going, and I would too. Maybe I was just a type. A type that took things too much to heart. The sound of her tears. The feel of her tiny fingers in my pockets, searching for magic dust pellets. The exuberant dance that seemed like overkill, that no one else understood, but that I was crazy about. The foolishness, the over-excited breathy pontifications about life and love that frustrated others to distraction, but that I loved. I couldn't leave her. I thought better and watched Bethelda. I thought better and saw Bethelda had never stirred. Those fates had presented her a lonely prize at dinner, put her creative engine in overdrive. Her coping response had exhausted her. I thought better as I cleaned my mess and made everything fresh and good for her. I thought better and watched her. I carefully watched the sweetness in her lonely face which washed away all creeps by sleeping soundly with a smile even. It took some little while, and then I thought something even better out loud in a whisper. I had to say it out loud because I wanted to make it stick: "It’s a better miracle that my Bethelda could make herself a world and a chair and some hope." My plane was going to leave too soon for me to say goodbye or brush her morning hair or give her something more, I don’t know what. I said it again, small and quiet so that all the small and quiet Vextarians could hear it. After all, I knew Bethelda wasn’t really alone. If no one else loved Bethelda, I knew I did. I’d love Bethelda all my life.


The smell of mildew hurtles into Ann’s nasal cavity. She tries to move; her legs are stuck in their place. A groan escapes her lips as she struggles to sit.            “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice calls quietly to her. Alarmed, Ann wonders where she is and what happened before she awoke. The building she’s in seems to be a barn-like place. Straw is everywhere around her, she’s up against a bale of hay. And there’s a tractor-like vehicle ten feet away from her. She assumes that that’s where the other person is. The barn is rundown, the planks of wood are uneven. They allow sunlight to barrel in. Ann believes its midday, and summertime. She has no reason to believe it is summer, she just feels it. “Are you still there?” The voice calls again. It’s deeper, like a mans. They sound tired, much like how she thinks she would sound if she spoke.            She tries to speak but out comes a grunt instead. Her throat is dry, she desperately needs water. Clanging catches her attention, its coming from outside the barn. A tall, thin figure enters Ann’s eyesight. She can’t make out any distinguishing features.            “You’re awake, what’s your name?” The person asks, coming closer to Ann. Fear overtakes her mind and she tries shuffling away—as if she is trying to force herself into the hay bale. “It’s okay; I won’t hurt you. My names Arthur, and your roommate is Max. Arnie picked you up three days ago, you’ve been out ever since.” Arthur tosses two things toward Ann and she just stares at him, “I thought you might need these, but don’t tell him. He said you put up quite a fight.” He still doesn’t get any reply from her, so he rounds the tractor to Max. Ann hears a thump, so she guesses that Max gets a present as well.            “Thank you, Artie. See you soon.” Max states without any hesitation. Once ‘Artie’ leaves the barn Ann reaches for the two items a foot away from her. Her muscles ache from three days of not using them but she’s able to grab them. “It’s water and bread. Artie takes care of us. He’s nothing compared to Arnie.” Max sighs after time passes without Ann’s reply.            Ann stares at the beat-up bottle of water, slowly opening the cap. She peers at it with hesitation. ‘I guess if it’s poisoned, I’ll die no matter what’. The bottle is pressing against her lips and she greedily drinks it. Spilling down her face. She pulls pieces of the loaf and nibbles on them—not entirely hungry.            Only when the light from outside disappears does Ann whisper to Max. “How long have you been here?” She asks hoping he’s awake.            “A month, it seems that the limit Arnie and Artie will keep someone is two.” He says louder than Ann.            “Why are we even here? And what happens after the two months?”            “What’s your name?” He asks avoiding her questions. She sighs in frustration.            “Ann, and you’re Max. Now why are we here?”            “Well, Ann. We’re here to die. At least I think that’s what’s going on.” The wind outside shakes the barn, creaking and cracking take over the sound of silence. Once the wind slows Max speaks again, “I was walking home from my bartending job. It was May and late in the day. I think it was around 11 pm in Vancouver. A sedan started pulling up behind me. I thought that maybe it was someone in need of directions. Artie was driving, he was a stuttering mess. Then out of the back jumped Arnie. I had zero chance against him. He’s tall and big.” The trembling in Max’s voice is heartbreaking. Though Ann can’t see him she knows he’s holding back tears.            “I’m sorry,” she pauses, “I don’t remember anything. I’ve been searching my brain, but I can’t find any memory of this.”            Ann startles awake, a loud bang is heard in the distance. She can hear yelling, a gruff voice. She’s in a different position then yesterday. Instead of being against the hay bale she’s sitting up with her back hitting the tractor. On Max’s side. “Max, what’s happening?” She asks once she notices the man, probably in his twenties. His brown hair is shaggy and sticking against his forehead. Max’s face is adorning stubble and dirt. His black jeans are ripped and so is his black shirt. Ann can’t imagine what she looks like at this point. She knows her hair is falling out of a ponytail and she feels the clamminess of her body.            “They’re fighting, and it’s not good.” Max’s long face is wearing a soft expression while he does a once over on Ann’s figure. Just as she’s going to reply the barn door is opened.            Artie’s slender fingers wrap around Ann’s thin arm, pulling her to her feet. Without any word from any of the three he tugs her out of the building. The land around her still reminds her of British Columbia however, she doesn’t see the cities buildings or any striking landscapes. They approach a house and the door swings open. That’s when she sees him. Her mind pulls her from this moment into the past. Nearly a week ago Ann was making her way home after a party. Her mind was fuzzy from the copious amount of alcohol in her system. Ann’s eyes were swollen—her boyfriend of three years had just broken up with her. Apparently, she was too boyish, being a mechanic. That event caused her to run out of her friend’s house at one in the morning. It was a decent temperature—being mid-July. The sedan’s engine is the first thing she heard. It was a long road with barely any houses or businesses. When the sedan pulled up to her she immediately knew she was in trouble. Running down the road as fast as she could. Nowhere to hide, she just had to keep running. At first Ann thought she was exaggerating until the vehicle sped past her and stopped. A man jumped out of the back and started towards her. A laugh rang through the quiet area and Ann was too shocked to move. Like a deer in the headlights she just waited for the impact. Once the man had his hands on her she snapped out of her trance. Kicking and screaming; she would not go down without a fight. The man had to readjust his hold on her a couple times before he threw her on the ground. Ann saw the rock in his hand. She didn’t know where he had gotten it, but it came down on her head and she was out. “C’mon now. You need to keep moving.” Artie states trying to push Ann forward. It had been a whole minute since Arnie laid his eyes back on Ann. His jaw tightens as he remembers the whole incident. She was the hardest to grab. “Are you okay? I know the first one is always the worst,” Max asks Ann once Artie leaves the barn, “you definitely look like you’ve had a rough time.” “Max, for once can you just shut up.” She snarls at the man whose six feet away from her. Max turns himself around and Ann assumes that he’s done. However, he lifts the back of his shirt. Not only does she notice the lacerations on his back, but she also sees that he doesn’t have the ties around his wrists like she does. “Most of these are from my first time, I think he just likes to keep us around for fun after. I’ve only seen Arnie five times.” Ann shushes her roommate. “I don’t really care about that Max. Where are your ties. How did you get them off?” She questions hurriedly. Max sits back in his original position. “Artie took them off after I was here for two weeks.” “It’s like you’ve gained his trust.” Max hums in response. “Can you take off mine?” It takes a couple minutes for Max to get close to Ann. His body is so tired that he can’t stand very good. He gently pushes her body forward so that he can reach her hands behind her back. Ann winces and almost sits back where she was comfortable with the deep cuts. “Oh good.” Max gasps, Ann’s white shirt is now seeping with burgundy, and the smell of pennies hangs in the air. His face is pressing against Ann’s back while he bites at the zip tie. Relief washes over the woman’s face as she feels her hands come apart. She looks over at Max to thank him and is met with his bloody face. Her body trembles at the sight. “Thank you, Max.” As he stands the barn door opens revealing Artie’s figure. The sound of keys dangling from his belt loop. Max makes a dive for his spot by the hay, but it’s too late. Artie looks as though he has been betrayed and he grabs Max, hauling him off. Ann tries to scream for Max, but her larynx won’t allow her, and she cries herself to sleep. Max arrives again a few days later, he looks like he has taken many blows to the face. Ann is beside him as soon as Artie is gone. Her hands lifting his head to look at him. He’s unconscious but alive. To Ann that’s all that matters. Her mind is scattering. “This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t help me.” She says to him, knowing he won’t answer. Her body is still aching, but she gets up. It’s the afternoon, Arnie won’t be back for another three hours. Ann is searching the barn for anything to help Max. She stays away from the walls; the wooden planks are nailed apart from each other. The two maniacs could see her if she isn’t in the more open area. The door is of course locked from the outside. Ann lets out a quiet shriek, her back injuries opening with every movement. A wrench hanging on the door frame is now seized in her hands. She turns away from the obvious exit and is face-to-face with the tractor. She makes her way to the seat of the vehicle and finds the gas cap. The dangling keys from the belt loop make their way into Ann’s conscious mind. Her body is being used as a pillow by the broken man she has grown close to. He sleeps quietly, wincing every now and again. Ann tries to sooth Max by running her hand gently through his hair. Arthur’s presence startles her, he tosses her two bottles of water and only one loaf of bread. “Your hands are free; did he help you with that?” He asks staring at the twenty-year-old. Ann shakes her head slowly, “no I was able to do them myself. Whoever put them on didn’t do it right.” She watches as her words effect Arthur. “They were tight when I put them on, there’s no way you got them off yourself.” He raises his voice. Arthurs body lingers closer to the two injured people. Ann is relatively short for her age, so she waits patiently. Arthur leans down, inches from Ann’s face. “Why do you lie to me? I just asked you a ques—” The wrench is driven into his skull with all the force Ann could muster. Which given his lanky stature was enough to knock him out cold. Ann turns to Max with her adrenaline running high, “Max we got to go now.” She lifts herself up and pulls his body gently. Max’s eyes are opening slowly, “Max c’mon, we have to go now.” With his help she gets him onto the tractor. Ann quickly searches Arthurs unconscious body for the keys. “What’s going on Ann?” Max whispers as Ann fumbles with the keys. She just hushes him and pushes the key into the ignition. The tractor roars to life after the fifth key and Ann presses on the gas. The vehicle can only go up to 60 kmh. Which hopefully will work. Especially if Arnie doesn’t know right away. They get halfway down the road when Ann hears gunshots. Two weeks later “Arnold and Arthur Gertold have just been reprimanded trying to leave BC for Alberta. The twins are known for thirteen murders and two attempted murders. Ann Wilks and Max Johnson were lucky to—” Max turns off the hospital room TV. “I’m tired of hearing about that,” he tosses the remote onto a nearby chair. “Well, I doubt we won’t stop hearing about it for many years.” Ann said packing up her things, “you almost ready to go? Doctor gave you the okay.” The now clean Max had just finished shaving when Ann came to pick him up. After nearly two long months of torture the doctors decided to keep him at the hospital for two long weeks. Ann was only in the hospital for four days. Max often complained. “Yeah let’s get out of here, are you sure your parents are alright that I crash there?” He asks, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Of course, in their eyes you saved me. We’re family Max.” She hugs the taller man and then they set off.


2008 Sometimes it seems like it is all one big fluke. The first three books became bestsellers in a whirlwind of boundless inspiration. And with that came success and money. His fingers hover over the keypad, then backspace, and then hover again. He slumps back on his wooden chair with a wince. Shit! Sat there he thinks about back when he had the luxury of time, when he still had romantic notions about what being an author was. He remembers sitting in cafes on days when the world felt like it was something he didn’t want to get off from. A sweet, happy ride; time was plenty, inspiration was for granted. He hovers once again, and thinks about his students and the lectures he gives part time at Roehampton University. “Inspiration is bullshit”. He begins. Some students nod, wide eyed and full of conviction (oh yes, he’s so right. Really deep). Others giggle (what a badass!) “If you wait for inspiration to come so your pen can hit the paper, you’re going to be waiting for a long time. The time to write is right now. The crappiest things you’ve ever written keep them, do not throw them away, grow from them, and add to them. Who knows, they might be the beginnings of great stories. Everyone wants the glamorous side of writing. But they want it fast and easy. William Faulkner said “Do not be a writer. Be writing”. A moment of silence.  “I ask: do you want to work on your story? If you don’t, why are you here?” 1998 There were a total of 22 windows in the house. She would have asked for more but something about the window, the one just before the steps to the attic converted into a study, stopped her. That window was more forlorn. She felt a kind of sadness every time she pressed her palm against the cold surface. So she didn’t ask for more windows In the afternoon, just as the sun turned golden against the calm oil-like surface of the sea, she stepped out on the stone porch in the front, and took her seat on one of the deckchairs. She closed her eyes. Free, that is how freedom felt. She was 38 years old, and for the first time in a long time, she was on her own; in her house on the sea with her windows. She turned her head slightly to the right, and found the study window looking back. She shivered as a small chill from the sea trailed up her legs and body. Standing up, she flicked a strand of red hair from her eyes. She then flicked it again, but this time it fell like a mini curtain, obscuring the side of the window. 2008 At 10 pm sharp he hears the knock on the window. The author gets up from his wooden chair and makes his way to the hall way. He lingers for a while in the threshold, with his one hand on the wall for support before he steps out into the dimness with the plush carpeting on the oak floors, and the window at the end of it, where the moonlight always casts its magnetism. She’s there with her red hair, and the palm of her hand touches the window. One word comes out of her mouth. His name. Around 10:30 she is gone, and with it the moon’s glow. He is back in his seat, but this time his fingers do not hover like weights above the keypad, they come alive with renewed vigor. It’s her red hair. Her red hair sparked the flame. 1998 She stepped back from the window. From somewhere distant thunder is heard, followed by a strip of lightning. “There are cracks on your kitchen walls”. She turned around. Her mother is stood on the last step and her other hand is on the banister. She turned back to the window. “I like it that way. It’s vintage” “You asked for them?” “Yes, mother. I asked for the cracks. I like the cracks, and they are staying put”. “As you wish”. 1980 The sailboat glided along the crystal blue waters in front of her balcony. The wind coming from the Aegean rustled her curls, her sunflower hat by her feet. But Yvette didn’t notice. She changed position so that now she was in direct view of what captured her attention. A figure or what she thought was a figure with one hand against the glass. “There in that window. Do you see it?” “See what? What am I looking at?” “There was a figure. Of a woman or man; I can’t be sure?” “Yvette, stop that. You have always done this. You and your ghost stories?” “But what if it isn’t a “ghost”, Kat?” Yvette looked at Kat with wide eyes. In turn, Kat narrowed her eyes, annoyed. “What if someone is in the house?” Kat grabbed a towel from one of the deckchairs and wrapped it around her. There was a pool of water where she stood. “If that is the case we should call someone, like the police?” “Great. How’s your Greek?” “You live in a house in Greece, and you don’t know Greek!” Kat looks at her younger sister, a part of her is surprised and another is angry. Typical! Yvette was the sister who had the time, it seemed to Kat, and the arrogance of carelessness which her youth bestowed upon her; she never thought, she just jumped. And sometimes, most of the times, that made Kat’s body stiffen with irascibility. It was around 3 in the afternoon when they decided to venture in the house, just as the sun swept along the stone walls of the house. “Where did you see it?” “Upstairs, in the window before the attic steps” The floorboards creaked slightly as they made their way to the last landing before the attic. There, facing the front of the house is the window. It’s empty. Yvette let out her breath in one big whoosh . Kat made a scoffing noise behind her and turned to walk away. “Windows are empty. They hold nothing. They are empty stories. You must have imagined it with the sun and heat” “It wasn’t that hot today”. Yvette said and she felt her cheeks flush. She hated getting angry. Before following her sister downstairs, she turned to look at the window once more. I thought you had a story for me  2008 The author wakes up with a jolt. He’s in his wooden chair and his bones creak and moan as he straightens himself out. He looks at the screen. He leans in closer and pushes his glasses in place. “What the…”


June 13th, 1988 I stand alone, frozen in the moment of my life I knew I would regret forever. Will you regret something if you actively participate in it?  I have asked myself this question millions of times, each different time like a different lens I look at my life in. Another color, another life, another identity, or another girl. When she first smiled at me, she was electric, her eyes an icy flame asking to be fanned. The words on every wall surrounding me, repeating themselves infinitely. July 11th, 1979 If only people asked me what I was thinking so they could unravel me. I want to know who I am, or at least why I am. I pick myself up and walk over to the window my parents bought the house for. My mother had always fantasized about a bay window, looking out at the lake. A thousand secrets are consumed by that lake. Lakes have always been nosy. I venture over to my room, hoping to reread one of the novels that have made me a whole person. I have read some too many times to count. After a few rereads, the words so freshly woven lose their power and their meaning, After that, both you and the book become trapped in a cycle of codependency. Searching for the words that have shaped everything, your art, your mind, and your soul. All you can hear are those words, echoing in the mind that gave you permission to interpret and dissect them the first time around. I see a girl walking towards the cherry red house. She beams and knocks on the door.  With nothing better to do, I open it for her. "Hello. I'm Charly." She waves. "Salutations. I am Sage." I return. And then I wonder if I should be returning or delivering. "Your house is my favorite house. It is the crimson of my heart. My favorite shade." She gushes but then composes herself. Dear reader, are you ready for my dearest, most special mistake? "Why don't you come in? You can see inside." I utter quickly. She accepts and walks in.  Her hair is almost down to her waist. "How are you lucky enough to live here?" She inquires. "Oh. Um, I." For a moment I am mortified. How do say this without bragging? Mom says I should be less arrogant. "I skipped a few grades, and still got all A's, so my parents wanted to reward me." "How old are you?" She further interrogates. "I'm thirteen. What about you?" "Same." I hear a boy call her name. "I'm sorry. I have to go." She darts off.  I wonder in the soliloquy that is my mind if I will ever really figure out why she adored him so greatly. I sit at the bay window, staring at the curtains, meditating inside myself. My mother comes up behind me. "You said you wouldn't fuss dear. No worrying."  She tells me, almost as if she's attempting to train me. Maybe it's to be like her or at least to be like who she wishes she were. "Some kids are jumping off the dock. maybe you should go with them. It would be so amazing to jump into that crystal clear, freezing lake." My mother strongly encourages me to listen to her, but she makes it incredibly difficult when she is constantly proving herself to be unreliable. Nevertheless, I cave into her desires, like I always do.  It sometimes pains both me and her to see me in a swimsuit. My scrawny, boyish form disappoints her exceedingly.  When I am feeling with great contempt for my family, which is most of the time, I use odd words they don't understand. I once told my mother she was the definition of the word morosis. She just smiled and thanked me. I told my father the word petrichor was the new slang for cool the kids were using. He says it all the time now. And yet I venture onto the dock, with an expectation of disappointment. When I look from afar, I see a girl with flaxen hair down to her waist talking to a boy. He has already taken the plunge, but she is afraid. He is urging her to come in. He grabs her foot, and she screams. I run towards her, just to see if she's alright, and she isn't. Fighting for air, she obviously can't swim. He is drowning too, pulling her down with him, mocking her. While she fights to get out, I pull her up. But something hits him. And everything freezes. I buoy must have hit him. He sinks down, but both of us were too frozen, too weak to save him. I scream in horror. We make a fire, kindling the burning embers. "Why did you come if you can't swim?" I inquire. "Because he scared me." She responds quietly. "My friend set us up.   Thought we could be a match. I told her he was cruel, but she didn't care. And I'm a pleaser." I can hear the tears in her eyes, but the darkness masks her face. "What are we going to do?" I ask. She shrugs. July 28th, 1979 The corpse of Billy DuVall was found that day, and Charly and I wondered what to do. Our parents asked us if we'd seen anything, but we denied it, saying we were hanging out together. Our alibi was weak, but at least we had an alibi. Unlike Kari Jamison, who I still think was doing drugs with her boyfriend Adam. Kari was questioned, but they came up with nothing. And Charly and I made a blood oath to never rat each other out. I still have the scars. The summer passed, our lives grew apart and went on. That was until Charly Richard shot her self two days ago. And all these years I've lived with this alone, with nothing but my pen to govern my soul. I bid this life farewell.


HEAVEN SENT.       Kali was walking past Jessup’s store on Croydon High Street when she was approached  by a sales assistant handing out free samples of perfume.      “Go on take it” said the young sales assistant with the glowing smile.      “It will do you good.”      “Thank you” said Kali.      The perfume was called Heaven Scent it made Kali think of fresh flowers growing in a beautiful garden. Kali closed her eyes taking in the aroma of rose and jasmine, as she rubbed the perfume on her wrist. Kali tried not to think about the perfume as she went about her job caring for elderly people their own homes. Mr Biggs would not stand still while he ate his breakfast. Mrs Mills screamed during the day over the loss of her son and her spectacles when Kali called to visit.      During her lunch break Kali found herself walking along the high street towards  Jessop’s store. There was no one on the perfume counter maybe the staff had gone to lunch? Kali reached out taking the bottle of Heaven Scent from the display cabinet  putting it into her shoulder bag. What had she done? Kali wasn’t a dishonest person, she was trusted with the keys other to people’s houses.     Kali sat down in the small café two streets away from Jessop’s store. So that was what having an addiction did to you? She thought that it was like drugs or alcohol once you had tried it you wanted more. Kali stirred her coffee she must take the bottle of Heaven Scent back to Jessop’s store. What would have happened if she, had been stopped by a security guard outside the store or caught on the CTV cameras. Kali would explain to the sales assistant that she had accidently taken the perfume by mistake.      The sales lady did not smile or understand what had happened when Kali returned the bottle of perfume. She had said “You took the perfume from the display cabinet without paying for it”. “You came back because you felt guilty, I do not know if you borrowed the perfume and then thought you would return it because you did not like the smell”. “I’ve seen your sort before.     “No,” said Kali.      “You have it all wrong I am very sorry for what I did.”     The sales assistant then rang a bell for security; a man appeared in a black uniform. She said “This woman has taken a bottle of perfume from the display cabinet worth a total of seventy-two pounds. We shall see what Mr Beech as to say about this.” Kali was led up a back staircase by the security guard followed by Miss Campbell, the sales assistant from the perfume counter.  Kali felt the tears prick the back of her eyes. What would happen to her job and the people that she cared for? The perfume did not feel sensual to wear any more. There was the money that she had promised to send home each month to her help her disabled mother and six younger brothers and sisters in Africa. Would she lose her work permit to work in this country? How could she face the shame and humiliation of being labelled a thief?        Mr Beech a small distinctive a man in a grey suit got up from his desk and looked through his office window at the skyscrapers listening to what was being said. When he turned around Kali was crying and shaking. He asked her to sit down on the chair opposite him and offered her a glass of water from a decanter on his desk. Kali thought that he was considerate. She wished that they had met under different circumstances.     Mr Beech said, “Do you enjoy your job helping people Kali?”    “Yes.”   “Then you won’t make this mistake, again will you?”   “No Sir,” replied Kali.   “Good then I won’t see you in this office again.” “You returned the perfume, so no further action will be taken”. Kali thanked Mr Beech and they shook hands. Kali was in a state of shock and surprise over the incident. She still had her carers job with Care and Motivation. Kali thought that god had given her  a chance to redeem herself. He had guided her away from temptation she would say a prayer to the lord god and one for kind Mr Beech.    She had heard all about angels watching over people from the people that she cared for old Ellie often praised the angels and thanked them for the good things that  came into her life. People had seen angels before they had died? Maybe the lord god had sent an angel to watch over Kali and guide her away from temptation? Kali would study the work of angels from some of the books in the local library. The flat where she lived was not perfect. She had lots of good things in life to be thankful for food on the table, warmth and love from those around her.      The pastor at the church often talked about the way of the lord Kali would talk to him about her experience she would not disappoint the lord again by becoming vain and greedy. When she gave praise to the lord for the good things around her. She hoped that the lord and his guardian angels would hear her.      After Kali had left his office Mr Beech sat with his hands on his desk thinking about the incident with Kali. It had taken courage for the girl to return the item. He thought about how scared she had been when she looked at him with those big brown eyes. He was sure that he had made the right decision. She had known that it was wrong to take the perfume it was just a moment of madness on her part and she would not be making that mistake again.     Over the years he had seen lots of people in similar situations’ and he knew if people were genuine or dishonest. She could have just thrown the bottle of perfume, away rather than return it to the store. He was glad that Barnardo’s and his tutors had given him a chance in life all those years ago. This had given him the knowledge to deal with others less fortunate than himself.        A decade had passed by the store had to adapt to many changes to keep up with other High Street outlets. Mr Beech was still at the helm of Jessop’s. One day he had received a phone call from the hospital about his wife Beatrice. She  had been admitted to hospital with colon cancer. How was he going to break ,the news of Beatrice’s condition their son William who resided in America? Harold Beech thought back to how he had progressed in his chosen career. The Beeches had always wanted more children but it did not happen. It was a miracle when Beatrice had given birth to their William in her late thirties.         After visiting Beatrice in hospital Harold down sat on a bench in the hospital grounds taking in the peace and tranquillity. He was deep in thought when he was approached by a woman who sat down beside him.  ” You”, don’t remember me do you Mr Beech? The incident with the bottle of perfume. You showed compassion and understanding.”  “I did what? “ “After that incident with the bottle of Heaven Scent at Jessop’s store I thought that there was something missing from my life and that god had a purpose for me.” “Well it’s strange both of us meeting like this after all these years” replied Harold. “Yes, isn’t it” said Kali. One of the nurses told me about your wife I thought that I could help you?”  “It really is a miracle the way that we have met today” said Harold. “I help people in crisis” replied Kali putting her hand over Harold’s as they made their way to the hospital chapel to pray for Beatrice. On his way home that evening Harold thought about the young Kali and the mature woman dressed in the nuns  black habit.   Life goes on and sometimes even at my age it can take you completely by surprise. How shall I explain this to my friends and work colleagues that Kali just turned up at the hospital when I needed her. I will tell Beatrice about this when she wakes up from her operation. “Very strange indeed “said Harold as he turned the key in his front door lock, the phone rang in the hallway. “William” said Harold you hear  about these things happening to other people a sign from god. Today I met up  with a woman who had returned something to the store some years back, she was dressed in a nun’s habit and we went into the hospital chapel to say a prayer for your Mother. I felt better and more positive as I came out of the chapel.”


Thud! A cardboard box from the attic hits the floor of the garage. A cloud of dust circles around the room.

“Hey, easy there” says Charles as he enters the garage with a freshly cracked beer in one hand. The remainder of the six pack rests with the other hand on the side of his protruding belly. He takes a hefty swig of his ale. Droplets spill from his beard onto his Hawaiian shirt.

Behind him enters Cynthia with her long silver hair down to her waist. She towers a good foot over her older brother. Despite their height differences, the two share the same face. Plump cheeks, narrow eyes, thick eyebrows, even their ears look the same.

Thud!

Another cardboard box collides with the floor in an unwelcoming fashion. A mixture of glass and clay crackle upon impact.

Cynthia marches toward the base of the attic ladder and places her hands on her hips. Her eyebrows scrunch together.

“Is tossing the boxes really necessary?”

Around turns Michael, the fittest of the three. Rocking a buzzed cut of his dark black hair with specs of gray. His chest wide like a gorilla. He looks down upon his younger siblings before he turns and grabs another box.

“It is when you’re doing everything by yourself.” Says Michael.

Cynthia waves her arms in the air, “you didn’t have to start without us. We told you we were coming out to help.”

Michael turns around with another box in hand, “you said you’d come out in 5 minutes, 20 minutes ago.” “We were reminiscing, man” says Charles. He places his drinks on the floor and joins his sister.

The two extend their arms toward Michael.

“We’re here now and that’s all that matters. Now pass us some boxes already. Let’s get this thing over with” says Cynthia.

“Ready to go back to California so soon? Can’t stand us even when we’re grieving” says Michael. He hands the box over to his siblings. They grab it in unison and place it on the floor.

Cynthia rolls her eyes, “that’s not what I meant, asshat. I meant let’s get this whole ‘going through Mom’s stuff’ over with.” Michael grabs another box and looks down at his sister. He smirks, “I knew what you meant” he says as he drops the box into the arms of Charles.

Charles let’s out a chuckle, “this one has my name on it! Oh boy, it’s a Christmas miracle in June.”

He takes his boxed treasure and plops down next to his beers. Charles crosses his legs crisscross applesauce and tears at the box clumsily with his bare fingers. The box is torn apart and mangled in seconds.

“Yeah, there’s one for each of us” Michael hands his sister her box, “Cynth, here’s yours.” She places it down by her side. Michael stretches his body from the latter and leans deep into the attic, “almost…Got it. Okay, last one.” He hands the box off to Cynthia and descends the latter. Michael takes his box back from his sister.

“Get anything cool for Christmas?” asks Cynthia.

Charles puts down his drink mid-gulp and let’s out a gleeful smile. His cheeks shine bright red and his slanted eyes glisten through his bristly gray eyebrows.

Charles proudly displays a 14-inch Superman action figure, “Oh it’s wonderful. Just as I remember him.”

Cynthia and Michael both let out laughs.

“You used to love that thing so much. It went with you practically everywhere” says Michael.

Cynthia sits down next to her box, “I thought you got rid of it in High School when your girlfriend made fun of you for having it… What was her name again? Short brown hair. Played tennis. Mom hated her.” “Sue” chimes in Charles. He cracks open a beer and hands it over to his sister.

Michael reaches over for a beer, “I remember you tossing it too. You made a big stink about how you were maturing and over all that silly stuff.” He pops it open barehanded before taking a seat on the floor with his siblings.

Charles admires his long lost toy, “I did throw it away. Along with my comic collection. I was trying to impress Sue, I think. I always regretted that.” “Okay, I’m next” says Cynthia as she opens her box. She slices through tape on the edges with her nail and peels the tape back in a quick and efficient manner. Her eyes instantly light up.

“Ha! My old cassette tapes. Would ya look at that” she holds up a signed copy of The Cure’s Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. “I waited outside the old movie theater for what felt like hours just to see Robert Smith let alone get him to sign this.”

“We all know the story. He asked for your friend Stacy’s number right in front of you and you were devastated” says Michael chuckling.

Cynthia let’s out a cackle, “God, I hated her in that moment. I was so jealous. I don’t think I’ve spoken to her since that day.” She shrugs, “At least the music is still good.”

“That’s debatable” says Michael. He opens his box in one movement of strength. The flaps burst as he rips the box open. He smiles as he puts a Kansas City Royals baseball cap on his head. He adjusts the straps.

“Oh wow, I’m surprised it still fits” says Charles.

“Like a charm” rebuttals Michael. He tosses a baseball a few feet into the air and catches it without looking. He studies the ball and his eyes glisten.

“I remember going to the games every Month with Dad growing up. After they split, Mom started taking me because I loved going so much. One of the last conversations I had with her, she told me she still didn’t understand the game but that her fondest memories with me are the times we went.” Michael sniffles and rubs at his eyes in attempt to wipe his tears away before they drop down his cheeks. He succeeds.

“She took me to see all the Superman and Star Trek movies in theaters. Multiple times. I don’t think she understood a word let alone even liked the movies” chuckles Charles.

Cynthia laughs, “I was too young to go to concerts alone so she was forced to see New Kids on The Block… 3 times.”

Michael and Charles join her in laughter. Charles pulls a container of film reels out of his box, “oh wow, haven’t seen one of these in a long time.” The other siblings rummage through their boxes and pull out similar containers. Each labeled with their names.

Michael walks over to the stash of cardboard boxes, “I bet Mom’s old projector is still around here somewhere.” “Let’s hope it’s not the box we heard all the breaking from” replies Cynthia.

“Nah, that box was titled mugs. There’s one that says projector or photography right over…here!” says Michael victoriously. He reveals an old projector that looks like it used to be white long ago. Now it’s closer to yellow. He plugs it into the nearest outlet and the power light flickers alive.

“Ooh! Me first!” says Charles. He tosses a roll of film to Michael.

Michael pops it in the machine and points the light of the projector at the garage door.

Before them they see an image of seven year old shirtless Charles at the dinner table with a smile as wide as Texas. To his left is Michael with a fork in hand and to his right is little Cynthia in a high-chair. All three with their faces stuffed and covered in chocolate cake. Around the table stuffed animals are seated in the chairs as the appointed guests of honor. Their mother stands behind the table with one hand on Charles’s chair and another hand on her stomach laughing at the scene before her. Her smile shines bright from dimple to dimple, even in the dim lighting of the garage. She looks as young as ever. Her brown wavy hair is tied up in a ponytail, not a gray hair in sight. Her apron has specs of flour and cake batter on it.

Michael let’s out a loud laugh, “holy shit. Is this Winnie The Pooh’s birthday? I had almost forgotten about it.”

“Damn right it was” says Charles smiling. He starts to snicker. “I remember telling Mom he wanted a Chocolate cake. And Mom kept asking, ‘you sure he wouldn’t want something with honey? Are you absolutely sure?’”.

All three siblings laugh in unison.

“I remember Mom telling this story almost every Thanksgiving. She said that once you figured out that she could make cakes outside of Birthdays and Holidays, it was someone’s birthday every day!” laughs Cynthia.

Charles wipes away a tear from his cheek as his laughing fit calms down, “I’m pretty sure I told her it was Eeyore’s birthday the next day. She caught on quickly.” “She looks great in this, doesn’t she?” asks Michael.

“Yeah, she does” says Cynthia.

Charles nods his head in agreement.

Michael flips through the film and images of the birthday party fly by until the roll hits its end. The projector lets out a loud click.

“My turn” says Cynthia. She sorts through her container of films and reads each label quickly. “Bingo” she tosses her roll to Michael.

Michael inserts the roll and the image changes to the scene of a wedding. A six year old Cynthia walks the center isle tossing flowers from her basket to the onlooking rows of spectators. All eyes are either on her or the bride off camera. Smiles come from all of the guests.

Teenage Michael and Charles can be seen in proper suits standing amongst the groomsmen. At the base of the alter stands a tall man in a tuxedo, the groom to be. With his black hair slick and combed backwards. With a clean shaven face to match. His look says it all; Eyes watery, head tilted to the side, his lip quivering. A man in absolute disbelief of the beauty before him.

“That suit was so uncomfortable” says Charles, “I remember having to scratch my crotch constantly.”

Michael chuckles, “Look how happy Daniel looks.”

“He’s about to marry our Mom. He better look happy” remarks Cynthia.

The three laugh. A moment passes.

Charles raises his beer in the air, “he was a good man.”

Michael takes a drink from his beer and mimics the motion, “more importantly, he was good to her.”

Cynthia scrunches her eyebrows together and concentrates on the drink in her hands, “I don’t ever remember Mom and Dad together. In fact, I think this may be one of my earliest memories after their divorce.” “It’s a good memory to have. Mom and Dad were never truly happily married. I know you always wished you had time with them together, but I’m thankful you missed out on the fighting years. Because these two, they were good together” says Michael.

Cynthia looks up from her drink to both of her brothers, “I know none of us grew up believing in that Church stuff, but lately I’ve been finding comfort in believing that Mom and Dan are together again up there.” Charles scoots over and wraps his arm around his sister. He puts his head next to hers, “I like to believe the same thing.”

Michael clicks the projector over to the next image.

There she is in all of her glory. A shining white dress, brighter than sunlight itself. Skin the color of sand with the smoothness of pearls. Her wavy brown hair flows over her shoulders. Where her hair ends, the floral embroidery begins. Her perfect white teeth match the dress, while her eyes glisten like diamonds.

“Wow” says the three of them in unison.

“I had forgotten what she looked like on this day” says Michael.

“Like an angel who descended from Heaven” says Charles.

“What a babe” says Cynthia.

The siblings chuckle together.

Michael pops the film reel out, “Okay, enough of that.” He places one of his reels in the projector.

A young mid-twenty-something Michael stands in a blue cap and gown with a red tassel over his shoulders. He holds a diploma proudly in his hands that reads “Class of Kansas University, 1984”. His smile is from ear to ear. To his right is a young and much slimmer Charles sporting his Sunday best. As well as a teenage Cynthia around the same height as the two boys.

To the left of Michael and under his arm is their mother. She looks just as happy as the graduate. Other than the salt and pepper hair, she shows no signs of aging.

“I would kill the pope himself to have that body again” says Charles.

“Look how slim we all look! I want my old metabolism back, let alone the body” rebuttals Cynthia.

Michael flexes his arms, “That’s cute of you two.” The siblings laugh together.

“Between you and Mom, I can’t tell who is happier that you graduated” says Cynthia. Michael replies, “It feels ironic now looking back on it. Despite appearing so happy that day, I was an internal wreck inside. I had no idea what was next after graduation.” “I think we all kind of went through that patch until we found our way” says Charles.

“Mom was so proud you went to college. I remember her telling everyone that her son was going to be a lawyer” says Cynthia.

“She believed in me before I ever did” replies Michael.

“Dude, she believed in all of us before we ever did. I remember having multiple less than stellar report cards and she still wrote the checks for college without hesitation. She really went all in for us” says Charles.

“You two at least had somewhat of an idea of what you wanted to go to school for. I was undecided until my junior year. She must’ve driven around half the country touring colleges with me until we found the right one” says Cynthia.

A tear flows down the side of Michael’s cheek. He lets his siblings see and turns to them, “we had the best mom, didn’t we?”. “Hell yeah we did” says Charles.

“I’ll drink to that” replies Cynthia.

The three raise their drinks and toast the bottles together in her honor.


I feel nothing. I don't believe there is anyone who is experiencing something who can accurately describe what that is as to give those who do not have it access to that thing. What does it mean to feel that which is objective, but cannot be accessed through the subjective? What are us who do not have this feeling to do with such inadequate instructions on how to obtain it. When people say they feel peace, they usually say they have a sense of relief, feel at ease, are detached from worries in the world, serene despite what is going on around them. Can a person who is committing some evil be peaceful? I am certain all agree with me on this; that you cannot have peace when committing evil. Whatever that person's sensation, we would call it something different, but not peace. But this makes my point. This vehemently makes my point. Choose any descriptors--which are subjective--to ascertain what you mean when you say you are at peace. Any of these descriptors can be used by the evil person, who is committing an evil act, who is most certainly not experiencing what you are experiencing. My point is not to say you are not at peace. You may very well be. What I am saying is that you have no way of actually telling me what this is. I can no longer turn to you. While in my yard the other day raking leaves I saw a worm. Grimy. Long. Juicy. Peaceful. How is it that you cannot tell me what peace is, but this worm can show me that I am at peace? It must be better to be shown. I will thus become one of you. Those who have it, but cannot explain it. For this reason I have decided to send those who search for peace out to the yard to rake. There it will be explained to you I say. I feel indignant for those who do not have the peace I have procured from this wise worm, just like you. I feel magnanimous with my new discovery.  Yet it is wasted on those like me. Those who cannot obtain the peace I now have through this worm which I ensured them was the secret to peace are useless. I lose my peace. Yes, I lose it and must find the worm. These idiots do not understand something so simple. Rake the leaves. Find the worm. Have your peace. Show others. The formula is simple. But my peace is lost, again the more I see those unhelpful swards parading with their misery out and about through life. Take my counsel! Was I this frustrating to those who found their peace through speech? Surely I must have been. Oh, and how terrible it must be that they lost their peace because of me! How easy it is to lose that which is so sweet and wonderful. What use is it, that we all have arrived at this pillar, through different modalities, but no one can tell us what it is nor give us the guidance on how to obtain it. And why can I not stay peaceful? Why must it be the case that I lose my peace? There must be better peace! Certainly that is the answer! The worm! Oh that dreaded worm, I must find you once again! Give me all the leaves to rake. All the yards! Every worm which has scoured the earth without my sight, allow me to lay my eyes on you just for a moment. Let it be so. This, this will be of great use for humanity. Imagine my peace, expanded. If I was more peaceful! If my peace was never lost. How much I could touch the hearts of those who lack what has been bestowed upon me; understanding. This worm holds the secret to the innards of my heart. Worm. If you can help me know the peace which is mine, let us show others that which is theirs. Can I be more peaceful worm? I still lose it. Can I always be peaceful worm? Is this too much to ask for? If so, why? If my question is irritating, maybe you have lost your peace. For peace begets patience and patience begets peace. You must answer my question. If I know that I am not perfectly peaceful, then why can't I have it? Why can't I be shown how to be perfectly peaceful? What the hell is that thing looking at? What is that? Oh, the sun. Whatever this thing is, it has taken away my shade. Let me be. Let me be the worm. I am worm, son of worm, brother and sister of worm. I just want to rest. Let me be a worm. I do not know what you are, but you are not a worm. You are a non-worm! Oh, how splendid. A non-worm. Non-worm understand me clearly, you cannot be me. I am a worm and you are not. This is clear. Now go on, it is my desire that you no longer be near me, for I sense you want what you cannot have. You cannot have me, for I am not yours nor are you mine. Maybe it is not peace which I seek. I do not know what I seek. Though I do not know what it is, I want it and more than anything. What is a man to do if he wants something he cannot have, but it is his to have. Glimpses. I only get glimpses of this. I could describe this for you here, but you would not understand and altogether you would misunderstand what I am referring to. Let me be clear, that this worm does not have my peace, nor do I have it, but it is inside of me. I do not deserve it. I know this, because I lose it. I cannot lose what I deserve. If I deserve something, it will be mine. That is how it works. A child may desire a toy, but what he deserves is some schooling. He will get what he deserves. I have not found it, nor is it something I think I can find, but it is something that I deserve. We deserve it, yes, this thing which I cannot speak of. Go and rake your leaves, you will not find it, but it may be with you.


Mrs. Grundy stared at the broken bay window in her front room and sighed. The offending baseball was buried in the plush carpet. Large shards of glass lay scattered over the carpet and hardwood and arm chairs and the bay’s bench. Fresh tracks in the snow outside marked it a recent event.  Mrs. Grundy leaned down from her wheelchair and picked up the baseball. It probably belonged to the next door neighbor’s boy.

He liked to play in the front yard, and Mrs. Grundy didn’t mind. At 75 years old, she was past playing catch, or she’d be out there herself, tossing the ball to the boy like she had done with her grandsons.

Pictures of the two young boys dotted the walls and smiled from the tables. Young, happy, alive.

Mrs. Grundy rolled the ball in her aged hands. She’d have to ask Jeffery, her live-in caretaker, to get the window fixed. She would herself, but she couldn’t get her new smart phone to work quite right.

Jeffery was out right now, or she’d ask immediately. Jeffery was a nice boy, in his early twenties. He was polite, well groomed, and did his jobs efficiently and effectively. “I wonder where that boy’s gone,” she muttered, still rolling the baseball.

Jeffery reminded her of her oldest grandson, Kennedy. Kennedy had a cheeky personality and a beaming smile. He was baseball crazy. Mrs. Grundy had showered Ken with baseball cards and gloves and bats.

His brother, Dan, was more of a bookworm, though he did enjoy playing catch. He loved to read in the bay window in the late afternoon when the sunlight would dapple the carpet. Sometimes, he would sprawl out on the floor, propped up on his elbows, focused entirely on his book. Mrs. Grundy had let the boy raid her library, filled with books collected over a lifetime. She had a few first editions that he adored.

She could picture the boys now, Dan buried in her worn copy of Treasure Island, Ken tossing a baseball back and forth between his hands. He could never sit still, not even in church. He always had to be doing something.

How lonely her house seemed, empty of the boys. The stairwell no longer echoed with their hurried footsteps or yells of “Hey, that’s mine!” There were only two plates to wash up, only her own laundry to do, and Jeffery did all that now. Only echoes and memories

She no longer cooked grits and toast for breakfast, no longer prepared school lunches, no longer straightened crooked ties on Sunday. No more reminders to brush their teeth and say their prayers before bed. No more curling up together on her bed because of storms and nightmares. No more desperate pleas for a puppy. How they had begged, because Mandy Jenkins had a cocker spaniel and they didn’t, promising chores with no complaints for months and months. They settled for a gerbil. The gerbil had a surprisingly long life, and it still tottered away in its cage in the kitchen, named for Jackie Robinson.

They’d bickered over it. Dan had wanted to name it Long John Silver. Ken had advocated for Jackie Robinson, and had eventually won his brother over by offering to wash the dishes for a week.

A smile danced across her lips and faded. She would have bought them any pet they wanted, even a tarantula, had she known what would happen next.

She never thought the day would come when she would stand next to their graves and listen to the pastor read the liturgy.

A school shooter had stormed their middle school. Ken was one of the first to go. Dan lived for two days before his wounds took him. Her boys were two out of eight victims that day, and the gunman was rotting away in a cell. And now, she was alone.

She had children of her own, but they all had their own lives now. They didn’t bother to visit, didn’t bother to call, not even on her birthday. She had another grandson, somewhere. She didn’t even know the boy’s name.

Her health had declined rapidly in the past few years. Whether it was from grief or otherwise, she didn’t particularly care. She’d taken Jeffery on around the time of the boys’ funerals. He’d been her companion since.

His wife had been a teacher at the school and yet another victim. Highschool sweethearts, they’d been married for less than a year. She and Jeffrey managed to find a strange solace in understanding the feelings of loss the other felt.

He read to her. The Bible was her book of choice, but also Jane Austen, Keats, Treasure Island. Jeffery quite fancied the Book of James himself, and they’d read it several times together. Pastor Morrison had even preached on it, just for them. Didn’t that make them feel special?  He brought and read his own favorites, which just so happened to be anything by Tolkien. He found The Silmarillion particularly intriguing. She, on the other hand, found it a good alternative to her sleeping pills. She was started from her memories by the sound of the door opening and Jeffery dipping back inside.

“I’m back, Mrs.G!” he called. She could hear him struggling to take off his heavy coat and gloves. His head, topped with curly red hair, popped around the door frame and caught sight of the window. “Hello, hello, what happened here?” Mrs. Grundy held up the baseball, a wry smile touching her lips. “Timothy will be wanting his ball back.” “His mom’s not going to be too happy about that,” nodded Jeffery, “I’ll call a repair guy, and duck tape it up in the meantime. Don’t want the snow getting in.”

He disappeared for a second, then suddenly stuck his head back in.

“Hey, Mrs. G…” he started softly, his face twisted with conflict, “Do you..do you think Katherine would mind...if I went out with somebody?” Mrs. Grundy took a breath and thought for a moment. It was the same question that had rattled through her head when her boys had died, and she’d taken Jeffery on. Would they care if she treated the grief-stricken boy the same way she did them? Would they care if she ‘adopted’, so to say, another grandchild? She had decided no. Her boys probably would have enjoyed Jeffery’s company, and been enraged, if she hadn’t ‘adopted’ him. “Jeffery,” she said with a half-smile, “I don’t think Katherine would mind at all.”


As far as I can remember, my life has always been dull. The colours of happiness, sadness, anger… they were all meaningless to my eyes that only saw nothing but a cloud of grey, and as I grew older, as people change over the course of time. I stood there, unmoving, unfazed of the changes the world around me encounters. I became almost as dull as the world around me stands. “It’s alright, its fine.” I mumbled even when I find myself standing in front of a place I have never dreamed of stepping foot into. I look over to the librarian as she looked back at me with her grey pencilled brow raised, her colourless yet lively hues stared at me with interest. “Try the leftmost corner the last shelf at the edge of the library.” She said in a small tune, her voice brimming of her age, yet her voice strangely and unfamiliarly sweet. Feeling the books by my hands as I passed by one shelves after another, I noticed the presence of people decreasing and decreasing as I got closer to the place she told me about. I’m new to the library the sensation of leather cover on my hands, the sound of the books being flipped pages after pages with the whispers and silent laughs the people around creates even the scent of ink and paper around is all so very different to me which may be no surprise that I follow the librarians advice. With nothing but black and a few hints of grey, my eyes scan the books as I looked around the last shelf at the corner of the room, old and a tas bit different than the other shelfs at the entrance of the library, and compared to the books that was placed there, the book here smells more kind and eerie. Grey, grey, grey my eyes trailed over the sets of books. “What was that?!” I almost in a yell stated as my eyes glazed over at a certain book. A series of 'shhh' and murmurs immediately made me cover my mouth and slowly look back to the same book my eyes flashed on, and immediately a glowing bright yellow touch my line of vision. Yellow. A colour other than grey and black. With shaking hands I reached out to touch the book, hesitant that my eyes are only playing games at me and that my hand would only pass through. “It’s light.” I said as I held the book gently, fiddling over its leather cover, the smell of ink stronger than before. With a sharp pause of my breath I opened the book, and letters started flying,dancing as laughter, cheers, and pleasant sounds could be heard around me. My eyes didn’t leave the pages, and before I knew it my fingertips touch the last page of the book and the laughter died down, everything was once again silent, and I was back in the library. My eyes slowly looked up at the shelves and to my surprise, colours other than amber came popping. This time, I wasn’t scared. I was elated. The next day, I found myself greeting the librarian with the same awkward look I have given her like the last time, but my eyes were purely looking at her hues and to the words coming out of her mouth. “You’re here again.” She said, her hues glowing yellow as she smiled. “I see that you like my recommendation.” With only nothing but a curt nod I once again rushed to the same shelf, this time in my hand, a green, a blue and red books. And like the first one, I finished it before I even noticed. It felt a little lonesome whenever I close a book that made you feel giddy, it was lonely but at the same time I felt the need to close it, so that I can open another one. Looking over at the decreasing people around me I decided to also stop and walk out of the library passing by the librarian who was holding a book white of colour. I paused in my tracks and slowly glance at her direction. “Uhm…” The old lady stopped from skimming through her white book and look over to my direction. “Thank you for recommending the last shelf.” The instant my small voice let out a sound of gratefulness, everything around her lit up, a mixture of white and gold was casted around her as she gave me a smile in return. A smile I wasn’t expecting to be the last one I received from her. The next day I was greeted by a younger woman clad in pink, she was unlike the old woman has a more sparkly aura that no one seemed to overlooked. “Hi, I’ve never seen you here before.” I look at her in confusion. She’s the one I’ve never seen before. My eyes met the girl’s pink hues and immediately went to avert it as she met mine. Afraid that she'll say something offensive. “You have such lovely eyes.” She said in a quiet yet cheerful tone. “They’re brimming with joy.” “My eyes?” I asked, reaching over to touch the skin near it. My eyes were always dull. It has always been like that. “Thank you.” I said, although I was confused I decided to walk over to the last shelf once again. And to my surprise, the book filled colourful shelf has nothing but one book left. Yellow on its cover. “It’s light.” I said once again as I picked it up. Yes, it was the same first book I ever opened. At another end of the room I saw once again the old lady. She was looking back at me, eyes of gold, brimming with joy indeed and younger. I look at her and smiled as she smile back. Clutching the book tighter I walked back to the same librarian. “I see that you walked over to the last shelf. Did you like the mirror we placed at the other side of the shelf?” The librarian asked as she processed the book I decided to borrow. I look up to her and smiled. “Oh… yes. It was pretty.”


“It’s so quiet in here,” Tom always said when he came through the door. “You’d swear the world was ending out there, with the waves crashin’ and the wind blowin’, but in here not a peep.” I never answered, I only glanced at him and smiled. There was a lot to smile about back then. His head of thick blond hair, the smell of sweet lemon mint coming off him, those strong, reliable arms that used to carry me through each room of the house. I spent evenings just enjoying his presence, wondering how I got so lucky. I certainly didn’t deserve it. When the policeman first came looking for Tom, he couldn’t believe either how quiet it was inside. Before he reached the door, I braced myself for the knock. I’d spied him from the window, hidden behind the white, frilly curtains. I spent many hours there, absorbing the view of the dark blue-gray ocean, letting my thoughts ride the waves. Up and down. * The day I met Tom, when he came to install my computer. I stood there in my living room, between the sofa and the TV, scratchy carpet beneath my bare feet, and stared at him. It’d been a torrid day and the smell of rotting seaweed had invaded the small house, relentless and overbearing. I prayed he knew there was nothing I could do to get the smell out, not until the currents shifted. “I’m sorry about the -” I began to say, wanting to assure him the stink wasn’t my fault. But he spoke at the same time. “Them seaweeds,” he said, and we laughed together. * The day he left for work without saying goodbye for the first time. He’d moved in two years before, and we’d gradually got used to living under the same roof. Though far beyond our twenties, the experience was new to us both. I stopped complaining about garbage and dirty laundry being strewn all over the floor, and he stopped asking me to go outside all the time. By the time of our first big fight, he’d been going out alone every weekend. I treasured the hours of solitude and put them to good use. “We haven’t gone anywhere in months,” he had said the night before. “Why do you hate people so much? It’s like you can’t function in society!” I replied that, if that’s the case, it’s his bad luck, since I’m the only one who would have him.

* “When did you last see him?” The policeman asked me. “Had you argued?” “Where would he have gone?” I answered his questions as carefully as I could. I let my eyes slide only once to the basement door. * On our first date, Tom picked a small Italian restaurant, a ways out of town. “I thought I’d be quiet,” he said as we shuffled awkwardly to our table, trying not to touch the other dinner-goers. Even when seated, the strangers boxed us in, making it difficult not to rub elbows. The clanking from the kitchen came through the walls, pounding on my eardrums; the din of conversation around us numbed my mind. I had nothing to say. “I’m sorry-” “What?” “I said I’m sorry for choosing this place. I thought no one in their right mind would drive out here just for spaghetti.” Yet here we were, not in our right mind. Tom hadn’t accounted for the local’s gorgeous view of the ocean, from high up on its cliff. I had overdressed, and my skin itched and burned beneath my sweater. Heat rose up my neck, and I prayed he couldn’t spot the rivulets of sweat rolling down to my stomach. I was too embarrassed to look at Tom too much, so I rested my gaze on the large windows framing the waves and the rocks. I couldn’t hear the water. When the waiter arrived to take our order, I had to visibly shift my chair to avoid touching him. I accidentally bumped into the woman sitting behind me and I feared she would make a scene. Inside, she prepared to raise her voice and insult me, wanted me to pay for the blouse she had ruined. The heat pulsating through my skin went up a few degrees, thinking how I should react. Her partner calmed her, and, outside, she said nothing. Though my thoughts were shaking from the noise, the words, the half-spoken phrases, I almost made it through the main course. My mouth was so dry, everything tasted like cardboard, but I managed to push it down with a generous supply of wine. I figured dessert would be easier. But then the waiter floated by with a plate full of fish, letting the smell waft right to my nose as I was fighting to swallow a mouthful. I had to run outside. After I finished throwing up, I saw Tom standing nearby, poised to intervene should it be necessary. “I am so sorry,” he began, but I stopped him. “It’s not your fault. I’m really bad with crowds and loud noises, always have been. It’s like I hear them in my-” “Yeah, you probably get a lot of noise where you live.” I stare at him for a second. “You mean the sea? Oh, I don’t hear that.” * After the police officer left, I took his coffee cup to the kitchen and thoroughly washed it before putting it away. I vacuumed the hallway and the living room and fluffed up the sofa pillows. My eyes wandered more and more to the brown, wooden door keeping the stairway hidden. A dense November fog had rolled onto the shore and terminated the day abruptly. By the time I finished tidying up, it was night outside and there was nothing left to do but go downstairs. I stood in front of the door, letting the silence wash over me. The ocean raged outside, I knew, yet not a hint of sound could reach me. The tiny stars bobbing up and down far on the horizon, ships going out to sea, were conceivably the closest souls around me, yet there was an ocean between us. The basement door was locked. I fiddled with the key in my pocket, not bearing to bring it out, pretending it was too heavy to lift. Then I was in the stairwell, breathing in the humid air, not bothering to turn on the light. * He was already preparing to leave me when he started noticing. The electrician didn’t answer his phone anymore, the traveling saleswoman never called to reschedule, people disappeared from our lives. “Why won’t you let me go down there?” he asked. “You can go wherever you like, for all I care,” I used to say. “I can’t, because you keep the door locked.” “I told you, I can’t find the key.” He would want to call a locksmith; I would promise to search for the key one more time. One day he altered course, he said, “It’s ‘cause you don’t want me living here isn’t it? In your house? You want to keep a space to yourself where you can lock me out, don’t you?” He was right, of course. I wanted him to stay forever, close, where I could touch him, smell and taste him, but that couldn’t happen if he went beyond that door. When I came home and found his clothes and tools packed in cardboard boxes, I knew I had only one option to keep here. I pretended to find the key, to go downstairs, to have found a leak in the wall behind some shelves. To call for help. He trundled down the steps, and I wonder if he registered what he saw as he crossed the space. The saws, the pliers, the axe. The body bags? Hadn’t he wondered why the house was sound proof? There was never any smell. I prided myself on that. It was easy to run upstairs and bolt the door behind me. It was hard to bear the knocks, the kicks, the yells. I heard the yelling, the screaming and the begging as I always do, both from outside my head and from within. The outside noise stopped three days ago. The inside one took longer to languish. As I spoke to the officer, the sound finally subsided and, once I was alone, my mind buzzed with sweet silence. All I must do now is clean, and find a place for my quiet Tom to rest.


Tessa always liked routine. Or at least she thought she did. She never did know the difference between wanting to do something and being used to doing something. So at 6:00 am on a Thursday morning, she willed her legs to move her to the sink where she could wash away the sleep that dawdled mulishly onto the crevices of her eyelids. But the soft and constant thrumming of her toothbrush would pull her eyes shut again.

Later, her closet would creak open. Her fingers would brush the variety of fabric that hung inside. Silk to denim. Today though, she decided to reach for the upper shelf, onto the back of her closet where unworn clothes sat. Outfits that she was saving for something special. Her fingertips then grazed over what felt like embroidered flowers embellished on soft, thin fabric. She recognized this one from the texture alone, a gift from her grandmother. A dress the color of her eyes. She pulled out the hazel fabric, her eyes studying the elaborate pattern of lace that was sewn onto its neckline. There was nothing special about today but she decided to settle for this one. So she gently shook it from its neatly folded state. It was the first time she did so. When she received it, she let her fingertips trace over the embellishments, the embroidered flowers, the patterned lace, familiarizing herself with every intricate texture. That is until she stuck it onto the back of her closet, didn’t even try it on. Her eyes gazed over the bottom part of the dress that she hadn’t seen before. Fingers softly reached for the delicate embroidery on its waistline. She pressed it against her body, studying how she looked from top to bottom. Hazel like your eyes, her grandmother told her over the phone when she had received the gift.

As she relished the dress in the mirror, she noticed a picture on the floor. It must’ve been nestled inside the folded dress. She picked it up. Her grandmother’s pristine handwriting read 628 Wellbury. She turned it over to see a picture of her and her grandmother from when she was little. A toothy smile formed on little Tessa’s face, her eyes beaming with joy as she hugged her grandmother whose features hinted at signs of aging that hid behind a smile that reached her eyes.

Something welled up from inside her, a strong emotion that she didn’t take the time to understand. She folded it up again, as neatly as she could. Trying to bring back how it looked like before. How she had folded it. It didn’t satisfy her though, regrets flooded her mind. She wished she had left it as it were. Entrapped in time like the picture. She placed it back in her closet. - She kept the picture inside her diary that she usually brings with her to work. From time to time she’d glance at the picture and flip it over. 628 wellbury. Why her grandmother would put that there, she did not know.

“You’re off today,” Charles, her co-worker pointed at her with a pen. “You’re quiet.” “I’m always quiet.” “No no, you’re-” he paused, squinting at her. “What’s that? You keep staring at it,” Charles wheeled his chair towards her and peeked over at her shoulder.

“Oh,” he mumbled softly when he saw the picture.

“It’s fine,” she said dismissively and flipped over the picture, “628 wellbury, do you know what that is?” He leaned back on his chair and placed his feet on Tessa’s desk, “628 wellbury. Wellbury, it sounds familiar. Is it an address?” Tessa shook her head and traced over the pristine cursive writing with her finger, “not anywhere near us.” On any other day, Tessa would swat off Charles’ feet, a routine that the two of them had grown accustomed to. But today, she didn’t care, just thankful that he doesn’t treat her differently after what happened. Charles lingered at Tessa’s desk for a while, she felt his gaze on her as she went back to work. None of them said anything, she didn’t mind. - Charles asked if she wanted to get dinner with him and the others, she declined, said she was tired. He didn’t pry. A part of her wanted him to, why though? She didn't know. She decided to walk home that night, instead of taking the 6 pm bus. There was something intimate about walking alone at night, devoid of fear or worry. She let her mind wander. Where did they get dinner? She should’ve come. She didn’t feel like cooking tonight. If she did, would she cook the fish or just microwave some leftovers? The last time she ate fish was with her grandmother. Just two weeks ago. She didn’t want fish. She should throw it away, it’s been in the freezer for quite some time now. How long do fishes stay fresh anyway? Her grandmother was the one who taught her how to cook, she must’ve mentioned how long you should keep produce in your fridge. She misses her. She can’t remember what she said though. She wished she wore the dress today. But she can’t wear the dress there’s nothing special about today. No there’s nothing special about today.

A honk from a car took her away from her thoughts, she hated how loud cars can be.

“Tessa!” Charles pulled her towards the sidewalk, “Jesus, can you-” The mere touch of Charles made her realize how starved she is for it. For comfort. For company. She collapsed onto his arms, tears gushed down onto her cheeks. If Charles minded, he didn’t show. He didn’t say anything as he held her on the sidewalk. People and cars passed them but they remained still as if they were a picture entrapped in time. He hugged her tighter as she cried, kissed her hair as she buried her head deeper into his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “I’m here.” “She didn't tell me that it was anything serious,” she said a moment later, her voice barely a whisper. She stopped crying now, but she held onto Charles and she held her back.

- Charles walked her home that night, the sounds of their footsteps treading the sidewalk were enough for the two of them. He offered to stay over when they reached her house, she thanked him but said no, said she was tired. She watched him walk away, glancing back to wave at her. She lay on the couch, exhausted. She closed her eyes and thought of Charles, her grandmother, then to the picture. She sat and pulled out the picture, noticing every detail from the freckles on her cheeks to the items on their background. There was a bag behind them, you can barely make out the details but as she examined it closer, the bag had Wellbury on its logo. Immediately she went to her grandmother’s room. She had not been there ever since she last saw her, everything inside was left untouched, entrapped in the time when she was still alive.

Gently she opened the door, it creaked softly on its hinges and the wooden floor protested beneath her feet. The faint smell of lavender found its way onto her nostrils as she entered. She let her fingers find their way onto the light switch, the warm orange light of fluorescent bulbs filled the room. Her fingers slid from the light switch and onto the embossed wallpaper, tracing over its crevices and patterns. It was exactly as her grandmother had left it, the bed wasn’t made, and a pillow was on the floor from when she was hurriedly carried onto an ambulance. The carpet warmed her bare feet, she scrunched up her toes like she did when she was little. She didn’t dare sit on the bed, for fear that she’ll disrupt its frozen state.

Tessa consciously walked over to her closet, thumb grazing over the smooth knobs, and opened it. As she suspected the bag was there. Wellburry. She sat on the floor and examined the leather bag, studying the gold-plated logo. There was a lock in the bag though, three numbers. She slowly put in 628, rolling the dials as carefully as she could as if she was prolonging the event. It opened softly with a click .

She paused before opening it, closing her eyes to take a deep breath of the lavender-scented room. Inside was a notebook, a diary bound in leather with strings tied in a bow. It gave in in one pull. Inside were diary entries, letters with the dates for June 28 but each was a different year. Pristine cursive danced in black ink, waltzed with Tessa as she celebrated her birthday with her grandmother.