Yesterday I sat at my window watching my grandchildren illustrate the pavements with coloured chalk. I was caught off guard as I sat and watched them splash colours carefree on the grey gravel canvas. I almost didn't recognise the same pavements I grew up on. It was like I blinked and one world vanished into another and for the first time in a while yesterday; I remembered. I remembered a time when I sat watching out the same window and witnessed my city in flames. I remembered a time, colours meant territories. I remembered a time, those very same pavements were illustrated differently.

I have always had a dysfunctional relationship with my home, yet my love for it remains true. My love for it was why I had stayed here when so many during the years of turmoil fled. Even in its darkest days, I could still envision a future where the pavements spoke not of blood, hatred or division. When I watched my grandchildren yesterday, I was reminded that they were my inspiration as a young man; before even knowing their names. When you are born into a world of chaos, division and hatred, you are forced to make choices quickly. As a young man, I had a choice about what part I wanted to play in history. I asked myself one night as a young man, walking these pavements, "What role would you be proud to tell your grandkids you played?" That question acted as a catalyst, and it was not long after I posed it to myself, I found myself enrolled as an ambulance driver for the streets of Belfast. My grandchildren may never read my name in a history book, but my attempts to heal Northern Ireland's streets are evident if they walked these pavements. During the years of the conflicts, I witnessed how rubble and destruction would litter this city's streets, and it was always irrespective of the colour the pavements were painted. Both sides required my ambulance, and both sides would end up smeared with blood. I never regarded individual tragedies as points scored to the opposing side. Every time I had to uncover a body or reassemble a blown off leg, I considered it a loss to both sides' humanity. I watched men on opposing sides cry the same, bleed the same and die the same. I found it hard to find any justifiable cause for the continuing of division and strife when I stood amidst a bomb site. I often thought about the leaders of the Northern Ireland conflict. I wondered if they had stood alongside me at every one of those scenes would they have made the journey to peace so long and tedious.

The streets of Belfast were often the frontline of conflict. They were noisy places. They cried of justice during the Civil Rights marches. They rang with the shrill of bin lids, hitting against pavements during the Hunger Strikes. They howled with destruction at every bomb, riot and ambush. The noise the streets emitted during the years of conflict often made many people numb. I watched as the conflict dragged and the death count piled, how people started to jump less at the sound of gunshots. Babies could sleep through nights of sirens. The sound of broken glass became as commonplace as the sound of rain.

As an ambulance driver, I was more than accustomed to these penetrating noises. However, it is not the sound of bombs, bullets and bangs that follow me still; fifty years on from the start of my country's turmoil. The sound that still has the reach to startle me was the sound of silence. It was a particular silence that could be heard when I shut the doors of my ambulance. The bomb site's chaos often disguised the sound of individual lives changing forever, but in the back of my ambulance, a platform was created for that very realisation. That realisation came with the sound of harrowing silence. The sound was the same, no matter the tragedy. No matter the victim. No matter the cause. It was this sound of silence that used to follow us all the way to the hospital and then persisted in following me all the way home.

Sometimes I can still hear that same sound of silence whispering in the streets of my city. After a city goes to war with itself, the emotional remnants left behind are much harder to remove than the rubble from shop windows and burnt-out cars. I sometimes find myself driving past the Peace Walls and watch tourists emerge from black taxis to take pictures and sign their names. I often envy their outsider's eyes. I look at those same walls, and I can still see the bloodstains haemorrhaging from both sides, and I remember all those people I met in the back of my ambulance, who never got the chance to see their city being rebuilt. As a people, we have tried to learn from our darkest days, and we still have more to learn. A whole generation in this country has grown up without the fear of bombs interrupting their Saturday morning shopping. More and more communities are no longer defined by what type of church they attend on a Sunday or what colour of flag they fly outside their house. I know we have more rebuilding to do. I want to hear our streets in chorus with a new song. A song of redemption. A song of pride for this city and all the people who chose to call it home. I will always be proud that I was found during this city's time of need healing others on these same streets that my grandchildren are free to draw pictures of smiling suns and tall trees. Northern Ireland streets may speak of a complicated past, they may always bear the stains of conflict and division, but peace has started to be rewritten in the walls and streets. When I walk these pavements now, I see hope illustrated, and finally, I can rest.


Sweat was running down my back as I sat across from the police officer. These meetings had become so frequent that I should be used to them by now. Still, no matter how many times I sat in this chair, it never got easier. The officer whose name badge read “Perkins” cleared his throat and clasped his hands on the table. A cup of untouched coffee sat in front of me, the smell of Folgers filling the room. Oddly enough, it was the only thing settling my racing thoughts. It reminded me of Saturdays at my grandparent’s house when I would watch cartoons with them while they sipped away at the freshly poured cup in their hands. The smell gave me a sense of peace. It wasn’t much but it was something. Something I didn’t have much of these days. “A new piece of information has popped up regarding your case and we wanted to run it by you and see what you think.” I nodded instinctively, even though feelings of dread were slowly rising in my throat and causing my lungs to constrict. Words didn’t seem the appropriate response and honestly, I don’t know if I could speak them if I wanted to. Officer Perkins changed positions and leaned back in his chair, propping a foot on his knee and taking a long sip of his own cup of coffee. I couldn’t tell if he was just trying to act casual or if he was so desensitized to conversations like this, he wasn’t aware of his body language. Either way, it wasn’t helping my nerves. Then again, maybe that was the point. “We received multiple anonymous tips that your wife was killed, and her body was placed in a quarry a few miles north of here.” The ringing in my ears started at the word “killed” and I didn’t fully comprehend the rest. A quarry? Who could have possibly wanted to kill my wife? A million questions swirled in my brain. After 52 days of no word from her or idea of where she was, I had to admit that the thought had crossed my mind that she could have been killed, but it was too much to bear without proof. I hadn’t allowed myself to go there mentally or I would go insane. This is the first time the idea that she was dead was being presented to me.  I got another whiff of the coffee from taking a deep breath and I almost gagged. So much for the peace it had offered only a few moments ago. “We are sending officers there to go check it out now. Does this sound familiar to you in any way?” I was confused by the question. I shook my head, words again failing me. “The first tip came in last night, but our officers were caught up in another situation and we couldn’t execute a search until today. That’s when we received a few more calls with everyone saying the same thing.” “How many people called with this information?” I croaked, finally finding my voice. “Four.” He responded while looking at me intently. I knew he was studying my reaction, and that made me sweat even more. In my head, I prayed that this was a rumor and nothing more. “Were they all anonymous?” I managed, my voice sounding less shaky than before. Officer Perkins just nodded. I looked for sympathy on his face, but I found none. My brain started racking itself, trying to think of who would have this information. There had been two suspects in the case, not including myself, who had been cleared in the case of my wife’s disappearance. I had also been cleared, but I know there were people who had their doubts. Potentially the man sitting across from me was one with doubts. I wouldn’t be surprised. Suddenly there was a knock at the door and he excused himself to step outside and talk to whoever did the knocking. I leaned forward on the table after he left and removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes. The bags under them were prominent at this point, the worry racking my brain late into the evening and even the early hours of the morning. Officer Perkins came back in and said, “A report has come in from the officers at the quarry. A few things have been recovered from the scene and we would like for you to take a look and see if you can identify anything they found.” “Was there…” I swallowed hard, not knowing if I could say the word. “Was there a body?” He shook his head and relief flooded me. “There is no report of a body at this time.” I put my glasses on and nodded, trying to stop the tears that were starting to well up. “The officers should be back soon if you want to wait here. Can I get you a new coffee while you wait?” I shook my head. “I need to make a couple of calls.” He nodded and left the room to give me privacy. Well, a sense of privacy at least. I knew the room was being monitored. I spent some time calling family members and friends, trying to understand who would have heard anything about the tip that came to the police. No one I talked to said they had heard that rumor before. I felt discouraged, wondering who would feel the need to share that information and more importantly, who believed it enough to share it with the police. My search rendered no luck, and as I hung up the phone for my last call, a knock sounded on the interrogation room door. I motioned for them to come in. Two officers entered. One of them was Officer Perkins and another one I hadn’t seen before. He was carrying an evidence bag. They took a seat and emptied the contents of the bag. It took me a minute to register what I was seeing. There was a scarf and a ring. Both had the appearance of what looked like blood on them. A chill went down my spine at the sight of the objects. Not just because of the blood, but because of what they were. There was no question they belonged to my wife. The ring was clearly hers. A simple gold band with a ruby nestled between two small diamonds had our wedding day inscribed on the inside of the band, 04/15/2009. It would be hard to disprove that it did in fact belong to my wife. While this on its own was concerning, it wasn’t the ring that made the pit in my stomach grow to unimaginable depths. It was the scarf. The scarf with fresh blood streaks down the middle. The scarf that had still been in her closet a week after she disappeared. There was only one person who would have been able to get that scarf at a time when I wasn’t home. My wife. “Do you recognize these items?” the officer who brought the bag in asked me, although they had to know by the look on my face that I did. I nodded. Again, words failed me. “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?” The other one asked. I had been asked this question before, and today, my answer was still the same. “No.” “Okay. Well, if anything changes, let me know. We will continue our investigation and be in touch with you.” They must have cut the interview short because they could see I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to continue this conversation. I walked out of the room and through the precinct, not fully registering my surroundings as I made my way outside to my car. I sat in the front seat and held the wheel as the realization of what had happened hit me like a semi-truck at full force. My wife was gone. Not dead, but something worse. She left. Of her own free will. She left me. And this was her sign for me to let go. She must have snuck in and grabbed that scarf when I was unaware. I kicked myself again for not putting up security cameras sooner. I finally did it, but it was far too late. As I drove home, I realized that all the calls were her. She led the police there, but more importantly, led me to the realization that she was never coming home.


All my life as a virgin, I wished that any man who would marry me should never have tasted the best of a woman. As a working-class lady, I gave my whole life on work as if without it I cannot live. Many of my friends were so jealous of my commitment to work. “Bissi, why are you always at the top of everyone in this company. I wonder what your fate will be if at the end you are fired from service,” Dorothy asked her during lunch break. Bissi love having fun after lunch and her co-workers draw to her because she's eloquent and elegant looking. After her years of services, she’s now in the upper echelons of directorship and this charmed the whole men who were working with her. The food is not yet ready. Hold on about 30 minutes you will not believe your eyes what happened. “Even if I cannot have you as a wife, kindly give me a chance to take you out for a weekend,” Joss requested. “That wouldn’t be a problem but as you can see I have a lot on my desk now. Can we talk about this later in the day?” Bissi still soliloquizing, “What could be going on in Joss mind to ask for such a thing? Whatever, he will find his level. I have no time entertaining such stories. I think what I need now is to focus on my schedules. Juddy, she shouted, do not allow anyone into my office again.” “Yes madam.” Months later, Kenneth succeeded in buying Bissi's heart with a token of a golden wristwatch. This has always been Bissi's plan since college but all fingers were not equal. Bissi came from a peasant background that hardly eats 2 square meals in a day. The parents laboured day and night to educate their only daughter to university level. Her background made her so ambitious that her studiousness at the university accorded her a lot of awards. After graduation, she got her first job. It was a fast job with a fat payment. She couldn’t wait for her first salary to wet the lips of her parents. On that evening she came back home with a whole lot of goodies for both parents. Her job changed the face of the earth. The mother’s ugly nature caused by hardship returned to her youthful strength. “Mama, I never know you are so beautiful like this.” “My daughter, I am happy that you made it at last. I gave you the beauty you have today and I appreciate all you have done to keep me and your father in a healthy and happy state after long years of struggles. I thank the gods for your success.” “It’s all right mama. I will certainly do what I can to keep you and papa in the best position you deserve. I am tired let me go in and rest.” “Okay, my daughter but remember, a woman’s joy is complete when she finds her true bone. Kindly do faster about that I want to carry my grandchildren before I join my ancestors.” “Okay, good night my lovely mother.” “Sleep tight, my daughter.” They ended their conversation and exited to their bedrooms. The following morning, she woke up with the bell of her mother’s words ringing in her mind. “What does this woman meant that the joy of a woman is complete when she finds her true bone.” These words tormented her the whole day at work but she couldn’t tell anyone. In her confusion, Kenneth came in and they exchanged pleasantries. “What is going on with my learned, magnificent, spotless, one and only lady in my life? Looking at you in this state of quagmire invokes a lot of issues not going on well with you. Kindly let me into this world I can be chilling water to soothe your bones and I can carry you to the resting palace where we can relax this tension. Please, Babe, smile a little; your face looks terrible at glance and it's not befitting your status.” “Ken I am glad you truly understand how I feel. I have watched you speak and in truth, I am not in my right mind. Maybe I’m sick. If there is anything that can be done to ease this stress, kindly do it.” “It’s all right my lady. I am here for you. If you don't mind, I would like us to go somewhere out of the city. It’s a very nice and aesthetically adorned environment. The beauty of this place is that immediately you behold the paradise, you will long to be there forever.” She consented and they went. Everything was as he described and she fell in love with the arena that it became the place of unending visit for the two. On the 4 th of September, 2016, Kenneth openly declared his interest. She accepted to marry him on one condition that he has to introduce himself to her parents and organise for the wedding in the following month. As expected of a man who has found a treasure, he went home happy. He couldn’t wait for the cock to crow the next morning; he made haste to work and found that Bissi was still at home. He saw it as an opportunity to visit her at home. He did and both parents were at home. Though he was afraid of what may become of him; he was welcomed by the parents. “Oh my God, your mother is indeed an angel. She must be the reason your father never looked elsewhere and immediately fall for her. Even at this age, she’s younger than her age.” “I see, forget my mother you are here to see me not her.” “Common my love! It’s true. She is beautiful.” “For that reason, you should start going. I will join you later.” A few weeks later, the marriage ceremony has been planned. A bar of chocolate to keep your eyes awake; you are about to see the real dance of love. What will you do, twenty minutes before you are about to get married, you find your mother and your fiancé kissing passionately. Just hold your answers until the end of the story and see how it ended with Ken and Bissi.

It was the wedding ceremony. Bissi’s mother came to greet the son-in-law to be in his set apart room. He said to her, “mum you are a true definition of beauty. The last time I checked my dictionary, it proclaims that you are still young.” “Oh my darling, stop flattering me.” Ken went closer and held her hands. “Wow, I have never felt this way for years now. Come closer, immediately they signed the contract of kisses and at that Bissi came in and found both of them and closed the door. She never uttered a word but left to her chambers set for the wedding ceremony.” It’s time to tie the knot. “My daughter is he the one that you have sold your heart to?” “He is still the one. Come what may, I still love him and nothing more.” They hugged each other and the honeymoon commenced.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire, and I stopped in my tracks. I was confused. There were people in the neighborhood who were still going on their daily morning jogs, and walks, and cars driving by on the road. I closed my eyes, and counted to three, but when I opened them back up, it’s like the fire got even bigger. I thought to myself, not again. What was happening? My eyes were deceiving me, and I felt trapped in my own mind. I heard the front door open, looked back and it was my older brother leaving to go to work. I turned back around, and I didn’t see the fire anymore, but I could still feel the heat coming from it. My brother told me bye, hopped in his car, and drove away. It was a brisk Saturday, and I decided to get up early to get some fresh air. I haven’t been able to sleep lately. My nightmares were turning into night terrors, and I couldn’t shake this feeling of dread. As I began to walk, I got deep into my thoughts, and it felt like everything around me was a part of my imagination. It was fall. The leaves were turning colors, and the moon was taking over the sky. My mother owned a healing shop in the city where people who needed healing, and protection would go to her for help, and guidance. I didn’t realize how far I had walked, until I came upon the street my grandmother lives on. I shrugged and told myself why not and walked into her neighborhood. I haven’t told anybody about my dreams, or visions I have been seeing, because I knew it sounded crazy, and didn’t want my mother and grandmother to worry. My phone began to ring, and the caller ID was my grandmother. What a coincidence. When I answered, she said she left the back gate open for me and then hung up the phone. How does she do that? I never knew. I always thought it was just an intuition thing, I have that feeling too. I finally made it to her house, and the dread I had suddenly went away. Grandmothers do bring comfort. I opened the gate to the backyard and saw my grandmother watering her flowers. She had a very pretty garden, and always kept it up. I never saw a plant or flower loose its life. We greeted each other, and I helped her water the rest of the garden. Before I could say anything, she asked me how I’d been sleeping lately, and I didn’t lie. I told her the truth about my nightmares and the hallucinations I’ve been having while asleep and awake. She asked me how long this has been going on and I told her three months. My grandmother then grabbed my hand and rushed me inside. We went into her office, which was filled with books, journals, incense, sage, jewelry boxes, stones, and crystals, and I sat down on the couch near the window. I looked outside, and it really was a beautiful day. My grandmother had her glasses on, and was picking out books from her bookcase, handing me each one to put on her desk. Once she was done, she placed her hand on my forehead and began to pray. It wasn’t strange for her to do that. Prayer was something we did in my family every day, all day. There was never a bad time to pray. She closed the office door and began to sage the room. My family and I were deep into spirituality and were always aware of the company we kept around our souls and in our home. For that reason, my mother never allowed me to bring home just anybody because she said some people have demons in them, but don’t know it, and next thing you know there is a bad spirit wandering in our house, looking for its next vessel. Both my mother and grandmother had red brick clay at the front and back doors of the house for protection from evil spirits and negative energy. My body began to tingle, and I felt tense, as my grandmother was still cleansing the room. I closed my eyes and counted to five, and I started to hear voices. When I opened my eyes, there was a candle floating in the middle of the room. The sort of candle you find at the front altar in a church. It wasn’t lit, but the voices were coming from inside of it. I got up from the couch and walked to the middle of the room and looked inside the candle. There were three tiny creatures dressed in white robes, dancing around in a circle humming to a hymn. I smiled and then they abruptly stopped, and slowly turned to look at me. My smile turned into a frown, and one by one each creature disappeared, and the candle ignited with fire, blowing up in my face. I panicked and called for my grandmother, who I didn’t see in the room anymore, but I wasn’t scared. I started to feel that sense of dread again and became light headed. I walked back over to the couch, laid down and fell asleep. When I woke up, my mother, grandmother, and brother were all in the room looking at me. My grandmother was looking through one of her books, my mother was stirring a cup of tea, and my brother was shaving down a red brick over a pot. My grandmother asked me what I had saw, and I told her what happened, and the reoccurrence of fire in my visions. My mother handed me the cup of tea, kissed me on the check, and told me that everything was going to be okay. Honestly, I just wanted to know what was going on. “Oneiromancy”, Grandma Sadie said, while she sat back in the chair at her desk. “I’m sorry, what?”, Niani, replied back, removing the tea cup away from her mouth. “Hoodoo”, Sarah, Niani’s mom declared. I looked at my brother to see if he was hearing what I was hearing. “It’s real”, Nasir, my brother said to me. I was mind boggled to say the least. I have heard my grandmother and mother talk about it, but I didn’t know they were affirmed believers who participated in it. As I finished my tea, and sat up on the couch, my grandmother told me that we all have gifts, and that it’s up to us to decide if want to embrace it or not. Oneiromancy is one of the several forms of divination in hoodoo, which meant the interpretation of dreams in order to foretell the future. My mother said my gift is being a seer. She said my brother went through this phase too when he was my age, but that my visions are stronger, and hold more power. My grandmother told me that the time has come for her to start training me to control my visions and to use my dreams to help people. I wasn’t opposed to it; I was actually excited. I finally felt like I had a purpose in life; a reason to live. Nasir began to tell me that dad had the same gift but was killed because of it. No one likes people who have special gifts, because they see them as a threat to normal ideologies. My grandmother told me that there are people who want to steal our magic and have always gone after our family, to either lock them up in a mental institution or kill them, taking their souls. I wasn’t asking many questions because they were answering them before I could even think about it. Boo Hag is who they told me we had to be aware of. Boo Hag is an evil spirit who torments the living, while also sending other demons to take possession of those who are weak and vulnerable. However, before my mother could finish telling me about our family secrets, we all became overwhelmed with dread and heartache. We quickly went into the living room and turned on the television, and that’s when we saw it. There was an explosion in the downtown area at a church, during a youth service program, killing three small children, who were performing a dance ritual in their white robes. My heart dropped and I fainted. I was in the kitchen, the sink was running water, and there was a bowl on the dining room table spinning. It began to spin faster, spurring fire, and then the water cut off. Signs. I took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. I looked around the room, which was getting smaller each second, and a crystal appeared in the fire. I grabbed the crystal and woke up. I was in the car. My brother was driving, my mother was in the front seat, and my grandmother was next to me holding my hand. My grandmother demanded that I tell her everything I just saw. She told me to listen to my heart, and I told Nasir to drive to the library in town. “What did you pull out of your vision?”, Sarah asked. I opened my hand and it was the crystal that was in my dream in the bowl of fire. When we pulled up in front of the library, there were police cars, fire trucks, and an ambulance in the parking lot. We got out the car, and there was smoke coming from the building. The police were trying to keep people back, and there were firemen carrying people from out of the building. My grandmother told me to go to the front line and tell the firemen where to look. I went up to the front of the line, and told one of the police to tell the firefighters to go down in the basement, near the windows that are shaped like bowls, because there is a pregnant mother stuck down there and she cant get out, but there is still time left to save her. The cop looked at me like I was crazy, but I pleaded. He rolled his eyes at me and turned his head. I grabbed the cops hand with a tight grip, and looked at him deep in his eyes, showing him what would happen to him if he didn’t help me save the pregnant woman. I let go of his hand, he stumbled back, and ran to the nearest fireman to tell him about the woman stuck in the basement. The fireman looked at me, grabbed his partner, and then they went inside. Five minutes later they came out with the pregnant woman, she was unharmed and still breathing. Seconds later the library collapsed. I walked away from the front line, and went back to my family, who hugged me. I looked at my grandmother, and she told me that I had the gift of seeing, and showing, but the showing could become a dangerous thing if I let it take control over me. I liked the showing. Just to think that this day ended how it did because of leaves on fire.


Artemis had a twisted smile on her face, all the while Lauren cleaning her wounds after killing one of the night-slayers that followed them. The human sighed. “ Don’t do that. It’s fucking creepy.” “Do what?” “Stop smiling,” Lauren laughed. “You have blood all over your teeth,” she cleaned the rest of the blood off the mutant’s face, quelling the urge to shove the ragged cloth over Artemis’s mouth; whether it were the blood-thirsty grin or what she felt from it, she couldn’t say. She silently snorted. Tom would never let her hear the end of this one. She found herself murmuring, "I can't believe this, I really can't." "What?" Her eyes glittered. "Can't I just celebrate our victory?" Lauren shoved at her. "You said it yourself–you killed things that had more brains than that. This was nothing by your standards." "It's nice you think highly enough of me as to have standards then." Oh, if only you knew... "Doesn't say much about me then, does it?" In a trance the human stroked her cheek, nails lightly scraping off the residue of blood in the process. Face to face, they locked eyes. Lauren swallowed, pushing forward. Her lips parted, heart fluttering when the embrace was reciprocated with just as much intensity. It was not the ideal place to submerge into their passions or tensions. The human herself was still somewhat astonished at what came over her–if it were truly lust, infatuation, or fear? Lauren let out a grunt into the dark cave, legs locking onto Artemis’s; her strength collapsed into the mutant who inhabited her space closely, soon fallen to the death of tenebrous nightfall. Lauren could no longer hesitate with her emotions. She had been frozen into the distinction of time and above all, tragedies—first with losing her parents, protecting her brother, Tom, as they were forced into memory loops and injections, then looking out for themselves on the island. She had to put other people out there to die, to disfigure themselves at the mercy of ash and topaz river-beds but she would do it again for him.

Artemis, however, made this thinking process very difficult.

Lauren chuckled ruefully as she pulled away. “We both fucking reek of death. We just killed that thing back there, and now this?” “This is how we show respect when a mutant dies. We consummate on their grave." “Very unlikely!” The human snorted, every atom within her burning and pulsating. She found something to forge on lightly—mentally, at the very least—the excuse made her cloud herself away from the present they were in. Perhaps that was the best skill of hunting, the best skill of surviving—going with the flow of things regardless of circumstance. It only drowned out the grotesque just as much as it twisted them in it, into each other metaphorically as the moon glowed onto their skins. This new-found understanding of their darkness surprised them, surpassing physical intimacy. Heartbeat trained in the darkness, Artemis’s claws sprung out on Lauren’s shirt, inching along her skin to barely make a mark.

Lauren eased out her hand, anticipating—“You better not fucking tear this off of me. I packed light on clothes.” Artemis scoffed, her breath warm as the rain appeared again lightly on their trail. She struggled to keep up. “That’s your fault.” “Yeah, yeah,” the human snorted but didn’t pull away from the contact. “God forbid I pack what I need for my brother and me to survive, then have a quick thrill and fuck all else in my life…” The mutant pulled back, a brow lowered, and by her nature, eyes smoked in yellow elixir. As much as she wanted, it had to wait. For her. “What do you mean?” “It’s just… Look, everything goes to shit. I’ve used people—I told you that and oddly when your humanity was taken from you I guess so was your common sense being as you’re still here.” A cunning smile draped across Artemis's lips. “Ah, I see. Survival, especially in the wilderness, is never going to be innocent. It’s not only that bothering you or is it?” “You don't even know. Many things bother me…” “Sure, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t act on it–on what troubles you.” “I’m probably the most impulsive person I know,” she looked away, remembering the osmosis of the tides, the bushy forestry, and the cabin in the yellow-amber fields. For her own sanity, she had to cover the previous owner’s pictures with black tape; she couldn’t bring herself to throw them out after his death, yet she didn’t want to be reminded of it either. Though she had to wonder. “What should I act on? My impulses or my fears?” “Fears are your best bet.” “I’m afraid of… of losing my brother, him not remembering me or our life together. I’m losing him all over again.” "Why would he not remember you? You said he broke out of the loop with you." “He’s got amnesia, for fuck’s sake!” She winced. “Sorry, I’m just… I’m trying—you obviously, well, you didn’t know. He washed ashore on the island after trying to escape with his girlfriend,” an eye-roll at that, “with the resources I gathered to help us… leaving me behind to die. Just swell and peachy.” Silence enclosed them like a python’s prey frozen in the midst of its pretty neck. The silent night screeched as Artemis lied back against the stone-walls. “Wow. Some brother you have there then. Why go back for him?” The rest of the sentence went implied. “I’m not like him.” Lauren said. She shook her head, almost as if convincing herself of that. “We were close. All we had was each other. I had to look out for him and I thought he would do the same. Right now, I can’t reconcile the brother I knew or the brother he is now. Would he leave me behind again? “You don’t have to answer that,” Lauren sighed, moving steadily towards Artemis. “Sorry for unloading, this shit’s been weighing on my chest.” The mutant gave a half-effort of a shrug, stretching her back out. She stifled a yawn. Lauren sat down, laying her head on the cat-like mutant’s ankle. “Is this weird?” She squinted in confusion. “I don’t think you’ll make my foot go numb.” “No, you silly bear, I mean—all this. We were just about to have sex after being on the run for five hours straight? We haven't known each other for long either. How screwed up is that?” “I didn’t think of it as just sex…” “Fine,” Lauren cocked a smirk. “Foreplay then?” “I don’t want to only have sex. I like you.” “Oh. Well, you know how to show a girl a good time then,” she bumped their shoulders, laughing at the frivolity along with the impassive look that passed on the mutant’s face. She hid her face behind her hand, for once, nerves tingling like the ravines across the sands, “I think I like you too…” “While threatening me with your jury-rigged spear?” “I–I didn't want to hurt you, but I didn't know what to think either." Artemis frowned, considering this. “Remind me, we also have to work on your stances, you will get mauled in no time." Lauren hummed, nursing the broken fabric off her shirt before letting it fall into a small puddle. “Sorry for ruining,” she waved in the air, “this… first date, I guess?” Artemis tapped her claws against the cave, discerning a light sound that echoed between them. These women were moon-struck fools in the abyss, but wearing a dumb grin, the mutant could not care at this point. It had been years since she could find solace in another, let alone, a human being. Something she had not been in a long time, it could help her understand and maybe re-integrate with what is known on the island, something she never considered. Away from her territory. "You didn't ruin anything. We got to know each other better." She shouldn’t get her hopes up, as even she knew they would never be able to escape. That would be her first mistake in letting her guard down. Though she also hid in their parallels—killing others for survival and mind-games to play on predators that would soon become prey. An inseparable part of Artemis, the part that went off of animalistic instinct, craved for contact, intimacy, especially physical, though she found herself satiated with the small brushes and cuddles. Artemis gazed up at Lauren, recalling something from earlier. "Also... Silly bear? Really ?" "Fuck off." For the first in many years, they slept with warmth. The dark shadows of the moon lit like a soft lantern.


“At the roundabout, take the second exit.”

“Shut the fuck up Siri!” He screamed. “You’ve been driving us around in circles through this shit hole of a town for the last twenty minutes, for Christ sake!” He continued.

I have never really seen him this angry, this upset. Usually he’s the cool, calm and collected head and I’m always the worry-wart. But today, today he’s just… off. Off more than one would expect to be off on a day like today.

“Turn left down Macquarie lane and then make a U-turn” Siri blurts out smugly. “Jesus H Fucking Christ” he muttered under his breath. “This bitch, I thought computers are smart.” “It’s ok Duncan. Don’t rush, we will get there when we get there.” I replied, trying my best to calm him down with a soft tone.

“Matilda, we only have one chance for this. And these constant misdirections and mixed with all the fucking traffic. It’s doing my head in, love” he retorted, trying his best to stay calm. But I can sense the frustration. He wants to scream.

“Continue along Macquarie lane 800 meters, then turn left down Yakabindi Drive.” “I hate this city. I hate this fucking place so much.” He sulked. The fiery red anger and frustration in his voice now doused out, turning blue, I swear he could burst into tears at any moment.

“It will be ok darling. We have plenty of time still. We will get there in-time. Try not to stress too much.” My words go in one ear and out the other. He just nods and replies “yes dear. Yes dear”. I know it has been, it still is, a stressful day. But I don’t like seeing him like this. I never see him like this. Today, of all days, has broken him. Of any day for him to be like this, this would have to be the worst one to choose. I just wanted to spend the day with my husband, my high school sweetheart. I wanted today, more so than any other other day we’ve had together, to be just us, just good.

Just perfect.

“Slow down baby, there’s no need to drive so quick.” I pleaded with him after I feel the car speeding faster and faster.

“We can’t be late Matilda. And the police aren’t going to do anything today. We will be fine as long as all these stupid shit heads stay out of the way.” He snarled back.

“Baby please, I don’t like this, please slow down” I begged once more, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears, as he now swerved recklessly around caravans and other SUVs travelling to slow for his liking.

I gripped the seat tighter and push my feet against the footwell, as if I’ve magically got a second break peddle on my side of the car, ready to slam down at the first sign sign of trouble.

We seem to have left the suburbs now, no longer are there black roofed houses with empty carports and wide open front doors, but large pine forests now zooming past.

“Finally, the open road sweetheart. We should be able to make it as long as every other idiot is behind us. Next stop Mt Eliza, and back to lake Nunnabindi. It will be perfect babe. I promise”. I faked a smile but kept hold of the seat firmly. We were both faking it really, in our own way. As nothing about today was perfect. How could it be? We would have driven another hour, maybe two, but time honestly doesn’t matter anymore so I can’t be sure. Duncan seems to have calmed down now. His fingers no longer white knuckled gripping the wheel. I also calmed, no longer were my feet pushed to the end of the floor well, my hand now gently resting on his forearm. I had time to watch the scenery rush past. The pine forest is truly a beautiful place. Fresh, clean. Hours passed by, only the hum of the engine and the occasional sigh or yawn from Duncan broke the silence.

I watched him, as he concentrated on the road, as his mind raced with thoughts I could only guess.

I saw the man I married ten years ago. I saw the cheeky teen I met in high school. He may have greying hair and a few wrinkles. But I saw him.

I smiled. He remained blissfully unaware of my gaze. But that just made me smile more.

“Duncan, baby” I said softly.

“Yeah, Tilly” he smiled back at me, his eyes never once leaving the road “I love you” I whispered.

“I love you too, baby”.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, it was always getting jammed, so I could lean over and give him a peck on the cheek. He smiled and turned his head to me.

“I’m sorry baby. I’m sorry about how I acted earlier. I love you”

I could hear the hurt in his voice. I know him, I know that’s not who he is. I know it’s a sincere apology.

The car jolted violently as I was leaning over the Centre console. It swerved violently to the right.

“Oh fuck!” We both screamed.

A few seconds of hard bumps, a loud bang and crash and suddenly my world spin upside down. Thrown from the vehicle, with a stabbing pain in my shoulder. My body tumbled across a grass field until coming to a painful stop. Dazed I turned my head from left to right, searching for Duncan. I struggled to move. My arms in searing pain, my legs unable to move. To the left I could see our car, wrapped around a tree, I shot out of the front windscreen and flew at least 10..20 meters? I have no idea.

“DUNCAN” I croaked. My voice course and low.

“DUNCAN”, tears streaming down my cheeks.

I got no reply. All I could hear were the cicadas. And an occasional gust of wind.

“DUNCAN, BABY. Please” I bellowed one last time.

And again, no answer. I turned my head once more. I gazed up. Directly up, to what we have all been avoiding for the last few days.

The bright blue summer sky transformed into a terrifying canvas of chaos. As if the devil was inspired by Claude Monet himself, but needed to one-up him to prove a point.

The blue replaced by dazzling reds, yellows and orange. A blazing, crackling tail left in its wake. It was just now I noticed the eerie, ominous glow that has overtaken the ground. It was closer than we realised. My heart cried out to me “find Duncan”. But I lay there helpless. Frightened and alone.

Transfix by the spectacle above, I couldn’t tell if it was paralysis or some primal fear keeping me from standing up and finding my husband. But either way, I couldn’t move.

“Duncan” I croaked once more. I realised as I lay on the grass, and with my gaze fixed firmly on the horrifying spectacle above. I was never going to see Duncan again. And as tears mingled with the dust on my cheeks, I whisper his name one last time, a desperate plea lost in the chaos of the devil above. The hand never to be held again. The final kiss we will never have.

One last embrace,

That last day that never came.


In the whispering heart of Emerald Valley, shrouded in the emerald embrace of ancient sequoia, nestled the quaint bookstore, "Whispers of Time." Its facade, weathered by whispers of a thousand autumns, bore a faded inscription: "Where stories find whispers, and whispers find you." Inside, the air held the musty scent of aged paper, sunlight filtering through stained glass windows, painting the floor in kaleidoscopic hues. Here, amidst towering shelves groaning with the weight of tales untold, resided Eleanor, the bookstore's enigmatic owner. Eleanor was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, her emerald eyes holding the secrets of forgotten lore. Her silver hair, streaked with moonlight, seemed to shimmer with untold stories. She dispensed not just books but keys to hidden worlds, her voice a warm caress that lured you into the labyrinthine alleys of forgotten narratives. One crisp December morning, a young man named Jack, adrift in the aimless sea of post-graduation ennui, stumbled upon Whispers of Time. Drawn by the siren song of the inscription, he found himself standing before Eleanor, who smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Welcome, seeker," she purred, her voice like velvet stroking his soul. "What story are you searching for today?" Initially hesitant, Jack confessed his yearning for an adventure, a tale that would ignite the spark of purpose within him. Eleanor, eyes twinkling, led him to a dusty corner, cobwebs hanging like spectral drapes. She unveiled a leather-bound volume, its title embossed in gold: "The Alchemist's Gambit." "This," she whispered, her voice barely above a sigh, "is more than just a book. It's a map, a whisper from the past, offering a chance to rewrite your story." As Jack devoured its pages, the book pulsated with an otherworldly energy. It spoke of a hidden valley, nestled within the forgotten folds of the Emerald Valley, where alchemy wasn't just a science but a dance with the very fabric of reality. It spoke of a hidden village, untouched by time, guarded by a cryptic riddle woven into the tapestry of the stars. Consumed by the fire of the narrative, Jack, with trembling hands, traced the constellations etched within the book, his heart pounding like a hummingbird trapped in his chest. Armed with the cryptic poem and a map drawn with stardust, he embarked on a quest, Eleanor's enigmatic smile his only compass. The journey was arduous. He trekked through whispering forests, his path riddled with treacherous climbs and perilous descents. The stars, his only guide, winked at him from a velvet sky, their celestial whispers leading him deeper into the labyrinthine heart of the valley. Days bled into nights, his resolve teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Then, just as despair threatened to engulf him, he stumbled upon it: a hidden valley, bathed in an ethereal glow, nestled between emerald-clad mountains. Its beauty stole his breath away, waterfalls cascading like liquid diamonds, meadows carpeted with wildflowers that shimmered like scattered amethysts. In the heart of this paradise, nestled amidst moss-covered cottages, lay the village frozen in time. The ageless and serene villagers greeted him with smiles that held the wisdom of centuries. And at the village center, amidst a ring of whispering stones, stood the alchemist, his eyes sparkling with a thousand moons. Under the alchemist's tutelage, Jack learned the valley's secrets, the dance of elements, and the whispers of the stars. He discovered that the true alchemy wasn't in transmuting lead to gold but in transmuting one's fears into courage and doubts into conviction. But as weeks turned into months, a nagging question sprouted in Jack's mind. Why was he chosen? Why was he entrusted with this knowledge, with this power? The answer, when it came, shattered his world. He learned Eleanor wasn't just the enigmatic bookseller but the guardian of the valley, the keeper of its secrets. And the book, the "Alchemist's Gambit," wasn't a map but a test, a whisper designed to lure and refine worthy souls. Jack, through his struggles and triumphs, had passed the test. But there was another truth, a whisper Eleanor hadn't shared. Jack wasn't just another seeker. He was the descendant of the valley's founders, his blood resonating with its magic. His arrival wasn't a coincidence but the culmination of generations, the valley reclaiming its lost son. The revelation hit him like a rogue wave, his past, present, and future swirling into a dizzying vortex. He learned that the true purpose of the valley wasn't just to hide but to preserve and safeguard the knowledge of a world on the brink of forgetting. Now imbued with the valley's magic and burdened by its legacy, Jack faced a monumental choice. He could stay, embrace his lineage, and become the valley's next guardian, safeguarding its secrets from a world that might not be ready for its wonders. Or he could return, armed with the knowledge and power he'd gained, and try to bridge the gap between the hidden and the ordinary, sharing the whispers of magic with a world thirsting for meaning. The decision tore at him. With its emerald embrace and whispers of ancient wisdom, the valley was a siren song, a tempting haven. But the outside world echoed in his heart with its cacophony of confusion and yearning. Seeing the turmoil within him, Eleanor spoke, her voice laced with the soft sigh of the wind through ancient pines. "The choice, dear Jack," she said, "is not about where you belong but what story you write. The valley is your sanctuary, your anchor, but the world needs your whispers, too. Go, if you must, share the stardust you've gathered, the lessons you've learned. But remember, the valley will always be your home, a haven for your weary soul." With a heavy heart, Jack bid farewell to the ageless villagers, the alchemist's twinkling eyes etched in his memory. He emerged from the hidden valley, the first rays of dawn painting the world in hues of hope. The outside world seemed different now, the mundane thrumming with an unseen magic. He saw the whispers of the stars reflected in city lights, the echo of the waterfall's rhythm in the rush of traffic. He started small, planting gardens on concrete terraces, whispering tales of alchemy to wide-eyed children in libraries. He taught origami birds to take flight from sterile office windows, their paper wings whispering of hidden valleys and forgotten spells. Slowly, subtly, he began to weave the valley's magic into the fabric of the everyday. One day, while speaking at a local university, he met Amelia, a brilliant astrophysicist whose eyes held the same yearning for something beyond the known. Together, they embarked on a quest, not for hidden valleys but for the whispers of magic hidden within the tapestry of the cosmos. They delved into ancient texts, hunted for celestial anomalies, and deciphered the forgotten language of the stars. Their journey led them to remote corners of the world, scaling snow-capped mountains to listen to the whispers of glaciers and diving into turquoise oceans to hear the heartbeat of coral reefs. With each discovery, they unraveled the interconnectedness of all things, the delicate dance of energy that binds planets and people, stars and stories. Years passed, their quest morphing into a shared mission. They built a research institute, a haven for like-minded souls, a place where science and magic intertwined, where whispers from the past guided the search for a sustainable future. Jack and Amelia, their love story woven into the tapestry of their shared purpose, became symbols of hope, proving that the whispers of magic, once shared, could bloom into a brighter reality. But the journey was not without its thorns. Those who feared the unknown, who sought to control rather than understand, opposed them. Jack and Amelia faced ridicule, skepticism, and even threats. Yet, they persevered, their resolve fueled by the whispers of the valley, the echo of Eleanor's smile, and the unwavering belief in the transformative power of shared stories. One night, under a sky ablaze with a million stars, Jack sat by a crackling fire, Amelia nestled in his arms. He traced the constellations etched on his wrist, the valley's map forever imprinted on his skin. He knew then that the true story wasn't about hidden valleys or forgotten magic but about the courage to share it, to rewrite the narrative of a world teetering on the brink. As the fire crackled, embers danced like fireflies, carrying whispers of hope on the wind. And somewhere, within the emerald embrace of the hidden valley, Eleanor smiled, her eyes like pools of stardust, reflecting the light of a thousand stories yet to be told. The last embers died down, leaving behind a canvas of ash and whispers. But the story, like the constellations forever etched in the night sky, held the promise of a brighter dawn, a world where the magic of the hidden and the wonder of the everyday danced in perfect harmony, all thanks to the whispers shared by a seeker named Jack.


The Devil is in the Deal Ralph Emery Barhydt September 15, 2023 “Jenna, please, don’t do this,” Gary was on the verge of tears. In fact, he was crying. He had been up all night and was exhausted, he looked like hell. Jenna didn’t look so good either. They were in their marvelous suite at a five star hotel on Tahiti. They weren’t really rich, they had just saved up a lot of money for that special vacation. They had flown to Tahiti in first class with upgrades from all of Jenna’s work traveling and Gary had tucked away a stunning, brilliant diamond engagement ring. He planned to propose to Jenna while they were knee deep in tropical water then take her to a fabulous nearby restaurant to celebrate their engagement. He thought about it, anticipated it during every single mile of the flight to Tahiti. He finally had felt that he was secure enough in his career, that he was well enough established that the promotions would keep coming and he would not have to be worried about layoffs. He saw a lovely house and two beautiful children in his future. Jenna had slept most of the way to Tahiti. It had been evening when they glided in to Papeete and Jenna was cranky. He was very excited to be there, could hardly wait to get off the plane. They could see from the gateway as they deplaned what a gorgeous evening it was going to be. That just amped up Gary a little more. The hotel was incredible and their room was, of course, sort of a hut standing over the water, large with beautiful appointments. Gary was thrilled and excited. Jenna was wary and on edge. After a few foreplay attempt, Jenna finally said, “Gary, I’m tired and just not in the mood. I’m sorry, this is a fantastic place and I know we are going to love it, but I need to go to bed. To sleep. The following morning, the two lovers woke up both looking like hell. Neither one had gotten any sleep and they were both afraid to look at the other. Gary had planned on proposing at breakfast but one look at Jenna made him think differently. Jenna looked at Gary and thought, “All I want to do is go home. I am sorry we have spent so much money.” Gary turned a very disappointed face toward Jenna and said, “I know what you want to say Jenna and I cannot bear the thought of it. I can’t believe that this is happening but I don’t have much choice do I? Wait, don’t answer. I am going to go for a walk. Why don’t you freshen up a bit and we can get some breakfast—assuming that either of us can eat. I’ll see you in about a half and hour.” He stood up and walked out the door. It was just another stunningly beautiful day in Tahiti. The water was spectacular; blue, clear, sparkling with the sunlight doing arabesques across the surface. Gary sobbed. As he was walking along, he thought he saw a second shadow besides his own. Sure enough, there was another human walking along beside him. At least he looked like another human. He was tall, gaunt, lean and looked just slightly off. “I didn’t think I would see you in the daylight,” Gary quipped. “Ha ha,” laughed the Other. “I am not a vampire you know. And that’s a fairy tale anyway. There are no such things as vampires. I should know.” “Well, that’s news,” responded Gary. “I will make a note of that and tell all my friends.” “I’m sorry Gary but you aren’t going to remember any of our conversations or interactions. Only exceptional people like Faust (or Goethe) remember. Gary, you are not on the level. But, it’s OK. I find that most people are better off not remembering me clearly; or, any of our conversations. I guess it didn’t go too well this morning, huh?” “You asshole!” Gary snorted. “Gary! My my. Calling me an asshole? That takes some guts.” Gary’s vision was blurred with a scene of a fire pit with humans rotating on skewer above a huge trench of fire. Most were screaming. Then, his vision returned. “I know I couldn’t feel any worse than I do right now, asshole. Take your best shot.” “Impressive, Gary. You see which one of those cabins is yours? Yes? Good.” The Other gestured towards the cabin and it burned in flames brightly and disappeared. “Jenna. No, no, what have you done? Please, please, take it back. Take me. Burn me to a crisp. Oh, please” “Touching Gary. You still think I am an asshole. Probably think more so now, don’t you?” “Please. Yes, you are an asshole and you know it. But, please, restore Jenna. Take me, burn me to crisp. Burn me slowly so you can enjoy watching me suffer. Burn me however you can take joy in my suffering, but please restore Jenna. She is too young, too beautiful, too wonderful to die now. Take her when she is 90 after you have tortured me for all those years. Please!. “Good, Gary. That was very good. I am convinced. Here is Jenna back.” He waved his right hand in a flippant little way and suddenly the cabin was standing back in place, lights. Gary started to run. “Wait Gary. She is there and she has no sense of anything having happened. Now, you and I have some negotiation to complete.” “Yes sir, thank you sir, yes, oh god, thank you sir. Yes, yes, what?” “Well, you are going to get Jenna. She will be all yours. I just want a simple favor in return. I will come to you someday and ask you for it. Good deal, huh? There is nothing you have to worry about, you get Jenna and I see children in your future. Someday, who knows when, I will ask something difficult of you. Capice?” “That’s it? That’s all. Are you telling me the truth?” “How dare you question me, of course, I am telling the truth.” Gary almost collapsed in relief. His eyes were full of tears when he ran to the cabin. “Jenna!” he cried loudly as he ran into the cabin. “Oh, there you are. Where have you been. I thought you wanted to jump on me. No?” “No, Gary. We have to wait. My parents are not wealthy, not even very well off. But they love me deeply, have loved me all my life and I love them. I will have to convince them not to spend much money on our wedding and to let us pay for most of it. We’ll get married in the small Lutheran church that I grew up in in Ponca City, Oklahoma. It will be a pleasant ceremony filled with love and joy and it will be as beautiful as it can possibly be. My parents are proud and wonderful, so it will be a little touchy negotiating money. I assume you are OK with us carrying the burden?” “God yes, sweetheart. Use all our money. Borrow more. Just marry me!” Gary was flabbergasted, but excited. “Let’s leave for Ponca in the morning.” Jenna laughed. “C’mon Gary. Let’s enjoy Tahiti. Have a few drinks, a little sex. Try to ride a wave. So, kiss me” The rest of the trip went well. Jenna was puzzled that Gary still seemed a bit on edge, but they had fun and a good time together. A few days later they were in Ponca City, Oklahoma. “Dad, we are eloping. Do you understand what that means? We don’t want a big wedding and we want to pay for it. We want you, all of our family, as many as Gary’s family and friends that can come on such short notice and share with us. Please let me have my wedding. It is exactly what I had always dreamed of. Getting married in Our Lord’s Lutheran Church by Father Richard is perfect. Please say ‘yes’ and be happy. I love you and Mom so much and I would be so happy with this wedding.” What could any father say? So five days later, Jenna and Gary were married in the Lutheran Church. Gary was not very religious so the only thing that mattered to him was that they were married. He did very much like Jenna’s parents and most of her family. She had one really obnoxious cousin. Both bride and groom felt like they had honeymooned in Tahiti, so they went to Mammoth Mountain for a couple of days and then, back to work.

Life sort of just settled in. They started out with a decent apartment in Pasadena, had a baby girl and moved into the Valley. Both were advancing nicely in their respective jobs. Gary was working for Warner Brothers doing CGI stuff and Jenna worked for Playing for Change as their controller. Playing for Change was a non-profit so Jenna didn’t have much room for economic growth, but Gary’s career took off and he earned lots of promotions and was paid exceedingly well. A big house in Santa Monica that was just right for them came on the market and they bought it. It was all happening fast. Gary rose to executive vice president in just over two years. Jenna quit work to spend more time at home with their daughter, Cherise. Then, that Other guy showed up. Gary was in the backyard lumbering over the barbecue grill when the Other popped up next to him. Gary was startled at first, but then terrified. He knew that the Other’s appearance was bad news. He wanted to run, he wanted to vomit, he wanted to scream. He did none of those things and a singular calmness came over him. “What do you want?” “Nice to see you too, Gary. To the point, huh. OK. I want your daughter. She is about to be very sick and pass on. I would much rather have her soul than yours. Your soul is tired and pretty much useless. I can’t remember the last time you did anything noble—-or bad for that matter. But Cherise’s soul is pure, rich and good, So, I will trade her soul for yours. You will get to live at least another 30 years. “NO,” screamed Jenna. She had felt something wrong and had come outside. She could see and hear the Other. “No, no, I will destroy you before I let you take Cherise.” “Ha ha, Jenna. How nice to see you. If you go back inside and check on Cherise you will find that she is developing a little fever.” “NO,” both Jenna and Gary screamed at once “Take Gary,” cried Jenna. Surprised and dismayed, Gary yelled, “Yes, take me. I was the original part of the deal. You can’t change that now.” “You agreed to do whatever I wished. You got Jenna’s love and thrived on it up until now. Now it’s time to pay for it.” “No,” cried both Jenna and Gary. “Take Gary, he made the deal, take him.” “Take me,” cried Gary. Suddenly, a little shimmer of light appeared. Two forms slowly took shape, much like two humans. “Oh no, not you two. Not again.” “Nice to see you again Luke,” said Gabriel. Michael was look somber but smiling. “Damn you, Gabriel. I told you to stop calling me Luke.” “Oh,” returned Gabriel, “that’s right, I just keep forgetting. I guess I just don’t like Lucifer, in name or in form.”

Michael stepped forward. “Luke, guess what. ‘He, whose name can’t be spoken, disapproves of your actions here and forbids you to carry them out.” “Why, why? What does ‘He’ care about these two worthless humans. They have betrayed Him thousands of times, have contributed nothing to the welfare of mankind and only love themselves—and marginally at that. They are worthless and they are mine. And, you too Michael, stop calling me Luke.” “Luke, my man…” “Stop it, I am not your man.” “OK. You know how this is going to turn out. Save your self some agony and turmoil, and just go back to your hell hole.” Lucifer raised his right arm and start to curse. He was immediately bound in a golden chain, which glowed wildly for a second, and Lucifer and the chain were gone. Michael and Gabriel turned to Jenna and Gary. They had both fainted and were lying on the ground. “Wake them up asked Gabriel?” “Let’s let them sleep. They will wake up in the morning remembering this as a dream. They were headed toward a troubled life and Cherise was going to kill her husband. Now, they will love each other deeply. They both will appreciate each other far more than they ever imagined and Cherise will grow up blessed. She will make a real contribution to mankind.” Michael smiled and passed a hand over the unconscious forms. “Pax vobiscum.” He smiled, “I’ll put the fire out in the barbecue, our work is done here.”


In a gloomy town of Monmouthshire, there lived a woman, Lynn Jones. She was a bartender in a grimy haunt of a tavern — Old Peg Leg . Lynn would toll the clock, Wednesday to Friday, at a humdrum pace, serving the thirsty brutes of Pontypool. The place wafted in pipe smoke, the ceiling hung low, burnt with ash. It resembled a coal pit in a hole in the earth. Drunkards guffawed at stupid stories and swivelled on rickety stools, demanding more ale for their flagons. In a rhythm, Lynn would yell at the lunkheads to “shut the hell up” while she poured more booze, a stink eye muddying her middle-aged beauty. One patron would hunker at the bar in Galligaskins and a peruke. A vacant look clung to his eyes while he made a thimbleful with his fingers, a form of drunken sign language. Lynn would oblige, pouring the old thespian a shot of whiskey. Sometimes the theatrical shoe would be asleep at a table, drooling and huffing dust. Ah! The joys of bartending at the Old Peg Leg. One night in October, rain wept against the salted windows of the Old Peg. A fog had swept the coal streets and the shops across the way. For Lynn, the melodious wetness was a pleasant change, soothing a pestilent bone rattling in her head. The last couple of nights had been nothing but jaunty boors yelling obscenities. At closing hour, Lynn busied herself placing the stools over the countertop. All of the grunts had left. Only two patrons remained huddled in a corner, both women. They were small in stature, appearing as children, playacting. Lynn couldn’t tell who they were in the shroud of mist. It was a rare sighting in a place like the Old Peg, accustomed to the codger. The women wore ruby red handkerchiefs knotted in their blonde hair. The fabric bowered their complexions in shadow. They seemed to be involved in a trade of sorts, bartering items or gifts. One woman held a jar of glowworms, its wriggling contents lighting up the table like a lantern. The other proffered a quarter basket filled with toadstools. “Sorry, ladies. We’re closed," Lynn said, shrivelled after a long night. Then both little women stood up and started dancing merrily, their crimson dresses sweeping the haggard floor, the end of the world near. “Ladies? I said we’re closed. Please, I’m tired.” Both ignored the hapless bartender, their dancing clogs hammering the wood and making a racket. “Are you deaf? I said we’re closed! No good, shrews.” In a bleeding second, they stared at Lynn with a statue gaze, eyeing her gravely at the bar. An impenetrable stillness and a mysterious silence crept between them. Lynn felt uncomfortable in the estuary of flowing tension. “Well? What do you say? The night is still young…” In a flurry, both women disappeared in a wisp of smoke, evanescent in the fog. -- On High Street, Lynn’s Victorian home sat on a lumbering hill, the seismic rhythm of the earth cradling the place. It was a Gothic Revival-styled domicile tinted with moss-beaten cobblestones. It had cupolas at both corners of the second story adorned with weaving scrolls of charred wood. She lived there with her husband, Hendrick, and their two lovely twin boys, Harry and Rhys Jones. Both toddlers, four years a piece and fair-haired like cherubs. Hendrick was a prominent civil lawyer in South Wales. He was, for the most part, busy up to the knot of his tie, sailing through the tumbling seas of drafts, contracts, and litigation. Paperwork and take-out coffee cups littered his office upstairs. “Why don’t you quit the Old Peg Leg? We don’t need the extra money.” Hendrick would pester Lynn to stay at home with the twins, but she insisted that she needed the space. “What about Lowri? She needs a job too. She’s great with the boys, and they love her to bits,” Lynn would reply. These types of squabbles were minimal and often of a petty nature. And so, their connubial affairs were without strife for six years, a happy couple. To pass the time, Harry and Rhys would gambol in the garden. They would scour the grass for worms and beetles with the innate curiosity of children. Hendrick collected pigeons in an aviary. The twins would coo at the birds. Other times, they would pretend to be pirates, fighting one another with dried branches deemed to be deadly hangers. Harry would let his brother Rhys kill him with a wooden blade under the withering lime trees. Rhys would cry out in victory as the good guy, and Harry would fall into a pile of dead leaves as the ludicrous villain. And Lynn would watch them with a cup of steaming coffee, an impregnable smile on her motherly lips. Such days are precious to a woman’s heart. At night, snug in their coverlets on the bunk beds, Hendrick would read the boys' superstitious tales of old Wales. Their favourite story concerned ‘ the forest of the yew ’ where a magical tree grew in the middle of a winding grove. “… a magical circle under the tree enchanted Iago, who stepped inside. It was called the dancing place of the goblin…” At the finish of the story, Hendrick would tread on the tips of his toes, having squelched his son’s wakefulness. -- It was a Tuesday morning. Hendrick was away on business in North Wales, meeting with another law firm. The house was silent like a sepulchre except for the creaking and groaning of water pipes and aging wood. Lynn stood anchored to a door in the hallway, her soles gathering dust littered on hexagonal tiles. She wore an aquamarine floral dress that swooned to her ankle bones. On her breast, she cradled a basket woven from threads with a loaf of Bara Brith bread infused with black tea and golden raisins. She had baked it on a whim, wearing a tattered apron with tinctures of yeast and flour. A delicious gift for a beautiful neighbour — Lowri, the nanny. From the alley, a wind besotted with the fragrance of bread, crooned through the drapes of the twins' chamber. Lynn watched them sleep, their bodies webbed in dark sheets of wool, the fabric moving ever-so-gently like buoys on the ocean’s bosom. I won’t be gone for long. They should be fine alone for 10 minutes or so. Right? I’ll close the door just in case. They won’t be able to reach the doorknob, those little urchins. And I did turn the oven off. Yes? Yes. Everything is fine. Be back soon, babes. Lynn locked the front door and ambled down the stone steps through weeping bilberry shrubs arching on both sides. Her slippers crunched on dried brown leaves, which satisfied her—a simple pleasure to stomp on crispy things . The cold autumn air was refreshing to her lungs. Lowri’s house could be seen on the other side of the street, down the hill. It lay crooked on a pile of dirt, the shingles rooted on loosely, but it had a heartbeat. Far below, winding down the crest of the slope, the quaint town of Pontypool huddled in close quarters, the shops and apartment buildings conjoined and mixed in with the occasional sycamore tree. A filament of mist stretched along the roofs like a ghostly crown. In the corner of Lynn's eye, a strange figure in a knot. A small woman climbed a patch of land, then moved into the middle of the street. She wore a ragged petticoat, an antique. The scarlet underskirt was long, loose fibers dragging on the pavement. On her shoulder hung a burlap sack. A lump protruded at the bottom, which had Lynn guessing in all directions. A game ensued. Possibly a book. Possibly fruits from the market. Maybe a bunch of dirty clothes. Maybe an alley cat. No, the bag isn’t moving. Possibly a dead alley cat. No. That can’t be right. Lynn looked at her closely, a curiosity coaxing her. She had dirty blonde hair falling frowsy to her middle back. Her head was cast to the ground, unwilling to look at the inhabitants of Pontypool or the greyish sky. That’s about all she could see. Oh, and the clogs. Those clogs. Then the lady in red peeled down the street towards the town shops. Lynn’s thoughts shifted as she approached the threshold of Lowri’s driveway. When Lynn returned, she walked through the hallway with hexagons, and to the right, the door was ajar. Her breathing accelerated, knowing that she had closed it. She rushed to the frame. Inside, her boys slept in their bunk beds. Nothing had changed. Their loud snoring trembled the room. -- Over time, a trail of disturbing subtleties and inexplicable certainties spread all over the Jones house and bore a crux. A growing mass, infernal and terrible, sought to infiltrate the corpus of all living things. A nebulous formation of quarks and dust turned corporeal into an evolving dark intelligence. The twins, Harry and Rhys, at the helm of the matter, the unruly hosts. -- It started small, like all things, naturally. One night, Lynn washed the toddlers in the tub. She scrubbed their backs with a wet sponge. To her horror, patches of bushy hair grew like mold on a rotten peach. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” Rhys would ask, his eyes dilated beetle-black. At the doctor’s office, both boys were on the examination table, shirts off. The fuzz patches had grown out of control. “We’ll run some tests. But no, I can’t say that I’ve seen this before.” The doctor’s reassurance made Lynn feel worse somehow. Under the lights, in that bright hospital-white room, their complexions looked gaunt and lifeless. At dinner time, Harry and Rhys would finish their plates with the appetite of malnourished wolves, never gaining a pound of muscle or fat. Their search for food was around the clock; heads in the freezer, in the fridge, whining about being starved to death, gullets like threshers. At night, Lynn would catch them on her way to the bathroom. They walked through the hallways, hobbling, ghoulish. The distressing noises — grunts of a deranged nature — that came out of them sometimes were unimpeachable. It was the night of October 21st when a seed of doubt unfurled beneath the soil and blossomed into a full-grown poisonous plant. Lynn had trouble sleeping, tossing and turning over needles and acorns, a nightmare reeling. She woke up with a gasp, the vivid moving picture of a fire burning a bush projected onto the wallpaper of the bedroom. It was 1 o'clock in the morning. Lynn looked pale, and probably felt as she looked. Her wet, frizzy hair cowled at the tips, a couple of strands glued to pulsating veins on her forehead. Hendrick slept beside her panting breast, deaf to the troubles of his wife. She heard commotion in the backyard, pigeons cooing wildly from the aviary. In the yard, she stood by a sliding door. Her fists were clenched tightly, nails stabbing her palms. The aviary’s gate hunched on its hinges, opening to the cage. Harry and Rhys sat Indian-style, blood and guts on their cheeks, feasting on dead pigeons. “Those aren’t my sons…” Lynn whispered to the four winds, tears falling on the grass. “…HENDRICK!” -- …under the shelter of branches, splotches of yellow and brown, almost all have fallen.

Why is this happening ?

Am I a negligent mother? Am I hot-tempered? God, I have such a foul mouth sometimes. I'm sorry for all the mistakes I've made and for the faults in my beliefs. Where do I go from here? I can’t change the past, but I try to be good. I don’t know how to fix this. Please forgive me. I miss my boys...

-- The next day, Lynn was due for a shift at the Old Peg Leg . For most of the night, she stood behind the bar, stone-faced. Her jaw clenched in the middle of grinding teeth. Her fingers tapped the gnarled counter, unending. Her black eyes fixated on one of the tables by the salty window. That table . Those red devils dancing like clowns . It brought bad memories to the roaring shores of Lynn. It represented a marriage falling to pieces. Hendrick and Lynn arguing over an impossible panacea. It represented a nightmare, both of her sons lost, foregone to an unknown gulf of wickedness. Some of the patrons looked at her in fright. They whispered of possession and prayed under their beards, penitent to the Welsh pantheon of gods and spirits. Near closing hour, a drunk old codger mopped the floor with his wet boots. He sat heavy-assed on a stool. Lynn was still transfixed. That table . Those little red fairies . He then lit a soot pipe with a wooden match. Lynn watched him, a red flame in her eyes. “…we’re closed. Get out.” She spat. "But miss Jones, I haven't finished me ale..." “I SAID GET OUT!" Lynn pulled out a baton from underneath the bar. The old boot fled like a drunken mouse. That table . She stared in a trance, advancing toward it.

-- Lynn stormed up a dark street, a brooding tempest. On her shoulder, she carried a stack of broken wood. That table. “ I’ll burn them ! Do you hear me, red devil woman! I’ll BURN THEM!”

-- Hahaha! The twins were laughing. Both of them were in the aviary, the gate closed. Prisoners in the yard. The skeletons of pigeons lay by Lynn’s feet, bloody feathers scattered. “LYNN! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Hendrick opened the sliding door. I'm bluffing, Hendrick .

Lynn held a cheap plastic lighter. With her other hand, she lit one of the sticks drenched in kerosene. It glowed red in the grey. “I’m going to burn these two. What does it look like I’m doing?” “HAVE YOU GONE ABSOLUTELY MAD, WOMAN?” “I’m open to suggestions, Hendrick. Have you seen our ‘sons’ lately?” Hendrick glanced at the boys, or rather uhh… well the boys, yes. His twins, Harry and Rhys. At the sight of their horrid faces, he cried. Their skin was blotched with a green roughness mixed with red and white pigmentation.

“I’M READY WHEN YOU ARE, LADY!” Lynn screamed at the sky. “WHO ARE YOU EVEN TALKING TO?…” -- Behind the fence, two piggish eyes gleamed over the pickets. Dirty blonde hair lit up like a bushfire under the waning moon. Then her body crawled over, a red petticoat snagged on a picket, but she managed to get loose. She carried a swollen burlap sack heaved over her shoulder. She fell with grace, her clogs pounding the dirt. Lynn and Hendrick eyed the apparition — the lady in red — in a daze. She hobbled forward and, as she did, her features became clear in the electric lights of the yard, a crystal pool of a face. Her thin nose was lopsided and her lips were plump as a rose. She was pretty for an old woman, or whatever she was. Her expression was peculiar. A melancholy countenance seared her black eyes. A rugged exhaustion showed, as if she were tired of her own wickedness. Maybe.

A silence permeated the yard, punctured only by the harsh, mouth-breathing of the twins. Their knuckles greenish-red as they gripped the bars. The lady dropped the overbearing bag in front of the married couple. The woven jute was moving. Knowing what had to be done, Lynn proceeded to open the aviary gate. Both boys stepped out, maligned, eager to commit evil deeds. Then two heads poked out of the sack, blond hair wet and disheveled, seeping from the horrors of a hellish womb.

The boys rushed over to Lynn; the family embraced in a circle. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you? I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again. I promise. Please forgive me. Lynn pleaded, her boys crying. As Lynn comforted Harry and Rhys, the deluge in red and her two goblin sons disappeared over the fence.


"What do you think?" He hands me the painting he had been working on for weeks. I look at it. I tilt my head as I rub my chin. I hmm, lower the frame and look him in the eye. That damn twinkle of his, so childish. I. Am. Impressed. "The lady," I start and halt myself immediately. I could say the same thing I always say. ' It's a great piece man.' 'wow, you're so talented.' 'you did this? you're selling it right?' 'wow, no words.' I ponder for a second. Yes, I could say those things, but then I would make myself fall in a bed of thorny disappointments just like I've had in the past whenever he started woodworking. I look at the chair out of the corner of my eye. Sturdy, aesthetically compelling, and impressive overall. I tilt my head the other way and spot the vase he made for me. Its contours and dull colors capture the senses of those looking at it. It's like looking at the Fibonacci frequency in a physical object. Just awe evoking. I look down at my jeans. He drew that Pikachu on it. It looks so badass and so like the manga. In that split second of decision, I realize that he has never made two of the same. He has never made another porcelain related thing. He has never made another woodworking related object. He has never painted on my clothes again. Why? I ask myself this simple yet powerful question. He's bought all the tools to keep working on each and every single one of these hobbies. Why doesn't he stick to them? People throw money at him for him to do one of his pieces. He refuses to take money or even make another piece. Is this guy some type of mad genius? is he trying to add value to his name? Is he trying to simply turn people's souls on fire with his art and let them smoke into nothingness? I can say that the lady, God, the lady looks so real. That I love the way he made the dress look transparent, and her breast so delicate. I want to remark how great her caramel skin looks. It looks moistened. And the flowing hair as she floats on the lake. Wow. I want to tell him how he made the water look so ultra-realistic that it makes me want to tilt it over a cup just to see if it would fill it up. Yet, I also find myself seen his eyes dimming just like they have had a dozen times before. This painting, God, it's so amazing. I bite my lip and stall by humming. I smack my teeth then catch the tension in the atmosphere. I lower the painting to look at him in the eye. He's expectant. He's not being nonchalant. His big brown eyes, perfect color match to his curly hair, twinkle even more wildly. What is happening? I hadn't seen him like this for any of his hobbies... I gasp! Realization. Aha moment. Epiphany. Blind to the fact. Why hadn't I see this before? He's a dude!!! He's a man!!! And not that this is a rule, but yes! He's not motivated by compliments and affirming words! He's lead by challenge. He has never stuck to a hobby because he has been so good at them as to give a damn. He wants, even in his hobby, to grow! "Ahem," I clear my throat, "the lady looks fake." I gulp as I lie. Luckily, he doesn't see it. I take a peek over the painting again. Oh my God, it's working. Look at those arched eyebrows. Those parted lips. is that a smile I see? "The lake can look ten times more realistic." I bullshit, "it could really use more highlights and a little less surrealism." I say as I smack my teeth. I clear my throat again as my subconscious betrays what my mouth is saying. I decide, at this moment, to halt my experiment and hand him the painting. He grabs it and looks at it from afar. "Mmmm," He looks at it. I step to the side to see his expression. I bite the inside of my lip. Is it going to work? The moment becomes eternal. Is he going to get mad? Is he going to stop painting on canvases? Is he going to try another hobby next week? "Wow, you're right, bae." He nods vigorously. "It does need a little work. I don't know how long it's going to take, but I can improve my technique." He nods, turns around, places the canvas back on the stand, sits down, and starts adding more details to it. He takes one, two, three strokes and if I thought it was amazing, this time... He left me breathless. I cover my mouth to avoid him hearing me gasp. To my misfortune, he can feel it in the air. He looks at it, tilts his head, puts the brushes and pallet away. "This is boring." He says, gets up, and stretches his arms. He walks towards me, steals a kiss, squeezes my right boob, and strolls away. "Imma try photoshop. I heard it can be challenging." He walks out of the room and I'm left wide-eyed and mystified by this guy's prowess. I drop my shoulders in defeat, thinking that I've failed to make him feel inspired about something. "Hey," He stretches his neck out of the door frame. "Imma paint something else tomorrow. It's boring but I kinda like it. Thank you, bae, you're the best." He winks. I clench my fists and celebrate. I spin on my heels and dance for reasons I don't understand. I feel alive. I feel empowered. I feel like I helped my man find a passion. Where is he going to go with his newfound passion? Where are we going to go? Is he going to quit his job and support us with his art? Will I marry a successful artist? Could this be my new hobby...? Nah, it's too easy.


“Are you coming tonight?” Enola questions. I pace back and forth, as an awkward silence emerges. I didn't know how to answer her question. I didn't want to let her down, but my mother did not know about me being bi, let alone dating Enola.

“I don’t know if my mom is available with her busy work schedule and everything” I answer. Enola sighs, “Reservations sell out fast. I just want to ensure tonight’s special, if we do go. It is our anniversary after all.” She says disappointed.

“I know, I really want to come. I can ask my mom about it again when she gets off work.” I say with a fake smile. Not that she could see it anyways. “Okay just keep me updated, don’t worry if you can’t make it, I understand.” She commented.

I instantly feel guilt for the lies I have just created. “How perfect can she be?” I think to myself. Even though I am practically saying no to the thing she desires the most, she still comforts me. “I love you Olivia.” She utters. Simultaneously, she declines the call, not even giving me a chance to say love you back.

Hurt by the closing of our phone call, I collapsed on my bed. A million and one thoughts filling my brain. “Really, Olivia?” I groan. She always calls me Liz, so her calling me by my full name is a big red flag.

Was she really that mad at me?

What should I do? Should I make an excuse that I can’t go?? No, it would break her heart.

“Ughhhhhh”, feeling frustrated with how today started I get up. Suddenly I hear a knock on my bedroom door.

“Hi honey” my mom says excitedly, “Happy Saturday!”

“Happy Saturday” I mutter, wondering why she decided to barge in without confirmation that I was awake. Ignoring my tone of voice, she continues. “I am really excited for some quality time with you!” My mother declares. I remain quiet for a quick minute. I honestly didn't know how to talk to my mom anymore, she hadn't been around for so long, that it didn't feel right to share things with her. Normally, at a time like this I would turn to Enola but of course I can’t this time around. Spontaneously I reveal “I have something to tell you.” Enola’s point of view -------------------------------------- My stomach drops as I decline. I instantly feel bad for cutting her off. But at the same time I’m frustrated with her. Did she forget about our anniversary dinner?

Did she not realize how happy I was for this day? This is my first serious relationship, and I wanted this night to be special. I know her mom is busy but I don’t think she is taking this seriously. I began getting lost in a whirlpool of emotions and unbearable thoughts before getting cut back into reality by my mothers agitated voice. “What time did she want you to book us for?” My mom asks. “She didn’t say a time.” I sorrowfully answered. “She needs to get back to you soon, your father took off work for this.” She mumbles.

“Give her a break, she’s going through a lot right now.” I pointed out.

“Like?” My mom rudely questions. I stumbled over words...what was she really going through? Honestly, I had been cutting her slack for some time now, but why? “Well, for starters she’s trying to talk to her mom. It can be really tough sometimes, since she’s always working.”

“I don’t understand how hard it is just to ask her hey can you come tonight? Besides, haven't you been planning this for weeks with her?” My mom questions.

“I guess she wants to tell her in person. I mean this is a pretty big deal.” I blush, giving myself added confidence to Liz’s prolonged response.

“Sure it is a big deal. But you’ll see, there will be many more wonderful girls for you to date, who can actually commit to things.” She explains. “Mom, please just clear your mind about her. She’s honestly amazing, I don't want this to be a negative experience.” I plead. “Of course I’ll love her.” She comforts. “And if it doesn’t work out at least I won’t have to see Kristopher”. “Thanks for looking on the bright side of things mom!” I say sarcastically.

“No problem” she winks, and walks away leaving me alone with my thoughts once again.

Not long after, I hear keys rattling outside the door. My brothers must be home from practice early. But instead my father “Kristopher” walks in through the front door.

Hearing the door open my mom walks out.

“Kristopher, when did I ever say we would be meeting here?!” My mom exclaims, caught completely off guard. “I didn't know I needed a ticket to come to dinner.” He laughs. “You don't need a ticket for dinner, but to enter my house you do!” She shouts.

Ignoring their usual bickering, I run to my father. “Hi Dad!” I hollar collapsing him with a huge hug. At first I was mad at my dad for becoming an alcoholic after coming back from the military. He had been away off and on for my whole childhood, so when he came back different it freaked me out. My father took up drinking as his way of coping with PTSD. He left three months after he got back. Saying his reasons were to “fix things”. While he was away we only communicated through hand written letters, I still have all of them in a box below my bed. Over time I began to forgive him.

He stumbles back, caught off guard by my big hug, nevertheless, he tightly throws his arms around me, and I feel a level of safety I had been lacking for some time. No “I am so glad that you made it!” I smile.

He looks down into my eyes. “Sweet Heart, I am always here for, I know that in the past I've been a selfish man, but I promise I’m here now.” He whispers never ending his strong gaze.

My eyes grow teary so I quickly look away, I am not one to cry in front of others.

“Kristophor, can we please chat for a minute.” My mother declares, her eyes slightly crossed. I watch as they walk towards the bedroom together.

“Kris, I told you to never see the kids without my consent!”

“You invited me to dinner… with the kids , you gave me consent right there!” “This is not the restaurant where you would be seeing them though.” “I thought it would be less stressful for Enola to see her dad before, rather than at the same time as the first family get together between the couple’s.” “There you go thinking again. I am this close to cutting you off completely.” “Kayla, you can’t do that, I have full custody as well. You're lucky I dont go crazy on you for having kids all the time.” “Ha, you're the alcoholic, not me.” “I am sober Kayla. I have been attending AA meetings, got a good job, and even made some amendments. I am not that man anymore”

“I don’t want to hear it Kris.” “Are you telling me to leave?”

“No… I am telling you to make sure this never happens again.”

“I don’t want to argue with you Kayla, I will leave if it makes you more comfortable.”

“No, Enola needs you here.”

*sighs

“and to be completely honest I wouldn't mind if you’d stay either, I’ve missed you. I just have had all this pent up aggression since you left and I had to get off my chest… sorry”

“No it’s fine I deserve it”

Time passes and silence arises. A few minutes later they step out of the room. I try to make it look casual, so it doesn’t look like I was just eavesdropping over them the entire time.

Just then my phone buzzes and I get an alarming message from Liz.