A ragtag group of anthropomorphic cat treasure hunters finds themselves deep in the ancient pyramid that houses Cleocatra’s tomb, trying to figure out how to access the entrance of a hidden room filled with treasure. They’re led by George, who is accompanied by Dr. Bliffy the expert Purrgyptolgist, Amelia their Purrgyptian spelunking guide, and Father Joseph a priest from the Catacan. The group now walked down a long zig-zagging corridor upon steps of masterfully cut limestone. “Before we enter the chamber, I will douse each of you with this holy water to protect us from any evil spirits who may try to harm us.” said the Priest as he pulled out a flask with a cross on it.

The cats stood still as Father Joseph flicked the holy water onto each of them as they approached the entrance of Cleocatra’s chamber. Each stepped into the room with their flashlights shining about like spotlights as they licked their fur and meandered about the chamber taking in the awe-inspiring hieroglyphics.

Amelia examined the walls. “This is incredible.” “Sure is,” responded George in high spirits. “Hey Father this holy water is quite refreshing, tastes a bit like there are some holy spirits in it,” George said to the Priest with a wink. Father Joseph brought the flask to his nose and sniffed, “Hmm, yes it seems the dishwasher at the Catacan hasn't been doing the lord's work. No matter, these things are a pain to clean.” George walked up next to Amelia looking at the great hieroglyphs, “Well Dr. Bliffy now's your time to shine, what can you decipher?” “Ahhhh let me take a look at my notes,” said Dr. Bliffy, unassuredly scratching his head. “Hmmm I’m not too sure, these hieroglyphs seem to be from before antiquity, possibly the bronze age, when the Furrlistines first appeared in what's now present-day Pawlestine.” “We don't have time for a history lesson, we're about to make some, let me take a look at those notes,” said George. “Oh no, ah, they won't make much sense to someone untrained- '' George, not interested, ripped the notebook from Dr. Bliffy’s hands and then squinted. “Dr. Bliffy what the hairball is this?” George flipped around the notebook to reveal overtly sexual drawings of cat women in lingerie batting at feathers hanging from a stick. “Ah, I can explain, those are just some light doodles,” responded Dr. Bliffy pulling at his collar. George flipped through more pages as his jaw began to lower and eyes twitched, there wasn't a single Purrgyptian hieroglyphic to be found. Only sketches of cat women dressed promiscuously. “Dr. Bliffy where in the hell is your research!” shouted George, his chest rising and falling. “Alright, alright, I'm not really a Purrgyptoligist, I don't have a doctorate, I haven't been featured in the Purr York Times and I didn't go to Yale,” Bliffy responded, his ears and head dropping down in embarrassment. “But I saw your degree!” “Photoshop…” “So you lied about everything on your resume!” exclaimed George. Bliffy shrugged. “Yeah but so does everyone else, I went to Community College for marketing.” George silently unpacked this revelation in his head trying not to blow a fuse, “Could’ve paid the extra fifteen dollars for a background check. Just like my witch of a mother said, it takes a rich man to be cheap.” he muttered through his gritted teeth. “Well, now that the cat is out of the bag I do have a little bit of battery left on my phone. Maybe we could just look it up on Google?” asked Bliffy, attempting to make amends. “Bliffy I maxed out three credit cards getting us here, I got a subprime mortgage I can’t afford for a hunk a shit cookie cutter house on Long Island, alimony for two kittens.” Steam began to shoot out from George’s ears as a manic look rolled over his face. Bliffy trying to butt in, “Listen I-” “Your own mother was cleaning your litter box during the last financial crisis! Do you know anything about inflation?! Do you know how expensive milk is getting?! Or those cheap scratching posts from China! I’ve dumped half! Half my life savings into Catpto Currency and I’m losing thousands of dollars a day faster than I’m losing the love and respect of my children! Please tell me you're yanking my tail!” Bliffy looked at his feet. “I’m sorry George.” “You're sorry?!” “I don't know what to say. I watched a Ted Talk on faking it till you make it and right after I saw your ad online looking for a Purrgyptoligist and thought, hey I want to go on a free trip to Purrgypt.” George sported the look of a madman, “Bliffy you and Cleocatra are going to be sharing this tomb if we don't find her treasure.” he said with a hiss. “I’m sorry I know I'm an idiot, my horoscope said that it was time for new beginnings. I thought this would help launch my career as an influencer.” “A what?” said George, exacerbated. “An influencer, you know, making cat content for social media?” “Your generation is doomed.” said a deflated George. “You're telling me you know about Catpto Currency but not what an influencer is?” asked Bliffy in disbelief. George put his head in his paws. “I read the news, you dimwit.” There was an awkward silence among the four, “So you don't know a lick about ancient Purrgyptian hieroglyphics?” “Only what I read on Whiskerpedia,” murmured Bliffy. “Cat Whiskers Christ Bliffy!” shouted George. “Do not use the Lord's name in vain,” interjected Father Joseph scathingly. “Oh save me your judgment priest we all know you aren't all saints over there at the Catacan.” “You dare insult the Catacan!” exclaimed Father Joseph. “No, I’m just surprised the Catacan let you tag along even though no kittens were accompanying us!” responded George antagonisticly. “Oh so it's a catfight you want is it?!” shouted Father Joseph as he pulled back the sleeves of his vestment. “If you want one you got one alright!” shouted back George fashioning his claws. “Enough! We're here in the tomb of Cleocatra…illegally and if the authorities catch us we are going to Purrgyptian prison for life." The three fell silent as their eyes bulged out from their heads. "Now I don't know if the three of you know anything about Purrgyptian prison but the inmates won’t take kindly to grave robbing foreigners,” said Amelia. “What!?” exclaimed the rest of the group in unison. Amelia shrugged her shoulders matter-of-factly. “Well, I thought I’d fess up too.” “Alright Amelia, welcome to the club!” Bliffy raised out his paw enthusiastically for a high five but Amelia just glared back at the pudgy cat with disdain. “I thought you said the government sanctioned us coming down here?” asked George bewildered. “Yeah to waltz right down into Cleocatra’s tomb to steal her lost treasure?” George was now bouncing around flailing his arms. “We told them it was for an exposé on Cleocatra! That we’re part of CCNN, not that we were going to steal anything! They weren't supposed to figure that out till after the fact!” Amelia scoffed. “You think the government of Purrgypt was going to fall for that, after all that's been stolen from this country? You're more full of yourself than the British Museum, no wonder you invested half your life savings in Catpto currency.” George yelled, “Because of the security of the blockchain alright!” walking up to the old dusty walls of Cleocatra's chamber and scratching them furiously as the group watched on at his meltdown. “Think, think, think,” George said to himself looking over the hieroglyphics. “Just like Mother said, you want something done right do it yourself.” he scratched at his chin. “Ah, I hate it when she's right…maybe I shouldn't have put her in that nursing home.” “Well, we’re here and that's what's important. So any ideas?” asked Amelia. “Yeah, does anyone have catnip and something to smoke it out of?” asked George defeatedly. “Ugh,” said Father Joseph, shaking his head. The four stood around aimlessly. “Well, I'm standing in Cleocatra’s tomb, illegally, with a virgin, a Purrgyptian, and a priest. Huh, that sounds like the beginning of a joke. Well, we know there's a secret entrance here somewhere and it only opens when the correct phrase is said. Said phrase is supposed to be hidden in this room. The problem is our Purrgyptoligist isn't a Purrgyptoligist. So what could the password be?” George said to himself walking over to the tomb of Cleocatra, his brow furrowed. “Ahhh!” he slammed his paw down on the tomb, sending a puff of dust everywhere. “George look!” Amelia pointed to the tomb's lid and inscribed into the stone was a phrase. Amelia looked over it attentively. “Can you read it?” asked George. “Yes, it’s in Purrgyptian, it says, ‘From the dawn to the dusk of time, a word shared by all cats before the fall of mankind, a phrase floating around deep within all our minds…meo-'” Amelia halted putting her hands over her mouth as the hair on the groups backs stood up simultaneously. “It can't be…” murmured Father Joseph, promptly making the sign of the cross before kissing his crucifix and reciting a prayer. “It makes so much sense,” whispered George wide-eyed. Amelia lowered her paws from her mouth, “The one word that must never be said. Banned by every government across the earth. The perfect password to protect her riches from those who’d steal it.” “Well who’s going to say it?” asked Bliffy. “No one! Do you know how dangerous this could be?” snapped Father Joseph. “Not a soul has said that word since the last epoch.” “This could be part of Cleocatra’s curse. It may turn us back into animals or even worse, humans,” said Amelia. All four shivered at the idea. “If life's a dream then that’d make it a nightmare,” said Geroge staring intently at the carvings on the tomb. “But maybe the secret entrance will be revealed and we’ll all be rich.” chimed in Bliffy. George fiddled with his whiskers thinking deeply. “Well, I can't say it,” said Father Joseph. “I can't say it,” responded Amelia. Bliffy takes out his smartphone, “George if you're going to say it give me a heads up so I can get a video, this will definitely go viral but my phone is almost dead.” “I can't say it,” said George. “Why not? Think about it, we'll all be rich!” said Bliffy. “Bliffy the only thing you'll be getting rich from is settlement I’ll have to pay you after I claw apart your face.” Bliffy went silent. Then Father Joseph chimed in, “You know the church could do a lot of good with that money...and you owe me for that wine.” George turned his head with annoyance. "You said that was the altar wine and you drank half the bottle yourself, you didn't have to pay for that!" Father Joseph stuck his chin up in the air. "But the church did." “And you still owe me for bringing you down here,” said Amelia. “Right, all three of you shut it.” George scratched his head again. Thinking to himself, I can't believe my ex-wife is going to get half of this. That's almost a good enough reason to walk right on out of here but look on the bright side, I could pay off my debts, get a house on Nantucket, invest in something less volatile, get that sweet passive income, and retire. What's the worst that could happen, it's just a word. But what if I turn into a human? The thought made Geroge feel like a hairball was stuck in his throat. Ugh. I could be turned into a monster and all of these suckers would get the riches. He continued to ponder. “Unless…I got an idea,” said George. “I can't say it. But what if we all said a part of it at once? It's a four-letter word and there are four of us. We can each sound out a single letter altogether. That way none of us are actually saying it.” The other three looked around at each other and then back at George. “Well you don't make it as an influencer without taking a risk or two, I got nothing to lose, I’m in,” said Bliffy. “So am I,” said Amelia. The three looked at the priest as he turned his head upwards, “Please, have mercy on our souls.” George grinned. “I'll take the M, Amelia the E, Bliffy the O, and Father Joseph the W.''

They all nodded in nervous approval. “Right,” said Geroge, “On the count of three. One, two, three.” “M” “E” “O” “W” They all looked about the room anxiously. “Well, that was underwhelming,” Bliffy said, ending his phone's recording. “Maybe we should try again?” said George. “Do you hear that?” asked Amelia. There was a rumbling sound that grew, dirt began to fall from the ceiling and the ground shook violently. “Look!” George shouted pointing to the back wall behind the tomb which was slowly sliding into the corner of the chamber and as it opened a golden light illuminated the four. “Oh my Lord.” said the Priest who couldn't believe his eyes. “We did it,” Amelia said, mesmerized. “I did it,” said George transfixed on the golden light showering his face, a vision of him sipping on a pina colada, toes deep in the sand watching the sunset on Nantucket ran through his head. “No, no, no, no!” shouted Bliffy. The three snapped out of their respective trances and turned to look at him as he dropped to his knees, phone in hand. “I can't believe this! My phone died! This would have gone viral for sure!


 Olympus Mons Exploration Mission 15 May, 2152 Mission Sol 1 Red. That's all I see. Crimson dust swirling around the rover, painting the rocky outcrops in hues of rust and ochre. The gaping maw of the ancient volcano stretches out before us, across to the horizon. This is the day we finally explore Mons Crater, something we hope will help uncover secrets from Mars’ past.

The team consists of Dr. George Sato (geologist), Dr. Miranda Singh (botanist), Kai Saite (engineer), and Captain Renaldo Li. And I, Madelyn Kim, xenobiologist extraordinaire (well, almost), am here to be a part of history. I’m the youngest member of the team and everyone is looking at me like I’m just going to screw things up. Dr. Sato hopes this will be the key to understanding Martian water loss, while Dr. Singh and I (ever the optimist) hope to discover signs of microscopic life, or at least that life survived here at some point. Captain Li is here to protect us, and Kai is here to keep everything moving.

We’ve landed our ship on a stable outcropping about 5 clicks from the crater’s edge. The rover is taking us the rest of the way. I just hope that our climbing gear survives the descent tomorrow. I’m terrified of heights. Mission Sol 3 Sorry I didn’t update yesterday, we were busy climbing. It took longer than expected to make the descent with all the gear. The rim of the crater was much steeper than we anticipated, and there is a sandstorm off to the west that has winds whipping us everywhere. But we finally made it to the bottom and made camp. We spent the rest of the day dividing the supplies into packs that were manageable for each of us. Dr. Singh and I are the smallest, so we are carrying more of the lighter gear. We analyzed some samples of rock we had taken on the descent but found nothing unusual.

But then we found something...strange. While analyzing rock samples, the computer's sensors picked up an anomaly – a faint metallic echo embedded in the specimen that shouldn't be here. Dr. Sato brushed it off as a glitch, but he seemed unsettled. We finished our scans and excavations and decided to head back to base camp.

Maybe it was just the physical stress of the last few days and Dr. Sato’s reaction to the sample, but I couldn’t help but feel uneasy as we made camp tonight. I can’t quite put my finger on why, and I am hoping a good night’s rest will put it all in place.

Mission Sol 4 We moved deeper into the crater today. Dr. Sato took samples from several different areas and all of them had the same strange metallic glint. He started extracting some of the metal to analyze, but nothing conclusive has come back yet. We may have to wait to get back to the rover for deeper analysis.

As we scan further out into the crater, there are some anomalies to the west that we want to further explore. Dr. Sato believes there may be some lava tubes of interest to us, but it risks taking us closer to the sandstorm. While I am eager for new discoveries, something about that sandstorm makes my skin prickle. I know, I should be used to them, living on Mars and all, but this one just seems more…ominous?

Mission Sol 5 Well, shit just got real. Dr. Singh has gone missing. She had ventured off a little ways from the group, but still in radio distance. She had been on her own for about an hour, when she sent a garbled transmission that sounded panicked. We were afraid she had been injured, so we rushed to her last known location - but there was nothing. No gear. No footprints. No evidence of any disturbance. It was like she just vanished into thin air. We searched for hours, but we found no trace of her or her gear. She wouldn’t just wander off on her own, would she?

Thank God for calm, collected Captain Li. He was the one who suggested she may have fallen, hit her head, and became disoriented. He believes she has wandered away and that maybe we can find her as we go deeper into the crater. Dr. Sato and Kai have other ideas. Kai said he thought he saw something moving, but only out of the corner of his eye. He could never look at it straight on. Dr. Sato believes that the metal we are finding in the rocks is a type of alloy that had to have been made by something other than natural processes. He strongly hinted that it may have been created by an intelligent life-form, but he won’t come out and say that directly. But, we’ve been on Mars for almost 100 years and there has never been any sign of life other than ours. There’s no way it could have escaped us for this long, right? Of course, we’ve never explored this high of an elevation before either. Could there be life that can only live at this altitude here?

As a xenobiologist, I’m both excited and terrified by the thought. It’s my dream to discover a new species, but it’s also way more terrifying when it lives outside of a petri dish. Mission Sol 6 We searched as far as we dared for Dr. Singh, but found no trace of her. I had held out hope that Captain Li was correct and she had just wandered off in confusion. But even if that’s the case, she is lost to us now. I am consumed with loss, remembering her positive persistence that this mission would succeed. I remember her showing me photos of her family, and my heart breaks for them. She was a mentor to me, and without her I feel that this mission is doomed. But now, what do we do? We stayed clustered together today and didn’t stray far from camp. We took a few more samples, but found nothing of interest. Kai, who is usually brimming with energy, has been pale and listless. Dr. Sato looks like he has aged a decade and keeps searching the horizon. Even the ever-steady Captain Li has been restless and pacing. The sandstorm is moving closer now, and I am afraid the models are wrong and it may hit us. If it does - what will happen to us in the storm? I asked if we were going to turn around and abort the mission, but Captain Li decided we should move forward. I hope he’s right and that everything will be okay. Mission Sol 7 Fear hangs heavily over camp tonight, as the winds howl outside of our tent.

We resumed our normal exploration today, taking samples and examining some nearby lava tubes. But today, we found marks on one of the tubes that looked like deep claw scratches. It was unlike anything I had seen before on our planet. The winds here are high, but I don’t think that the wind could have moved anything to make those gouges. As a xenobiologist, it was my job to take measurements and document the findings. Based on my measurements, whatever made those marks had to be twice the size of a grizzly bear. …Not that I have ever seen a grizzly bear either.

Given the magnitude of this discovery, we will be camping here another night. We will decide in the morning if we should press forward to return to the ship. I’m not sure if I will be able to sleep tonight. The winds are making the strangest noises, and I keep imagining other noises buried within the wind. Perhaps the howls are from whatever made those marks.

Mission Sol 8 We are being hunted. Something else is out here - something alive and new and novel and I am petrified, because it wants to kill us all. While we were out on our morning excavation, something came and destroyed our camp. It scattered supplies and shredded our tent. Captain Li sent Dr. Sato and I back to the dig site to retrieve the supplies. While I retrieved my tools from near the claw marks, Dr. Sato was gathering his tools from further into the crater. However, when I returned to the rendezvous point, Dr. Sato was nowhere to be found.

I was paralyzed with fear. Did I risk going to look for him and getting taken myself? Or did I run? What could I do, even if I did find him? I was about half his size and there was no way I could lift him. I decided to go back for help. The three of us went back to the dig site to look, but there was nothing. Captain Li has been carrying around a grappling hook like a gun, and is now insisting that none of us can wander off alone. Someone is staying up to keep watch tonight while the others try to sleep.

We only made it two clicks back towards the edge of the crater. There is still so far to go - at least 13 more kilometers. But if we stay together, maybe we stand a chance.

Mission Sol 9 I don’t know what to do. Every time we stop to rest, we hear a kind of whirring noise, and it seems like I keep seeing movement out of the corner of my eye.

This is first contact with a non-human life form. But it is nothing like I imagined it could be. I should be thrilled, trying to learn how to communicate and studying behaviors - but instead I am running for my life. Nothing in school ever prepared me for this. Now that I think about it, they definitely should have prepared us for this. There’s a 50/50 chance of any new life form being hostile, right? Why did we just assume they would be peaceful and docile? Kai is full-on panicking now. Poor, sweet, gentle Kai. He’s so brilliant for someone so young. A few days ago (has it only been days) he was playing pranks on Dr. Sato and starting card games in our downtime. Now, he just stares off into the void, watching for whatever monster is after us and waiting for the inevitable.

Captain Li says we must keep pushing forward. We covered at least 7 clicks today, so we made good progress, but I am not sure it's enough when they are closing in. I miss home. I miss the sounds of birds chirping under the dome and the gentle click and hum of the air recyclers. I miss the familiar scent of my mother’s cooking, and the clamor on the streets outside. I can’t believe I would ever willingly leave all those comforts for this. I have to get back home.

Mission Sol 10 We are nearly at the crater wall. Captain Li forced us to stop to rest about 3 clicks out, saying we needed to ration our energy for the climb tomorrow. We’re taking a short break and then pushing the rest of the way before dusk. We are arranging our packs so that we each have our own climbing gear and we each have a copy of the data we gathered - just in case. Kai swears he saw something behind us, just now. He said it was tall and insectile and walked on long, skinny legs. I’m not sure if he’s hallucinating or not, but Captain Li wants us to get moving just in case. Mission Sol 10 (Addendum)

Kai wasn’t hallucinating. We all saw it as we had bunkered down in a particularly bad gust of wind. It looks like a 20-foot-tall spider, towering over the crater, suspended on six spindly legs. We weren’t close enough to get a great look at the end of those legs (not that I’m complaining!), but I am willing to bet they have three pronged claws that match the marks we found on the lava tube. It didn’t come to us. It seemed to know we were watching it, so it slinked off into the sandstorm. I wonder if that’s where they hide. Captain Li has us moving immediately, but I had to take time to document this - just in case I don’t make it out.

We’re sprinting the rest of the way to the crater wall now. Captain Li says it’s worth the risk to climb at night. He’s hoping that they can’t leave the crater - that they can’t climb. But I’m not so sure. We know nothing about them, other than the claw marks and the glimpse we have seen. They move so fast and stealthily, I’m not sure we stand a chance. If this is my last entry, then I hope whoever finds this journal will tell my family I loved them. In the end, I fulfilled my life dream. I discovered the first extraterrestrial life - right here on Mars. And it may come to destroy us all.

Exhibit 114b from “The History of Mars” Collection Journal recovered from a crash site approximately 20km southeast of the base of Olympus Mons. Believed to be the first expedition to the crater, the explorers were unprepared for the effects of the extreme altitude and likely suffered from hallucinations. No subsequent crew has been sent to explore this area to date.


Flashes of memories pass by. Snippets, like the perfect trailer, spoil nothing and build an insatiable desire to keep watching. It's hard to make sense of exactly what's happening, but the genuine feelings of joy wrap around me. It was filled with a warmness only comparable to that of a mother's embrace, with euphoria quickly replacing any notion of guilt and seclusion I had previously had to endure. My muscles relax, my breathing slows and my teeth unclench. I still don’t know exactly what is going on, but those thoughts don’t bother me as I am truly happy.

6 minutes left.

The flashes start to slow, the initial euphoric sensations are subdued just enough that I can see more clearly. My vision clears to the soft glow of operating lights and I’m startled by the cries of a baby. As I look around for the source of such commotion, I see I am surrounded by nurses in scrubs and a small crowd of onlookers. These onlookers, I can’t exactly recall who they are, but their faces are familiar. I know they are not threats. Hushed whispers and cries of joy are heard over the monotone buzz of the lights.

I am lifted into the air.

“It's a girl!”

The onlookers all clammer to get a better look at me. The looks on their faces were loving, and caring. Just then, my voice starts to get raspy and the irritable cries of the baby falter. I look down and I realize I was the source of the cries. I was the baby. I don’t panic, everything seems so perfect. I am confused, but any worries or concerns about being in the body of a newborn girl disappear. I savoured the attention I was given, to be

in the spotlight, to be noticed and loved. I smile and try to speak. The baby's cries ring on again.

5 minutes left.

I am in a different setting now. I see the soft glow from the sun fall past the skyline as it paints the sky a stunning blood red. I’m in a different body now, still small, maybe that of a twelve-year-old

“Mila!” I spin around, still a bit disoriented, I see a girl in front of me.

“Ah, Amy! You found me!” I’m startled at first. Those words escaped my mouth against my will. I’m giggling uncontrollably now, laughing and dancing. I know I’m supposed to be questioning as to where I am why I am in the body of a young girl, or why I can’t seem to control any of my actions. However, those thoughts don’t linger. This all feels like a dream. I don’t need to understand anything and I don’t know anything except for the fact that I’m at peace.

I rock on the swing set, the blood-red sky now waning into a dark crimson. For a second, I see a slender, hooded figure out in the field. I squint a little bit, nothing but grass and rolling hills. I am talking and laughing with this other girl. She is my friend I think. I’m not certain what we are talking about and I don’t really care. I’m just focused on enjoying this moment. This minute.

4 minutes left.

I blink. I open my eyes. I’m in a dark room with colourful lights. The music commands my body to sway. I’m older now and the euphoric feelings from earlier wear off slightly. I can think better now as I watch my body move on its own towards the dance floor. There are a lot of people, I think they are dancing. I remember I learned about dancing in one of my old textbooks. It’s a bit strange to see this many people together and talking, but again, I’m just enjoying the moment.

A thought creeps into the back of my mind, a sudden urge to hurt these people disturbs the state of peace my mind was in.

I don’t dwell on that thought for long as in the corner, I notice something out of place, something so dark, that the shadows can’t hide it. The lights dim as this thing, this figure, glides in the shadows. It’s the same one I saw on the swings, this hooded figure is much taller and thinner up close, though it is hard to make out its exact shape in the absence of light. Fear and anxiety start to creep in through the veil of joy and serenity that shielded me prior.

Where am I? Whose body am I in? Who is that hooded figure and what does he want? The lights dim further.

3 minutes left.

Stars splattered on the dark canvas of the night sky, pulsing, each trying its hardest to grab my attention. Blades of grass poke at the exposed portions of my skin. I’m supposed to be at peace here, in such a serene setting. However, I feel uneasy, questions start to flood my mind, why am I in a stranger’s body? Call it a sixth sense, but I swear I can feel the burning gaze of someone, something locked onto the back of my head.

I spin around, my eyes take a moment to focus. I was surrounded by darkness, but in front of me, there was a figure so devoid of light that it stood out even through the darkness. The darkness grew, and whatever it was moved rapidly towards me. I turned to run, but as if trying to run in a dream, my legs grew soft and I couldn't move. Petrified as fear took over, all the previous happy thoughts were flushed away. My vision grew blurry, but I could still see the dark figure making its way closer.

I close my eyes, but I can still feel its presence looming. It brought upon a chill that froze me from the inside out. My breath starts to labour, I feel its touch, a touch so cold my eyes instinctively open. I see it now. The hooded figure moves till it is an inch away from my face, my knees start to give way and as I crumple to the ground, I try to catch sight of the visage under that cloak.

I saw my own face staring back, eyes filled with anticipation and lust. My body falls onto the grass, the wind is knocked out of my lungs. I look up at the night sky, the stars have left me and the canvas is empty. I searched for the stars that once seemed so plentiful, but there was nothing.

Then there was nothing.

“Damn it!” I yell. My mind clears up from the euphoric state I was in before.

I’m back in my own body now in this damp warehouse that was burned down a couple of years ago. I look down at my latest victim, this woman died too quickly, only lasting five minutes. It’s like a drug, I am addicted to killing people. I’m no monster though, I don’t slit their arteries because I enjoy killing. No, I need to kill to survive.

You know, in this world, people like me, we are born into this world cursed with powers. I just happened to be cursed with the ability to read people’s thoughts. However, in this desolate place, people’s minds are corrupted with so much darkness, reading other’s thoughts only brings more pain. I wouldn’t be here today if I hadn’t found an escape from all this darkness.

I remember my first time, a couple of years ago. I had no reason to take my sister’s life other than the curiosity of what goes on in a person’s mind before they die. As I slit her throat and watched her leave this wretched world, I entered her mind. In her mind, the minutes before she slipped away, her thoughts were pure, full of love as if her best memories had come flashing back. I have been chasing that feeling ever since. Those few minutes of euphoria come at the cost of another’s life. I do feel guilty sometimes, but as those wretched feelings grow more intense, they only push me to kill again. These days, I am much more experienced, I know where to slit so that the victims die slower, most last seven minutes before fully dying. Of course, I still make mistakes, this woman, my latest victim, I had rushed and made my cut too deep leading to her bleeding out in just five minutes.

I wipe the drying blood on my stained jeans and look down at the mess I created. The lifeless, foggy eyes of my latest victim. Her bruised fingers as she tried to crawl away in vain. Her tear-stricken face, now gray from the loss of blood. This ghastly sight brought back the horrible guilt that chases me every second of my miserable existence. I ran out the door of that damp warehouse and onto the street, my eyes searching for my next victim.

I need to escape those thoughts. I need to kill again. My eyes lock onto a frail boy by his lonesome. Hopefully, I don’t cut too deep again.


Later, when she’s older and her bones pop when she bends down, she’ll remember this. It makes sense. It smells the same-- Nebraska isn’t so different from Missouri in the rain, and it’s the same muddy scent, even though she’s on the driveway and not in the grass right now. The smell remains the same, and it’s the smell that’ll make her remember, when she’s older, this day in the rain.

She’ll remember how the rain beats down, plastering her hair to her forehead. It will be longer by then, but for now it's short and stuck against her skin, refusing any attempt she makes to fix it. Longer wisps of her hair are also stuck to her cheeks, but that’s nothing. They’ve been there for an hour now, cemented by tears. Maybe she’s crying now-- she doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter, not with the rain. She shivers-- he took his letter jacket back when he drove away and she hadn’t thought about the cold consequences of that when she’d gotten into the car earlier. Years from now, she’ll buy her own letter jacket from a thrift store, adorned with letters she didn’t earn, although she won’t be wearing it when she thinks about how the rain felt clinging to the back of her thin shirt. It’ll be inside, in the closet next to her graduation gown, and she will wear it to the farmer’s market on the days she doesn’t snooze her alarm.

Now, though, she’s cold. She shivers.

Later, when she’s forgotten exactly which day of July this is, she’ll still recall the moments she spent considering whether or not to go inside her house. She would love to get dry, of course, but it’ll be air conditioned, which would chill her to the bone. Besides, her mom is in there, and if she goes in, her mom’ll see her pink-rimmed eyes even if the rain has done away with the tears themselves, and she knows she’ll have to explain to her mom how the love of her life is gone, and she’ll have to hear her mom, trying her best to be consoling, tell her that she’s only seventeen and she has her whole life ahead of her, as if it doesn’t feel like it’s ending now. When she remembers that part, when she’s older, it’ll bring a tiny, fond smile to her lips, but for now, it just sends her into another sob. She can tell she’s truly crying now-- her tears are so hot against her frozen cheeks, and she tilts her head up towards the sky. She feels like she’s communing with the heavens themselves, like the storm clouds can recognize one of their own and her tattered, faded soul is just the right color. When she looks back on this moment, when she’s an adult, she’ll mostly remember how one particularly tenacious raindrop flew right into her left eye.

When she’s rented her own apartment and then moved on from that apartment to the small house she’ll be living in when she remembers how she felt, devastated, on her knees in the middle of driveway, watching the end of the street as if staring will make his headlights reappear, as if he’ll admit everything was his fault and he made a mistake by letting her go, if only she keeps watching the turn of the road, she’ll sigh. When a few years have passed and this is no longer the worst day anyone in the world has ever had, she’ll think about how she let him drive away and shake her head a little-- that visibility was truly dangerous to drive in. Right now, however, she just blinks. She knew this would happen and she still put on makeup this morning-- it’s dripping down the sides of her face and smudging onto the palms of her hands when she wipes it away. She thinks the worst is over when she sticks her left hand in her pocket and pulls out a crumpled receipt for a cheap noodle dish and she feels her lip quiver all over again and when she exhales heavily, it seems deafeningly loud, despite the noise of the rain. When she’s grown a bit, and hears her own laugh in the same caliber rain just as loudly, it reminds her of the way the rain faded into a static back then too. Right now, though, she’s just aware of the way her breath hitches in her throat and how it shudders once she forces it out and how half of her nose is blocked. It’s hard to breathe, she finds, and she shivers again. The world is so grey, so empty, and so is she. It’s fitting.

Later, when she’s older, with her hands on her knees, winded both from laughing and from chasing her eight-month old chow-chow mix around her yard, she’ll think back to now, where she’s running out of sob, as if her lungs simply won’t force air anymore. Right now, her life is over, and her future is blank. She clutches her own forearms, a gesture half self-consolation and half a last-ditch attempt to stay warm. The rain refuses to let up, aggressive, overbearing, deafening. In a few years, when the rain hits her just as hard, it won’t seem painful at all. In fact, when she’s older and the rain reminds her of this moment right now, the rain will seem comforting. After all, it’ll be the same rain, the same water, and she won’t be able to help but smile at her former, younger self, who cared and loved so hard. She’ll look up at the rain, making sure not to get it in her eye, and admire the clouds-- they’re not empty, she’ll find, but full and lovely and she’ll laugh, despite herself, before scooping up the damp and muddy puppy. He’ll make a mess when she gets him inside, sure, but it’ll be worth it, she will think. She’ll walk towards her own door and think about the boy she’d loved so much, and wonder if he’ll be in town for the high school reunion in a few months. They will have become friends again, by then, and she will be happy with that. She’ll look back at the rain once before opening the door with the non-puppy-carrying hand and smile again at the memory of sitting out in the rain, on her knees in the middle of her parents’ driveway, and she’ll take a deep breath to smell that same rain smell that had surrounded her then.

But for now, she steadies her breath and shivers again. She wipes away the last of her tears and the rain-- a fruitless effort, to be sure, as more rain continues to drip on her face-- and stands. She stands, and lets the rain run down her scalp, down her spine, and she takes a breath.


Philip whistled across the street. He felt good. Life was good! Mr. Brown: Philip's boss, was not an easy man to please, but he had just given him a raise. was pleased with him, and he had just received a raise.

Philip had lost his father the year before, and apart from the house he had lived in, he had left nothing. He had not worked much before his death, and the family's finances were meager. After the funeral, Philip had to go straight to work to support himself and his mother. With that, he had to give up his dream of going to college. Philip's father had not left him worldly wealth, but he had taught him the importance of integrity. He was hardworking, conscientious, and obliging. Everyone liked him, and besides, he had discovered that he enjoyed working in Mr. Brown's store.  Philip was happy to have a job and to support his mother. Most people who knew him liked the friendly boy with bright blue eyes and an honest face. As I said, most people. Except for Mr. Peters. He was generally known for his gruffness and, above all, his avarice. Philip was never bothered by his unfriendliness. He thought him: apart from accumulating money, there was nothing that interested the old grumpy bear. Despite his financial prosperity, he had to be a lonely man. Philip and his mother lived on a hill, at the end of a winding village street, in an old-fashioned house painted white, in the middle of a beautiful green field. The most beautiful lawn in the area. -"Tea?" Philip's mother asked as he walked merrily into the kitchen. -"Tea? I am hungry like a wolf!" he replied, but when he came a little closer to his mother, he saw that she had been crying. -"Mother," he asked worriedly, "What is it?" -"Mr. Peeters was just here." she replied in a broken voice. -"Why did that old miser bother you?" Philip asked angrily. -"He says we owe him thousand dollars." his mother replied. -"A thousand dollars?" Philip exclaimed in astonishment. "Didn't Dad pay off our debts just before his accident? He told me that himself. I remember it very well." -"Yes, your father said that, but..." his mother began. -"Where is the receipt?" her son interrupted, "Let's go look in the papers," -"I think the receipt is lost." his mother cried.

-"Lost?" Philip was shocked, "How is that possible?" -"He laughed in my face." the desperate woman lamented, "Let me tell you the whole story. But first have a cup of tea, boy." "Oh, I don´t want tea anymore." her son replied matter-of-factly, "Now tell me." -"About five years ago, your father had borrowed money from Abraham Peeters. At the agreed time when the money had to be paid back, I still remember it as if it were yesterday because it was extremely hot that day, your father paid back his debt to Mr. Peeters and got proof of payment. I saw that myself. Dad put the receipt in his pocket and then went to see his cousin, Paul. His wife was so terribly ill at the time. On the way, however, a violent storm arose, and just as Papa was about to pull into Paul's driveway, he was struck by lightning. That stunned him. It took him weeks to regain consciousness, but he never quite became himself again. Weeks, if not months later, I once asked for that receipt, but we could not find it. We have looked everywhere, turned everything inside out, but found nothing. And to be honest, Dad could not remember any of that. In any case, Abraham Peeters had left for California and never returned. His entire possessions were then left to his brother James. At the time I didn't worry much about it, and your father certainly wasn't in a position to worry about it." -"Mother!" Philip said forcefully, "Hold on because I don't understand your story at all." -"I'm trying to explain it to you, son." his mother said, startled. "On the day that receipt was signed, our old cat jumped on the table and knocked over the inkwell. The ink ran all over the table, and that note got stained with ink. The old Peeters was an advocate of absolute cleanliness, and of course, he thought an ink-stained note was impossible and tore up that note, I mean the receipt. He wrote and signed a new receipt. I've seen that myself." Philip sat looking at his mother thoughtfully. "I was convinced old Peeters had torn up that stained receipt, but that's exactly what James Peeters showed me this afternoon. He said he found it among his brother's papers." Philip's mother finished her story. -"How are we going to solve this?" Philip asked, "We don't have thousands of dollars to pay back right now." Philip got up and paced angrily in the kitchen. -"I'm afraid if this goes to court, your story won't be worth much, mother." he said with desperation in his voice. "Moreover, I am convinced that Mr. Peeters believes that he has a valid debt certificate in his hand. And that old miser will go to any length to claim every penny of it. We have to take another look, search thoroughly whether we can't find that evidence anywhere." -"I'm afraid that's a lost cause son." his mother wept softly. And it was. They couldn't find the note. -"Peeters is such a mean man, he had to laugh at that whole story about the cat and the inkwell." Philip's mother moaned. Philip couldn't help but admit that it sounded very unbelievable. There was nothing left to do, but to sell the house to settle the debt. Philip's mother seemed to have aged so much since Peeter's claim. He had turned very pale; his boyish face looked haggard. At first, he had hoped to settle, and his boss, Mr. Brown, had offered to borrow money on a mortgage on the house, but Philip was terrified that he would not be able to pay the interest on his salary. He wasn't afraid of hard work, but he didn't want to end up in an endless state of debt. He saw no prospect of paying it off. The house was sold and together with his mother, they moved into a small, rented house. Down by the river, because the rents were affordable there. Philip had died inwardly at the mere thought of his mother being evicted from her home in this way. She tried her best to hide her feelings for her son and to give him the impression that she was cheerful, but she found all of this very bitter. The house and lot had been sold and this was their new life now: in a small house down by the river. She had lost everything she was used to. This was a particularly heavy blow to her. Philip felt distraught and discouraged. His step lacked bounce and his face had lost its smile. He yearned for his childhood home. He was deeply unhappy. That winter, Philip's father's cousin, Paul, died. He left behind two small children. Their mother had died the year before. The two little boys were left penniless and homeless, as there were debts on all sides. "What will become of those children?" Philip's mother lamented. "We have to take those children in with us, son, and offer them a new home." -"Mother please!" exclaimed Philip exclaimed, "We don't have a penny of our own." -"We are the only family they have." his mother sighed sadly. - "Think about yourself mother." Philip continued, "You already deny yourself so much and you work way too hard!" -"Oh, stop it son! You should do it with love for those poor souls. Their father was your father's cousin. They are family, and we have to do what we can for those children. We can don't let strangers take them. Who knows what will become of them." Philip spent a week thinking about it. Taking in those kids meant two extra mouths to feed. His mother saw it as a privilege to take care of those boys. -"Okay mother." he finally said to her, "We're going to give those boys a new home. And so it was that Jonah and Sam, ages eight and five, came to live with Philip and his mother. They were a bit naughty and very lively. Before long it was Jonah's birthday. But there was no money for a present. -"Why don't you give him one of Daddy's books? The one with the nice red cover, the story about the pirates, little boys like that, don't they?" Philip's mother suggested. The story was not very special, but it was Jonah's gift, and on the day of his birthday the boy got it at breakfast. But that day there was another cause for celebration: when Philip wanted to wrap the book the day before to make it look like a present, he flipped through its pages carelessly, when suddenly he sprang up, his face white as marble. -"Mother!" he gasped. -"What's wrong son?" she asked in alarm. -"Look at this." he whispered, holding up a yellowed piece of paper. Mother and son looked at each other in silence for a moment. Philip began to laugh, and his mother let her tears flow. -"Do you think this note is valid as legal evidence?" she asked, sobbing. -"And why not?" Philip said dryly, "We'll have to leave it to Mr. Peeters' sense of justice. But it's worth trying anyway." -"Can a judge force him to pay us back the money?" his mother asked worriedly. Mr. Brown accompanied Philip when he went to talk to Mr. Peeters and together, they were able to convince him of the authenticity of the note. Peeters was a hard, stingy man, but he prided himself on his honesty. -"Then the story of the cat and the inkwell must be true." he bellowed gruffly. By spring, Philip, his mother, and, of course, the boys had settled back into their beloved home. -"We really owe our happiness to those boys, don't we, mother?" Philip said. "Because of their birthday, we found that misplaced receipt." Philip’s mother shrugged her shoulders and said timidly: "In the end, you were the one who decided to offer those boys a new home with us." "I didn´t want to do it at first,” Philip said, embarrassed, "if you hadn't come up with the idea of taking those boys in, it wouldn't have happened. It's your selflessness that has given us the privilege of having those boys with us. And for that: I thank you mot


My friends, Bob Schlagel and Lillian Hyde, had finally started to plan their wedding. As community and church leaders, they always help others, so when they began receiving invitations to celebrate their upcoming wedding, neither felt comfortable with the idea of others planning a special event just for them. Therefore, I offered to help organize the events for them. As Society and Lifestyle page editor/reporter for The Linoak County Gazette, I had all the tools necessary to create a planner. This job wouldn’t be easy but no job with doing is easy.

Most people were excited for Bob and Lillian, this engagement had been a long time in coming. Bob had cared deeply for, even been in love with, Lillian since high school. Lillian however, had fallen in love with Finn McCarthy. Finn and Lillian were engaged following high school. Soon afterwards his life was cut short in a head-on, hit and run collision with a motor vehicle. His untimely death coupled with the fact that no one discovered or disclosed who was driving the car that killed Finn left Lillian with a gaping hole in her heart. That is until October when the most unlikely thing happened. Bob finally professed his feelings to Lillian and she slowly opened her heart to his affection. The whole town was a bit shocked at the announcement of their engagement on Christmas Day. This was the biggest Christmas miracle since the Advance Twentieth Century Limited drove through the Great Blizzard of 1935 to arrive in Bushwick, with passengers and Christmas mail still intact, pulling into the station at 12:01 in the morning on Christmas Eve.

There was just one sticking point but it was a big sticking point. After the news of Bob and Lillian’s engagement hit the paper I received an anonymous tip from a source telling me that I would find information leading to the identity of the person who struck and killed Finn McCarthy at the Belden Summer home outside of Bushwick. We found it very odd indeed. Yet the tipster was as good as they said, and although the information was not specific, it left a breadcrumb trail to follow. The first of those crumbs led me and the police to a hospital in Erie City. Following that came threatening messages in the form of bouquets of flowers, attempting to scare Lillian and me off the investigation. We ended up beating the “messenger” at his or her own game.

While we still have no idea who the messenger is, the last time they gave me a floral gift, they announced resignation but attached a card which read "For Now". Whoever it was hadn’t finished. I will continue to help the police investigate even as Lilli and Bob begin to solidify the plans for their big day.

To say I have a lot of work ahead of me was a bit of an understatement. As well as continuing to explore Finn’s death and writing the special features for the Spring wedding season, I still have my regular Sunday column to write. Lillian and Bob both have thriving businesses that help this community. It's going to be a real pleasure to help them as their wedding and party planner.

 I arrived home that evening to a very happy Pomeranian barking at the top of his lungs. Mr. Gillespie the most opinionated fur covered companion I’d ever owned. I found him to be a great listener, but only after he’d been fed. After feeding the dog, I made myself a pasta salad with fresh herbs and grated parmesan. It felt so good to sit in my own kitchen to eat. I settled in to study the calendars that Bob and Lillian had given me together with the invitations to engagement parties. There were invitations from both friends and organizations in the community. It was Bob and Lilli’s intention to hold their wedding ceremony on June 1; this was the birthday of Lilli’s Aunt Ginny from whom she inherited Ginny’s Cookie Jar . There were a lot of invitations, and only so many openings in the calendars (Including my own). I began to highlight dates on a master calendar. I sat for a moment looking at the impossibility of coordinating all these parties, events, dinners and intimate gatherings with close friends. I looked at a contented Mr. Gillespie.

 “Gillespie we have got to start thinking out of the box!” I said aloud

The first order of business however, was the Linoak County Bridal Show to be held this Saturday and Sunday. I would be there to get facts for my story. Both Lillian and Bob would be displaying their various wedding cakes and sweet confections made by their bakeries. Ginny’s Cookie Jar Gluten Free Bakery, was noted for the traditionally decorated cakes. Bob’s Best Bakery was noted for being a little more daring in their cake recipes and decorating style. Besides her own display, Lillian said she was planning to shop for a gown and a suit for Bob that would match her vision for the wedding. She asked me to help her find the right shop, of course I was thrilled. I know most of the bridal and fashion shop owners in the county from past articles I’ve done for the paper.

I penciled the bridal show in on the master calendar and then went to the living room to watch some TV.

I’m not a morning person so when the alarm went off Friday morning I nearly turned it off. However, I remembered I was to head over to the Convention Center in Applefield to look over the preparations for the bridal show. I hauled myself out of bed, fed the dog, dressed, then I drove to Applefield .

I drove into the parking lot and I saw that the antique front doors had been transformed to a bridal bower. It truly was stunning. I walked through the old wooden doors to see decorators doing their best to make the whole room inviting. Ray got pictures while I spoke to the decorators about the theme for this year’s show “Give Me Your Answer True”. A take on the old song “Daisy Bell”. I took a moment to speak to a few of the bridal boutiques about helping Lilli pick out a wedding dress. They were all too happy to help.

Friday evening was spent firming up facts for my Sunday Supplement story on the bridal show. I never went into a story of this size without marshaling my facts first. By 9:00 pm I was ready for bed. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The alarm went off early Saturday morning. It was a very chilly day for the last week in February. I followed my usual morning routine, stepping out of the door promptly at 7:30 to meet Ray at the Convention Center. I pulled my Mini Cooper out of the garage then called Mrs. West to let her know I was leaving. She’s my dog sitter and all around wonderful neighbor.

When I arrived at the center Lilli was already there waiting for me at the door. She looked very upset. She was shaking. Pauline looked angry, the girls just looked terrified.

“Lilli what the heck.” I exclaimed.

  She handed me a box with my name on it, the sort of plain white boxes in which flowers come. From the look on her face I knew it wasn’t a good thing. I opened the box and inside was a black rose. While it’s called a black rose it’s really a very dark purple rose that looks almost black. A threat in the form of a flower.

“My gosh! Where did this come from!? I asked, louder than I had intended to.

“It was waiting on the table with mine.” She said.

  She was flushed and looked as though she was holding back tears. No doubt she was tachycardic.

“Does Bob know?” I asked.

“No he doesn’t, he had to go back to the shop. He should be here any moment.” She said. “I would break down in tears but I’m not giving this low-life any more satisfaction today.”

Just then Bob came through the door. Lilli grabbed his arm tightly and ushered him back out into the parking lot to tell him what had happened. He grabbed her around the waist just in case the tachycardia got the best of her. Then he told Lilli, “Well that’s it! That does it! No matter what, we won’t give up on our wedding plans, we won’t stop searching for Finn’s killer, but it won’t be business as usual either.” He motioned for me to join them.

“I think you should place that wonderful rose in a vase, don’t you? I believe you should inform that fool that scare tactics won’t work. Moreover, this whole idea of going to every party under the sun won't work. It is unclear how much, if any, information he or she has about our movements. Tracy we’ve got to come up with a plan to nail this person once and for all!” He said vehemently “Lillian don’t worry, I’m calling Axel Persson right now. He’s not on duty today. He’ll come if I ask, and of course I’ll pay his daily rate.” Said Bob as he took his cell out of his pocket.

Lilli and I found a vase and put our “gifts” on the table.

We felt safer with the presence of Deputy Axel Persson (not that I felt unsafe. The coward wouldn't even face me but Lillian was a different story.)

I began to circulate within the building taking notes for my articles on the show while Ray took photos. One designer, new to the area, designed a bridesmaid gown that reminded me of Glynis Johns's dress from The Court Jester, one of Lillian and Bob's favorite movies. A costume party was the answer! It would take some doing to keep it secret but it’s the only way to ferret out the person threatening my friends. I raced back to the table to talk to Lilli.

“Lilli, can you step away for a second. It's important.” I asked breathlessly. Her table was busy but this could not wait. Her Aunt Pauline nodded. The gluten free bakeries were set up in a small room off the main showroom floor.

I sent a text to Bob and Axel asking them to meet us in the annex on the back of the building. It was empty and we could have a conversation in private.

I discussed my idea for the engagement party with Axel, Bob and Lilli. It would be a great way to protect Lillian while also being a lot of fun to plan.

“In short this is the idea. I have looked at all the invitations that Lilli and Bob have received. Essentially all the invitations are from close friends or organizations to which they belong. I’m not so concerned about the party at the Elks Lodge or the Northern Lights Bakers Assn. I think we could short circuit all of the scheduling by holding one big party with a twist. I think we should plan a themed costume party. Only the theme will be absolutely close hold information. Only certain individuals will be invited. Individuals that the Sheriff has already vetted. The invitations will go out by encrypted emails from my office address and through a secret group on social media.” I said excitedly. One designer created a costume that looks exactly like the one worn by Glynis Johns in “The Court Jester''. That theme would be perfect. There are plenty of costumes available in that genre. I added, “We let it be known that the party is a costume party but not the theme. Bob and Lillian’s circle of close friends will cooperate. Since I know the Editor, I am confident that the newspaper will cover the cost of the costumes in exchange for exclusive rights to the story. What do you think of the idea?” I continued. “I just happen to know a costumer in our city who can help us.”

Axel said “All that from seeing one dress in a sea of dresses? That’s amazing! Speaking from a security standpoint, any members of security staff would be able to blend in with the party goers. Maybe you should send out some fake invitation postcards. You know how many people read those without permission. Word will get around that way for sure!” I suggest everyone be given some kind of identification.”

Bob chimed in “The purple pimpernel.” Lillian burst out laughing (it was good to hear her laugh) “That’s perfect! Everyone will be sent a purple pimpernel on a small chain. One simply shows the flower at the door” We can create those ourselves! I love it!”

“A party that will be like a grown-up version of Hyde and Seek.” I said

Everyone groaned

As the day wound to a close I could see the relief on Lillian’s face. She was happy and smiling. She and I spent the last hour of the show looking at dresses and tuxedos. Her favorite dress was a Regency Style wedding dress. Her colors would be dark purple, light people and a subtle yellow to match the viola flowers she’d be carrying. The perfect dress for her personality and figure. She will look gorgeous.

She confided in me that she was looking forward to her engagement party even though it had been years since she attended a party just for fun. She said with a laugh, “I am sure that Bob will get a huge kick out of dressing in a Tudor costume. He’s really a big ham.” she continued “I know that there’s no guarantee that this party thing will work to catch our “floral friend” but I think this is a great trap! You are just brilliant.”

In the showroom, I ran into Axel, who offered to see me safely home. “It seems that Bob and Lilli are both looking forward to their party. This is a very slick idea from a devious mind. You’ve got a devious mind Torchy.” He said as we walked out to our cars. (a nickname I inherited from an old movie series about a female newspaper reporter)

“Yes, since the party isn't really about them, they are not as hesitant to share the joy with others.” I said “What do you mean devious? Me? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet Deputy Persson” I smiled broadly.

After following me home, Axel checked the house to make sure Mr. Gillespie and I were safe. As a thank you I invited him to stay for coffee and a fresh bagel from Bob’s Best Bakery. Just then my cell phone rang. It was Lilli. “Hi Lilli what’s up?” I said.

“Hi Tracy. I arrived home safe and sound. No creepy messages or flowers left around my house or the bakery. Say thank you to Axel for his help today.” She said laughing.

“How the devil did you know…” I asked my voice trailing off

“Let’s just say I recognize the signs.” Lilli responded “Just don’t play Hyde and Seek for too long Tracy. Take it from someone who knows.”


TW: Writer’s block, and mild swearing (caused by the writer’s block). “This is going to suck,” I involuntarily announce. Immediately, I wince at the discreet (and not-so-discreet) glares I get from the quiet patrons around me.

Shit! The northwest side of the library is congested with people. This section of the branch seems to be the quietest, or it is the ambience offered by its floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing the sun to luminate the room and warm up the cushioned community chairs and study desks, that make it feel more peaceful than the rest of the building. The view out the windows is mundane, nothing special; it is a crossroads, a trio of stop signs directing traffic on some busy surface streets in a small neighborhood. There are people walking along, cyclists zooming by, eucalyptus and oak trees swaying and failing to hold onto their leaves.

Each moving piece with its own story , I lament, watching from a small study desk in the far corner.

Everyone has a story but me , I groan internally. Around me are chairs filled by seemingly concentrated people, and I can’t help but wonder what is plaguing their mind, wonder if it is at all the same for them as it is for me.

The person in front of me is taking a child development quiz for school. I’m surprised, mostly because of his age, I suppose, but I am also intrigued.

Me too, me too , I think, a part of me wanting to share my love for child development with him. Ask him what he’s taking, what school he’s studying at, or if he needs any help. By the looks of it, he got several of the answers wrong, and is reviewing the correct answers before utilizing his second attempt.

The man across from me hasn’t moved; his headphones secure him to his laptop, which I presume is still playing that Youtube video I saw him watching when I walked past him earlier. There’s a young woman behind him, spending more time on her phone than working on her open computer. I saw her outside earlier gossiping and giggling with a friend, and I wonder if that is who is distracting her from the blank open Word document. All of this is  my

massive distraction from the fact that I am

not

doing what I came here to do.

A thousand words feels like a bazillion. I have several Word documents open, four actually. Three of them are tarnished with about three hundred lazy words endeavoring to become a story, and the other is blank, waiting for me to type out another awful and horrific beginning to nothing. I am listening to autumn jazz, hoping the soothing instrumental will help stimulate my fingers across the keyboard, like it usually does, but today it is only making me yawn.

A quote I heard a while ago comes to mind, about how staring at a blank page for hours is the exact thing that makes you a writer. Then, a story about a young girl whose mother asked her if she wanted to be a writer when she grew up, to which the little girl said, “I want to do the thinking part, but not the writing part.” At that, I mentally raise my hand in agreement with the wise youngling.

Me too. Part of me thinks I cannot come up with a story because I don’t want to let go, that I am still holding onto the stories I wrote in the last few weeks. They had poured directly out of my heart and soul, and I am scared they will be forgotten, become old news, if I relinquish another. I am scared to leave them behind. Writing something new feels like I am doing just that. Another part of me knows what’s coming next is going to be absolute shit. It kind of happens that way when you’re a writer, an amateur one, anyway. A successful streak is called a streak for a reason.

I am tempted to refresh my web browser page again; it’s become a nervous tick. Whenever I am not being productive at the keyboard, I click, click, click, and hope an idea will reveal itself the way a refreshed page is born anew. This time I stop my cursor before the click. It’s been almost two hours of this, starting a story, hating it (but not enough to delete it because... Just in case),

clicking on my browser, then opening a new blank document.

They say you can convince your brain you’ve had a good night’s sleep, even if you didn’t, and it will improve overall brain function as if you actually did sleep well. I try it:

I have a great idea. I am full of ideas.

Crickets. Well, not exactly. But really stupid ideas sometimes sound like annoying crickets. I force myself to start with one of them.

Get the awful ideas out, and maybe something better will arise. The first story, which is pukingly awful, is about two teenage girls devising a plan to make some boy who wronged them fall in love with one of them so they could break his heart. In the end, the girl falls in love with the guy. It’s an overdone and cliché trope, but it is my life, and I’ve been listening to a lot of Louyah lately, which has made me feel quite romantic. I definitely stop it there at about three hundred and forty four words. I hate myself just a little bit more for even allowing the idea to live past one sentence. Next, I go for the funny. A husband and wife stuck in the back of their daughter’s trunk, somehow having locked themselves inside after spying on her and her new boy friend (emphasis on the space between “boy” and “friend”). The wife and husband banter plays out hilariously in my head. I even consider adding a piece to the puzzle where the two of them try to get a little stoned in the middle of their shenanigans. The whole idea feels like something out of

Modern Family , and it makes me giddy. But I spend almost an hour trying to make sense of the plot: how did they get in the back of her trunk without her noticing; how would they get out without keys; car alarms; the parents’ lie to their daughter about where they would be… I can’t make it work in my head. One hundred and seventy four words, and I’m already lost in my own story.

I consider writing about God.

Ugh.

Though not my favorite topic, it’s an easy one since everyone has their own idea about Him, It, whatever. There’s no right or wrong when it comes to God, no answers really need explaining. If God were stuck in the trunk of a car, God could literally do anything about it. I think about God’s followers, and how easy a devoted and brain-washy type character would be fun to write about, especially aside its starkest opponent, an atheist.

An LDS man and an atheist walk into a bar… An LDS man and an atheist are the only two who survived the war and now have to protect the architectural plans for God’s new temple…

I lose interest before I even compose a first line.

My time at the library is almost up and the deadline is tomorrow. I am annoyed with myself for not having a better grasp on this yet, but I try to not beat myself up. Negativity is the death of creativity. I tell myself, I got the wheels rolling, and a break will give my brain the leniency to be free flowing and loopy and silly. All of those things are constructive in writing.

I pack up my computer, and make my way to my car. I give my mind permission to think of anything else. Then, of course, as I am sitting in traffic, I manage to actually think about something else – texting my dad back about an upcoming holiday trip wherein which an estranged uncle of mine might attend – when the idea comes to me.

I’ll have to research how planes crash… (because obviously I’m going to kill the MC).

The beginning paragraph is writing itself in my head, flooding through the gates, and I am infuriated that this is happening

now, away from my computer.

I try repeating the lines in my head over and over so they aren’t lost in the trade winds of my brain and gone forever.

Holidays aren’t my favorite, but I know them. I know the drama, and all its moving parts.

That’s a story I could write,

I think.

It might be a shit idea, but at least now I’ve got a plan.


1. Despair The soldier's hands shook. He trembled. He wept. Conscious thought eluded him at that moment, eclipsed by the paralysis that seemed to have seized control of his functions. He stood there, amidst the bruised soil and the shattered, red-rimmed skies. Tears wept down his face - a muddied river of rust and salted loss. The grit and grime of the past few years still clung onto him, coating him in a visceral reminder of his own sins. His feet ached, chest burned, and the fist around his heart a tight choke-hold that drained what little strength he is still possessed at that moment.

The lands wept red alongside him. Like him, like all of them, it had been irreversibly changed - wrenched flesh and chunks of sanity ripped apart, marked irreversibly by the darkness that had suffocated the lands during the events of the war. Winning or losing, it didn't matter. It felt like choosing between a path of thorns and a path of needles. Both still tore him up. It felt as if victory mattered not, not when bought with this sort of sacrifice. What terrible loss, his heart grieved. Staring out at a ravished field, his fingers curled around a single seed of salvation - a token that he had found on one of the many beaches invaded during the course of the fighting. Amidst the sprays of blood in the air, among the cries and screams and thuds of bodies and dismembered chunks, huddled in a singular trench nearer to the main inland, by chance or by fate, his hands had closed upon a singular acorn. He had kept it, unsure of why. Now, he thinks he knows . He fell to his knees. The soil drank in his tears greedily. He crawled, flesh pressing against cracked mud and living layers of rust, all strength fled from his weary frame.

Making an indent in the ground gently, he pressed the acorn into the embrace of its arms.

“Take it.” He says aloud, rasping, and unsure as to why he was even speaking aloud. For, who was there to listen, but the lonely wind? Body bent, he stood, amidst the weight of the world crushing in his shoulders. The soldier wore a coat of blood, the flesh of the nameless and bones of despair. He was inconsequential, he knew, and as the haze began to descend once more onto the plateau, he breathed, and faded into the mist.

-**- 2. Grief Karen loved the stars. The old gardener remembered that much about his late wife. He missed her so much, that it felt like he had already lost the world. He breathed without air, and moved without life. He found himself lonely. It was much worse lately, with his own fading memories slipping away as his mind began to deteriorate with age and grief. He couldn’t remember her voice, or how she looked. He remembered her wrong, he knew, sometimes with the nose just the slightest bit crooked and the eyes always the wrong shade of green. It hurt, so much more than he could ever imagine. Photographs were useless - old and worn and too still and lifeless - and the physical reminder of it picked too hard away at the floorboards and walls of his guarded mind that he soon found himself locking everything away.

The house was empty, and his heart even emptier. He came to a rest in front of a familiar plot of land. Near his and Karen’s house, just at the outskirts of the town where they lived. Like a clutch, he used it to ground himself. Bitterness and melancholy swelled in his heart, swamped by the tenderness of being scraped raw, and he lingered there.

He knelt there, as if in front of an altar, and reverently pressed his fingers against the mound of soil ensconcing a lithe, green sapling. The ever-present buzz in his head receded, and he let training and experience take over in a rhythm of motion. He tended to that plant until the sun had fully set and his eyes stung from the encroaching darkness.

He came back to himself hours later, blissful from the task of nothingness.

He paused, before turning away.

“I miss you.” He said, voice barely audible. The wind stole his words away. Below, his wife’s ashes shivered in the soil, from where he had buried her.

-**- 3. Glee “And then the good guy’s plane swooped in,” The ten-year old babbled excitedly. Samuel sat atop the bulging stump of the roots, from where the wood panned out on its own as if to create a seat all for him. The thought excited him, and with renewed vigour, he smashed the two toy planes clutched in both hands together. A plastic thud rang out, and with added, dramaticized sound effects, Samuel fell backwards laughing, along with figurines. A gentle layer of twigs and fledglings leaves cradled his head from before it could smack against the ground.

Samuel felt safe here. It was a nice place, where nobody would ever bother him and he could do whatever he wanted. He wrinkled his nose, and then grinned - he didn’t have to do any chores or homework! “I love you!” He told the burgeoning tree happily, from his spot upside-down. “We’re going to be best friends forever!” The sunlight beamed back at him, and the leaves patted his hair. From the distance, his mother watched him play. A small smile lingered on her lips, tired and worn, but oh so bright . She thought about that kind old man that had sold them this house at such a low price, and saved her and her son from wandering too far from her family’s hometown. Lord knows that they had desperately needed to save that money. God bless that man’s heart. -**- 4. Greed The thief stole into the night, a duffel of his ill-gotten gains thrown over a shoulder haphazardly. Like a shadow, he crept along the darkness, among and through the many winding paths of the small village. He ran past the quaint little houses and shops, and further into the depths of the denser thicker. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, a rather jittery, skewed sense of excitement that kept him moving fast. Foliage slapped itself against the side of his legs, and dark grass lapped hungrily against his bare ankles. He kept to the side of the village, just at the outermost border of civilisation and wilderness.

An idea came across him at once, just as he came across a stroke of good fortune. He spied a small property nearby, cross-haired just at the edge of the woods. He headed for it, almost drunk on the mischievous gaze of the moonlight and the success of that night. What good fortune!

Almost immediately, he tripped.

There was a moment of stunned weightlessness, before the ground rushed up towards his face. His sight was filled with the vision of rather pointy rocks and sharp sticks, and a split second of sheer panic, before the actual impact took place. Curses slipped out of his mouth, harsh and bitingly guttural. Pain stitched itself across his skin in waves, throbbing like hell . “What the f -”

The small, stunted tree in front of his face twitched in annoyance at the crude language. It’s leaves dipped and swayed irritably. The ground beneath the rude, little thief yawned open and swallowed him whole. -**- 5. Friendship The scent of wet cat was strong in the dog’s nose. The animal shuddered in revulsion, lingering only slightly before bounding up beside its human-friend. Human-friend smiled nicely and patted the dog’s head, rubbing that spot that was just so in between his ears. Cat-grievances pushed immediately aside, the dog started panting in a grin, flopping bodily to his paws before nudging a pointed snout under its human-friend’s touch. It had only a moment to enjoy the contact, before the smell of disgustingly wet cat filled its nose. A low growl welled up in the dog’s throat. Giving his human-friend an apologetic grunt, the dog bounced back on its haunches, before launching itself after the source of the smelly cat. It followed the path, led by the stench itself, and found itself screeching to a halt in front of a large tree. The evil was strong here. The dog barely had a moment to properly scent its surroundings, before a thoroughly displeased cat yowled itself into existence. The little furry demon leapt straight at him, with the audacity to actually attack!

For a moment, the dog was stunned. He almost didn’t move, but the abrupt dig of claws scratching into his back - the demon was marking him! - pushed him to retaliate. Growling, he snapped at the little fiend, baring his large teeth and drool and wicked tongue.

The two animals snapped at each other, a flurry of furred bodies scrabbling at each other, as the air was filled with the grunts and battle-cries of the two very displeased animals. It seemed like hours, before the fight drew to a halt. Energy completely sapped, they sagged to their sides, on opposite directions, but still facing each other warily. The cat began to lick itself clean. The dog harrumphed, before doing the same.

Both were satisfied.

I won, the cat thought with a purr. I am the best winner! The dog thought with a happy rumble. In a good mood, the dog limped to his feet, before cautiously padding over to his defeated foe. The cat hissed at him, with one warning claw swiping over his wounded nose. Sticking out a wet, pink tongue, the dog licked the cat.

Deliberately, and slowly. A heartbeat later, the two animals were racing against, but side-by-side this time. Their first course of action? The cat rubbed its face against the bark of a tree. The dog twitched, before lifting one leg, and then smugly marked its territory over the cat’s against this nice-smelling tree.

Mine , they both thought loudly. A small crack. Two sticks dropped themselves warningly on each of their heads.

The animals yelped, and raced away. -**- 6. Faith “Oh, Lord,” The pastor hummed beneath a canopy of shaded leaves and warm, gentle light. ”You are my God, and I will ever praise you.” He knelt there for some time, bowing his head in prayer.

I thank you, Lord. Things have been hard lately, and there’s so many things that I’m struggling with, but I’m going to trust in you. Thank you for always being there with me. I need your help, Lord. Guide me in everything I do, and reveal your Word to me, so that I can go out and share your Message. Thank you. For everything. In Yeshua’s name, I pray. Amen. -**- 7. Passion The paper was white and glistening. Her hand moved on autopilot, dictated by the pulse and rhythm of the forest around her. Smears of contented blues and glistening yellows painted themselves amidst the parchment, and the artist inside of her felt more at peace than ever. Inks spread themselves out as the sunlight illuminated her face and work - the brilliant setting scene of a gentle cadence. A giddy shout from the edge drew her attention, and she turned at once. Her heart ached with joy and equal disbelief. Her sister and mother raced towards her, twin-suns of beaming adoration and love on their faces. Behind them, strolling at a steadier pace, but the calm, steady figure of her father. She hadn’t seen them for over a year. Her hands shook. Her eyes glistened. She had thought…

She had thought that they had been too busy to come, but the evidence presented to her said otherwise.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. The artist stood strong beneath the proud, arching oak tree, and waved back at her family. -**- 8. Epilogue There are things that yet remain hidden from the gaze of humanity.

This does not mean that humanity has not part to play in shaping them, however. Birthed from the blood and tears of a despairing soldier longing for home so long ago, amidst a sea of despair and suffocating anguish, was a small seed. In the ground, the acorn went, and the tree grew accordingly. Nurtured by the grieving gardener and the joyful child, hardened by the greedy nature of the thief that stole at midnight, further confused by the contradictory yet clear nature of animal companions, supplemented by the faith and unyielding belief of the preacher and softened by the beauty of the simple things in life, the love of the artist and her passion - from all of these things was brought forth a tree spirit. Born from the blood and tears, the greed and love, of humanity, they grew. Now, the wizened little creature sits atop the highest branch of its tree. Their legs sway and swing in the rhythm of the breeze, and their head of curls sweep across their face like leaves dancing in the suspended air. At peace at last, they smile. A bird curiously walks over, one day.

The creature beams, and mischievously nudges a small, glowing acorn across the span of the branch. The bird tilts its head, and understands - it picks the innocuous-looking thing up and with a mighty flap of wings, flies away into the purple-yellow sunset. The end.


I didn’t want a career as much as I wanted something to do with life that would serve to cure my low self-esteem. That’s the first and only thing you need to know. However, please note that I truly wanted to be cured more than anything else in the world. My flesh, blood, and bones body was nothing more than a covering for that inner lowness. A dull, low, ache.

(In English I don’t think that’s an official word - lowness - but it says what I’m all about. Sloshing through the days, slogging through the weeks, slipping through the months.) I thought standing alone, acting oh so autonomous and straight-backed, would help. The career was supposed to provide the place for that standing. The problem was, I hadn’t counted on standing alone against stinging slings and arrows. Those stings came from people I saw every day, my colleagues. Sometimes they were words I heard, but other times they were things said in halls and closets, by faceless voices and phantom minds. The speakers were so evil I thought they were mere figments of my imagination. It also seemed like the mean went with the territory. Smart people just acted that way. They spoke to kill. PHD? Yes, but for me it was more like PTSD. You really can catch it in high-fallutin’ places. A doctor informed me that was possible. Tears. It seems PTSD has no cure.

Still, I did it. Kept searching for the way to blast the inner lowness by showing I knew enough to work in that place. I pretended the twisted ones didn’t exist outside their offices. Inside, inside me, I had my personal fight song. Also, although it took me a while to notice, I had music by steel women to take hold of my shoulders, prop me up, slap my face even, all the while showing sad eyes at how much things hurt. How much I hurt from all the aloneness. Maybe you would like some examples of songs that salved the scrapes and fissures, but I can’t bring myself to mention any.

I thought publications would help. Conference papers, too. Prove it to myself, because I certainly didn't think much of what I did. Clearly everybody else was better, or at least ninety per cent of everybody else was better. At least I tried hard. (This low self-esteem thing is a messy bird. It squawks and flaps, makes you look awkward. You are.) The result was an annual report and a growing list of accomplishments. Words on paper or a computer.

I thought nights alone with a good book or a paper to write would help. They were nights that were very alone. Achingly alone. Aching. That means, of course, that the inner coils just stretched and twirled more tightly.

This is no lie. This is no exaggeration. I might have had a decent brain, but I was also a sick woman. Then, after a few years of not moving an inch toward the cure that was the reason for the career in the first place, I thought working eighty hours a week would be the be-all and the end-all for the esteem ‘glitch’ in my life. A career was necessary. That was what mattered. No sacrifice was too great. Quitting not allowed. Spend your life workin’ for the man. He doesn’t know or care who you are.

It’s important to explain that another effect of this feeling unworthy was that I always felt like a fake. Certainly I didn’t deserve the degrees that had been earned during years of study. Nor did I deserve those publications, those conference papers that had my name inscribed beneath their titles. True, I may have deserved the bullying. I was rough, scuffed-up on the outside, not a smooth colleague whose parents had both attended Ivy League schools. Mine never saw the high school graduation ceremony. Sixteen and out. Definitely I didn’t deserve the partner I had somehow acquired. Class difference, it turns out, can be even greater than race in some cases. Class similarity can mean solidarity. The other way around, upper vs. lower economic level, meant that working class me deserved the criticism I received for not being a good housekeeper, perfectly neat, even-tempered. I grew up damaged goods. A damaged girl. Admittedly, I was not easy to get along with. That was natural, because my brain never turned off, thinking about the next article that needed to be written, overwriting the esteem that wasn’t there. I didn’t really know how to talk about anything else besides what the career was about. I thought, imagined, supposed he was also passionate about the same thing. He was probably bored to tears, but was too polite to say anything. There is something else to consider: I had been an only child, used to amusing myself because there were no siblings to play with. Time had to be occupied somehow. My young girl’s technique was to go deep inside my imagination and find a meadow for dancing. I already knew that I only deserved myself, not company. Solitude was my destiny. He was nevertheless my passion, even though my passion for finding a cure for no self worth was much greater, apparently. I thought he was handsome, exotic, and excessively intelligent. Was he all that? Maybe, but you’ll need to ask somebody else about that now. I don’t have any recent data. I didn’t know all that much about him. I simply tried to be the right one, be good enough for him. The important thing is that I was able and willing to be alone, which gave him a lot of leeway as well. Of course that was all right and good. He deserved to have his solitude. I shouldn’t be getting in his way. I just thought it was a good combination, the two of us. We gave each other space. I had grown up with it while he had been one of four and had a right to his space now that he was an adult. It was essential to give him what he wanted and needed. The years went by. Now we have reached the conclusion: He didn’t need me much, so when we were apart, tending to our careers (more something I did than he did), my absence would do no harm. I thought this because I wasn’t worth being with, as has already been noted. It had been quite hard to settle into a pattern that fit, not too tight and not too loose. Our life together. A relationship so tenuous yet surviving. Weeks alone, weeks together. It was all I deserved.

Lots of space for me and the career meant, not to be rich or famous, but to console me for what I could never be: worthy. Long-distance commuting, from one continent to another: it was my protective mantle and my distracting mantra. I know some people thought otherwise, thought I was not working enough at fighting off the debilitating, tongue-tying low self esteem. Others simply thought I lived a very odd life. They didn’t know me. Nobody saw the working class kid in a ramshackle house on an unsophisticated street in town. Nobody knew I had a different sort of wealth. I didn’t know it myself for a long time. Did I say I was kind of the monastic sort? Hiding away means hiding from some/thing/body.

Why was I hiding? Some days brought clarity. Others just fogginess and no horizon. As for the mantle or mantra, there were other examples of people who paid high prices to make life work. Once somebody told me a story about a couple who were happily married but dirt poor. The husband emigrated for a number of years. They had one child, a boy. I don’t know if the man ever returned for visits during all the years he worked on the other side of the ocean. The sacrifice paid off, though, because he sent money home, they had a roof over their heads and food on the table. Soon after he returned, he had a heart attack and died. His wife went from being a widow of the living to a widow of the dead. Her husband had come back to her, though. He had come back. He didn’t survive the reunion very long, but at least he came back. So, yes, I do know that lots of people make sacrifices all the time, and often they are ones they never set out to make. Ones they would be incapable of making if they were asked to make them. The thing is, I worked really, really hard at making my sacrifice work. I knew it was necessary if I were to someday, somehow, be worthy of him. Be as smart as he was. He was destined to be the great scholar. I could work to be half as good, perhaps. And so I stood alone. Again and again. Over and over. Feeling at times like Saint Sebastian. Wasn’t he the one who had tons of arrows shot into his body but he didn’t falter? Sorry, I don’t know a whole lot about saints. It’s not my field of specialization. I slept alone. You can get a cat or a dog but it’s not the same. It’s nice when the other body in the bed is human sometimes. I ate alone. This was the really problematic part. You see, I love to cook and am not bad at it, but never bother if it’s only me. Just some cheese and crackers, some olives on the side, maybe a glass of white wine. Great supper for a loner. Add some grapes or clementines to round it out. You could even avoid dirtying a plate; just put a paper towel in front of you. I worked and wrote alone. Well, not completely, because when you have students you are with them during the class. But you don’t usually socialize with them. That’s even a bit risky. All the class planning and homework correcting, that happened with nobody else around. Writing has to be solitary as well. You might go to a café or a terraza , and there will be people around, but if you want to get anything written, you can’t be gabbing. By noting this, I am admitting that I chose this type of career. I am to blame. Yet probably I chose what I deserved. I would read poem after poem, novel after novel, review after review. My life, a book, an open book. Only in one sense, though. The rest, the part not made of words and pages, was permanently sealed. We will go no farther on this topic, thank you. Yes, I knew I had the gift (not talent, by ‘gift’ I mean good fortune) of being able to have my eyes walk onto a page and become disembodied. I think you could call it that. I was on the page, in the book, and I wasn’t me but instead was the reader of another’s words. I was a ghost flitting about the characters on the pages.this might help explain why a career that required constant reading and writing was the only one that would chase out the low. Words, the strongest drug on the market. A sad poem didn’t speak for me, no. Instead, it led me to the source of the words and that was when I could cry freely, knowing the sadness was for somebody else. I could not be sad because I had made the choice to have a career. That was my story and I was sticking to it. I am sticking to it, despite the fact that this is all very convoluted at this point. I sincerely apologize. During all the things I’m describing to you here, I always had my low self-esteem for company. It was the person I saw in the mirror (poor, homely low self-esteem). It was the passenger who told me how to improve my driving. It was company on the couch reading. We - low self-esteem and I - used to hold conversations sometimes. I never told it to go away, because the long-distance thing I had counterbalanced that. I felt wanted, loved, at least a little bit. That’s what I told myself. It was like clinging to a leaky raft, but who knew?  When there was nobody other than my faithful low self-esteem around, there was nobody to compare myself to. There was just a void. Void equals emptiness. In this case, it was a good thing. The fact was, when I had nobody around I just felt normal. A lonely normal, but still... After a few years, I began to think I was a rock, that the sacrifice was cool, that I was brave for managing career and couple roles so successfully. With lots of space. Then it was over. Gradually, things became raspier, splintier, chillier. Lots of subtle scowls. It was probably his plan so I wouldn’t notice. Or maybe low self-esteem (already identified as my company on lonely nights and weekends) blinded me. Perhaps I am on the spectrum, as they say. It wouldn’t surprise me.

Career, planned and achieved, had won. Score one point for the Lady. Score none for Self Esteem. Drowning in words, devouring words, words even in bed and in the shower. This was supposed to be divine. Except that obsession with it became an either/or. Cure it or give up, surrender. Relationship, rather like the emigration story mentioned earlier, had lost. Take that point away from the lady. She lost. He, on the other hand, had gained another partner. The Lady stuck, wait, I stuck, with the aloneness. Yes, the lady - I - lost him, but at least I had consistently kept the career light burning. Sounds corny, true, and it’s kind of like the Motel 6 ad. We’ll leave the light on for yuh . (Actually, I like that ad. It hasn’t aged well, but it gives you a warm feeling when you hear it.) Too bad the lady couldn’t lose the low self esteem. Too bad the lady was me. If she hadn’t been battling low self-esteem, she wouldn’t have focused all her passion on the career. She would still have another person in her life. A person with words to speak. I do love words.

This story ends with no resolution. The end had been determined before it began. The obsession won; love lost. There is still no explanation for the lack of self-esteem that caused my whole muck-up. Not even a tiny theory has been proven as to where it came from and why it coiled itself around my innards so tightly. It might be better not to know. After all, the low self-esteem has done irreparable damage already. Knowing its origin, which I don’t, could finish me off. Some things do not need speaking. In other words, and mark my words, I will take the reason for this disease I have (for it truly is a disease) to my grave. If the truth decides to come out then, more power to it. I’ve done my part by living the life of a clam (even when trying not to). I’m tired. Very tired. And so alone. Please, leave me alone or lie down beside me. Your choice.

I’ll give you all the space in the world.