Nathan spent all of his savings to give me the wedding of my dreams. He rented out the back of the Birmingham Resort and Spa with its lustrous green lawn dotted with robust shade trees, rock garden landscaping, and natural stream with waterfall flowing behind the trellis my father built for us to be married under. Nathan proposed with a two-carat solitaire diamond set in white gold. My dress is an elegant sleeveless white ball gown, and my bridesmaids wear lavender dresses so that we match the arrangements of calla lilies and lilacs that adorn our outdoor venue. White folding chairs make up ten rows of five on each side of the white runner that marks the aisle. Purple ribbon is strung along the inner chairs on each side. The top-rated wedding photographer in the city was hired to document the day, and we retained the services of our favorite restaurant to do the catering. A three-tier red velvet cake was chosen for dessert, and I look forward to smashing that first piece into Nathan’s face. Looking down from my window within my room in the lodge, I feel that everything is perfect, the perfect June wedding, except for one little detail – a one-nineteen heat index. As I look down from above, I notice that the ushers have heeded my warning and have kept their jackets on despite the heat. The photographer is being paid to get candid photos of the wedding party and guests, and if she doesn’t get the memories I’m looking for, heads are going to roll. I see Pastor Rollins under the trellis, dabbing his head with his handkerchief, bible in hand, as he talks to a couple groomsmen. From what I can see, everyone is present. They’re uncomfortably shifting in their seats, trying to get comfortable, fanning themselves with whatever they can find. I know they must be miserable, but we will make it a quick ceremony, not that it will be much cooler in the reception tent. “Okay, it’s time,” I say to my maid-of-honor, Molly, who leaves me to tell everyone to get ready and fetch my dad. Ten minutes roll by and Molly returns. “Nathan isn’t here yet, but Michael is going to go look for him.” “Michael! He’s the best man. It was his job to get him here.” “I’ll let everyone know it will be a little while longer before we can start.” I start pacing the room as thoughts pace through my mind. Did something happen to him? Was he in an accident? Surely, he didn’t get cold feet… or did he? I return to the window. Everyone is uncomfortable and getting irritable. I see Molly emerge with the other bridesmaids, heading down the aisle with a jug of water and some cups on a cart. I can tell they are being questioned by everyone, but I know my girls can handle it. I’m just thankful they were conscientious enough to think about the water. People who are more acquaintance than friends are rejecting the water and leaving. I find this disheartening, but shake it off, knowing that those who are dearest to me are still here and will be here until we figure out what’s going on with Nathan. I call Nathan. No answer. I call Michael, hoping for some information, but there’s no answer. I call Ben, another groomsman, hoping he knows something. No answer. I try all of the groomsmen and none of them are answering. I go back to the window and cannot see any of them anywhere. All I see is more people getting up to leave. There comes a knock on the door and my Aunt Maurine pokes her head in. “Are you decent,” she asks. “Yeah, come on in.” The expression on Marine’s face says it all. “I hate to do this to you sweetie, but we can’t take this heat anymore. Everyone is melting out there. Maybe you two should just go to the courthouse and have a little get together when it cools back down.” I plop into the chair in front of the vanity. “We spent so much money on this. I have food to feed a hundred and twenty people, plus a cake the size of a small child.” I get up and walk to the window. “Everything looks just as I always imagined it. I know he’ll be here. Something must have happened, traffic or something.” “I know, Ash, but I have to get your grandma out of this heat. There are still several people here, including the pastor. I’m sorry, but we have to go. Your present is at the reception tent.” Maurine hugs me and I struggle to hide my disappointment. As she walks out, the bridesmaids walk in. “Any word from any of the guys,” I ask. Molly looks at the rest of the girls then back at me. “Not a word. Ash, Nathan’s family just left.” A knock comes at the door. “Come in.” Pastor Rollins walks in all red faced and sweaty. “I’m sorry Ashly, but I can’t wait around any longer. This heat is really getting to me and I’m certain I saw the groom’s parents leave. The church will refund your money. I pray the best for you.” I lower myself back into the chair, defeated. Looking at the clock, he is only twenty minutes late, but without a pastor, what difference does it make if he shows up now. “Ashly, we’re going to track those guys down and get an explanation from them,” Molly says as she rubs my back. “Maybe we can get them back here and find someone else to officiate at the last minute. You never know what you’ll find on the internet.” “Thank you, ladies. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I don’t know if I’m mad or sad at this point. It’s obvious Nathan backed out. If something had happened to him the groomsmen would have let me know. Instead, they are all avoiding me. At least I didn’t have to go out there and announce to everyone that my fiancé backed out on our wedding day. Since everything looks so beautiful, I’m still going to walk down the aisle, pass under the trellis, and go stick my feet in the stream while I sit on a rock and contemplate life. It’s either that or face the caterers, which I’m in no mood to do at this moment. As I walk down the aisle, I notice my parents are still sitting there waiting for me. I raise a hand, gesturing for them to save their sympathies. “Daddy, can you take care of the caterers for me. I just can’t right now. Right now, I just want to stick my feet in the stream and have a few moments alone.” Mom and dad both nod, kiss me on the cheek, then head up the hill to the lodge. I find my spot and sit down, taking off the painful excuse for shoes I had chosen for this occasion. The water is cool and, with the exception of the splashing of the nearby waterfall, all is silent. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel at this moment, other than confused. Nothing makes sense. I’m not sure what the reality of the situation is, so that reality can’t necessarily set in. Therefore, I just sit and stare. I guess I had nodded off for a second. I didn’t hear my dad come up behind me. When he touched my shoulder, I nearly flew off the rock. “Come on, sweetie, your mother and I want to show you something special, something you’ve never seen before. We think it might cheer you up.” As soon as dad put the car in drive, I was out like a light. When dad wakes me, we are at the lake and my jaw drops. Artificial white flowers are wrapped around two separate ropes, floating on the surface, forming an aisle. On the outsides of the aisle are all our friends and family, fully clothed, wading in the water, waist deep. At the end of the aisle the groomsmen and bridesmaids are lined up on their respective sides. Standing in the middle, holding his bible above the water is Pastor Rollins. Next to him is Nathan, soaked and wet, but looking devilishly handsome in his tux. “Shall we,” my dad asks as he offers me his arm. With dad on one arm, and mom on another, I make my way to the shoreline, speechless but happy. As I enter the water, Nathan’s brother, Luke, begins to play the wedding march on an acoustic guitar from the shoreline. We wade through the water to the oohs and aahs of all those present until my stunning dress is submerged beneath the murky lake water. When my dad gives me to Nathan, I ask him, “What about the money?” “I just want to marry you and make it pleasantly memorable for everyone.” I smile at him, and we turn to Pastor Rollins who begins with those precious two words that define what family and friends mean to us – “Dearly beloved…” Pastor Rollins finishes the ceremony with, “You may now kiss the bride,” and Nathan wraps his arms around me, kissing me passionately. Then he dunks me under the water. Ugh, I’m mad at first, but when I come up, everyone, young and old, is laughing and splashing, hooting and hollering. I jump on him, pushing his head under the water. Payback. The bridesmaids and groomsmen join in on the fun, wrestling and dunking each other to the delight of those in attendance. From the shore I hear Marcy, Nathan’s mom, shout, “Food’s here!” The catering vans pull up and unload all the food, setting it up on the surrounding picnic tables. As everyone exits the lake, Joanne, the photographer, grabs us to do pictures. We are a sorry looking bunch in wet clothes and messed up hair and make-up, but we have fun with it. We are in too good of a mood to take it too seriously and besides, I want pictures that capture the essence of the day. While we are goofing around in front of the camera, our guests are enjoying their meals sitting on the grass with some standing and a few seated at the tables. The caterers brought the cake. Nathan and I finish eating and do the ceremonial cutting. I smash a big slice into his face, covering it in frosting. He wipes the frosting from his eyes, throws me over his shoulder, and runs me down to the lake where he throws me in. I help him wash off and we head back up. Molly runs to her car and grabs her Bluetooth speaker to get the music going so we can dance. Michael taps the keg, and we begin to party. Part of me feels like I should be mad at Nathan, but maybe he’s right. All anyone would have remembered of this day, had we got married at the resort, would have been the heat and how miserable we all were. Nobody would have remembered my dress, or the flowers, or even cared to look at the stuffy old traditional pictures. I guess that’s why the other part of me can’t stop staring at him and smiling. It’s the most unconventional wedding I have ever heard of, definitely not the wedding I had always dreamed of. As it turns out, dreams fade but memories are created in reality.


Hey fellow reedsy writers! Before you dive into this story (or don't) I just want to set it up a bit to avoid any confusion. This is a story following the perspective of a certain journal, or diary whatever you like, during World War 2. I do like this idea but I'm not the best at writing down whatever thoughts are going through my head, so if anyone has some critisism please share I would love to get some feedback. Enjoy! 13/06/1943; Naples, Italy   Well, this is going to be the last time I write in this journal. Or diary. I still don’t know the difference. It’s been almost a month since I found it, and it saddens me to leave it. Roberto said that the Germans cleared the house five doors down (he climbs up onto the roof and sees what’s going on from there), so they would soon reach our building. I’m going to throw this book out the window in hopes that someone else will find it, since it wasn’t mine in the first place, and I won’t have much use for it on the run. And hopefully someone will enjoy it as much as I have, since boredom is the main killer in hiding.   But I have learned a lot on the road, so for whoever is going to read this I hope that you will find some of the things I have learned on the way without any losses. Anyway, I’ll write as many as I can down until the others are done getting ready, so here goes; Always stay in groups no matter where you go. A week ago we had someone leave to go to the bathroom without a partner and he never came back. Then Gianna, my cousin went to find him also alone and now we're missing two people and have no idea what happened to them. At least if you have a partner, someone can try and run away to the group and tell the others what happened, so that the others don’t need to go on an excursion just to find one person. Food. Food, food, food, food. It’s the number one thing you should think of when gathering supplies. Not only does it give everyone energy to keep running from the Nazis, but an empty stomach leads to a bad mood. And negative emotions can cloud your jugment, and it allows you to do stupid things you never would have done otherwise. There are two things you can do with your pride. Either hide your Jewish identity and live out in the open with false identification papers and an entirely new identity, or you can refuse to be someone you aren’t (or maybe you just can’t afford new papers) and go into hiding. There isn’t some compromise where you can do both, it’s either one or the other, I learned this the hard way. But as you can probably guess I chose option two, and while it is riskier I can’t pretend I’m somebody I am not. And if you are in Naples and reading this, I’m guessing you took the same path as me (and I admire your courage).

  That’s all I can write for now, Roberto told me we were leaving two minutes ago so I’m already holding them back. I wish whoever finds this luck, and hopefully in a few years we shall all be saved. Every day I am scared, terrified even, but the most important thing you can hold onto during these times is hope. Hope that somebody who you can trust will help you, hope that not all the Germans are bad and hope that someone will put a bullet in Adolf Hitler’s skull, whether it’s the Italians, British, French, Canadian, American or anyone else. Because in the end, we are all in this together. Anna Aurora, out. :) -AA

01/09/1944; Naples, Italy   Dear diary (?), I just found this book. Not sure if I’m supposed to start with Dear diary,  maybe it’s a journal or something, I’ve never owned one of these. I was passing by an alley and found it under a box looking for food, and it somehow managed to survive more than a year of rain, fog and the occasional snow. I took it and went into the house beside it, and I snuck through a window with a crack in the glass. That’s when I met the others in here, and they took me in with open arms. I would not have survived long if I hadn’t met them, and I was lucky I could rely on their hospitality. Not that it was actually their house.

  They were all Jewish except for Leon who’s german but ran away with the others. I wouldn’t have trusted him on my own but he’s actually very nice, it was him that gave me a pen to write. In total were now a small army of six (ha ha), Leon, Noam, Fishel, Pietro, Lavinia and finally me.   Anyway, I've been here about a week and with all honesty I forgot I was carrying this till today. But since I have nothing better to do I decided to start not only writing but reading, which paid off since I have now discovered so much about this small booklet. From what I read, the first time it was written was by a girl named Anita in 1939, almost five years ago. She wrote almost daily for about two years and then it went silent, and a boy named Silvestro picked it up in 1941. Since then there have been almost half a dozen kids who found this book, all of different ages and sides during this war. Some Jewish, some were just ordinary citizens, some were even with the Nazis.

  It must be some kind of miracle that it’s still intact, and that so many people knew others would have a use for it. But it was a really fun thing to flip through, keeping me occupied for a solid two hours and there were quite a few useful things in here too, like the last person to have written in here, a girl named Anna, had given a few useful tips that I could share with the group.

  Well, I’m done for now, I’ll try and write some more tomorrow. I know Noam was hoping for a few of us to go out and see what we can see, if there are still soldiers outside, if there is anyone else in hiding, etc… -Naomi Carmel (Am I supposed to sign my name every time? Some of the others did but not all of them.) 02/09/1943   I did it (I decided not to start with dear diary , it sounds like I’m a five year old)!

I managed to write two days in a row. We heard some banging on the door an hour ago which resulted in a yelp on my part, but it quickly ceased so hopefully whoever was there didn’t hear me.

  Other than that nothing major has changed in the last twenty-four hours. Noam helped all of us climb onto the roof one at a time (an idea I got from Anna the previous writer), so that we could see our surroundings from above. We are currently under the warmth of the sun but an enormous dark cloud was hurtling towards us a few miles away, so we’ll probably be getting a serious rainfall soon, as well as some harsh winds. Actually, just as I wrote the word winds a loud and powerful gust of air hit the side of the house.

  When looking down at the streets we could see a few stranglers darting from one side of the street to the other, away from the eyesight of the few german soldiers that were on the street. Tunneled clouds of smoke rose from several areas in the neighbourhood we were in, as well as far in the horizon. When we came back in w- oh my god they're here I have to go! 04/09/1943   Wow. It’s been about 36 hours and I haven’t had even one unbothered hour of sleep. It’s been total chaos. I guess whoever knocked on the door did hear my yelp, because right when I was writing a tremendous crash was heard indicating the main door of the house we had been hiding in was knocked down, and then there were several booming voices speaking german. We were lucky to be in a room upstairs because we had another few seconds to make our escape. Noam led us onto the roof but Leon and Pietro both stayed to hold the door. Although when we were on the roof ready to make our next move we heard the soldiers break through the door and flood the room to the shouts of Pietro and Loam. I managed to not make a sound, and so did the others, but just barely. Once they left apparently thinking those two were the only people hiding we made our way back in and ran.

  Now, I’m writing under a bridge, sheltered from an enormous downpour with the task of watching over three sleeping adults, terrified and occupied by every horrible thought I could have in my head, thinking of all the worst case scenarios. Or all that but instead of the horrible thoughts I get filled with guilt. Because all it took was a small yelp and now two complete strangers who I put all my trust in, who saved me, are dead or most likely going to die. I guess that's also not a great thought either. Part of me wonders if Leon might be accepted back into his country, since he is one of them, or if that would make it ten times worse for him being considered a traitor.

  But enough with that! My shift is almost over and I want to seem like I was doing a better job of watching over them than I did, so that’s it for now and hopefully we can find a place to settle down for a bit so I can write some more! -Naomi Carmel 07/09/1943

I think this is the last time I’m going to write here. It saddens me that I won’t be able to keep writing for longer but it isn’t mine, and even if it was fun while it lasted someone else should be able to see this.

  Exhausted, soaking, and frozen to the bone from several hours of running in the rain and being in the September night winds, Lavinia, Noam, Fischel and I slumped down in an alley between a bar. We had managed to cross the river (the bridge that I was previously under) by swimming across. I had thrown my back pack with this journal and it is still intact, protected by layers of clothing. The strong current with the addition of a large amount of rain had easily swept us away, but we still managed to swim across albeit travelling south hundreds of meters. The others came with me to retrieve the backpack once we made our way onto land, so we changed into new clothes.   Now in the alley, panting, an old man came out of the bar beside us and after taking one glance, he told us to follow him. We eventually came in (after several minutes of contemplation with us finally realising that we would soon die of starvation, hypothermia or just pass out of exhaustion) and he led us to the back of the counter. And that's where I am now, writing in a storage room of a bar with a plate full of food in front of me. Noam said we would only stay one night and leave in the morning. But I told the bartender to give this to someone else once I finish this last paragraph;   I might try and find another book to write in during my travels. I think that writing what is currently happening is a good distraction from the terror and worry that we all experience daily. But I hope whoever finds this book will acknowledge it and put it to good use. The events going on in the world right now have only happened once before, so maybe this will end up in a museum somewhere! If Hitler falls. But good luck, and safe travels to you all! -Naomi Carmel 027/011/1943 Dear diary,   I just received this book from an old man. I think I can trust him, he doesn’t have a german accent and he’s proven to be kind so far, giving me food, shelter, warmth and water. My name is Avner Sith, and I am part of the third Canadian regiment on a secret mission to get as many Jewish refugees out of Naples before a suspected bombing. I was separated from my regiment and when looking for shelter I met Tulio, the old bartender. I told him what I was here for and without hesitation brought me in. I read most of the previous pages and can’t even begin to imagine some of the fear these people have been through. I’m lucky that this is my first mission (I was just recently drafted) and I’m not completely thrown into the battlefield. They chose me for this particular mission because I’m an excellent marksman and a stealthy soldier. Also I am new so possibly expendable.   But I only wanted to write so that this book can hold stories of many different points of views in this war, and to say that once I get Tulio and any other Italian citizen out, I will be giving this to the first child I can find who this journal might be of use to.

  Anyway, I’m off now so I hope to meet whoever will be reading this next and that any or all violence and hate will cease. It has gotten to the point where seeing a dead body or someone being taken is a daily thing, so if not now then I don’t know when we will be able to stop. But I also give luck to these wonderful but depressing pages (as well as those who wrote in it), in hopes that it will survive through battle. That it will be passed on, this beautiful book of few.

-Avner Smith

Hugo Millaire


Niomi walked down the street on her way home. She had always enjoyed walking home at night after a show. It was her time to unwind. Tonight she had taken a loop around her block, trying to rid of the adrenaline rush that always cascaded over her when she got to the end of a performance. There was something about the role of Queen Margaret in Henry VI that had always invigorated her - even in high school, before she thought theatre was a viable career. "Niomi." She thought she recognized the voice coming from behind her. She turned. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she looked through the darkness. His dark blonde hair and dark clothing didn't serve to give any hints, but she felt her adrenaline rush through again and knew he was watching her. The light shone on his face and shock darted through her. It was Ian. Ian who had been assumed dead when he disappeared in the Amazon the year before. Sometimes it didn't seem like it had been a whole year since he'd been gone, other times it felt like an age. She didn't want to think about him. Ian had abandoned her. They'd been dating when he'd disappeared and she had tried to forget him for months before Patrick had phoned her and asked if she wanted to be Queen Margaret in a new production of the three parts of Henry VI he was going to be directing at BAM in association with the RSC. The idea that Ian felt like he had the right to track her down when she was finally in a good space made her more angry than anything. Ian have that right anymore. He'd lost it when he had chosen a photography trip in the Amazon over her closing night for Small Island . She had begged him not to go. She had yelled and screamed and requested that he stay, but going to the Amazon was a trip Ian felt like he couldn't turn down, and on some level Niomi understood that his art was as important to him as theatre was to her, but their relationship had always been about compromise, at least until that moment, that phone call and he took the opportunity, packed and left without a word. To the theatre community, Niomi had performed that night and then dropped off the face of the earth. She knew she was the reason BAM hadn't announced the cast list until a week after the tickets were released. The industry had started thinking of her as a flake and stopped calling her with jobs. She had lost friends who were tired of her attitude. The man who was reason for all of that, who was the reason Patrick had had to convince the casting director to take a chance on her, was standing before her like he'd never gone away. Niomi slapped him. "I thought you were dead!" she snapped. "Do you knew the pain I've had to suffer and the questions I've had to field in the last year? Everyone wanted to know where you were. Everyone wanted to know if I was okay, because guess what, Ian, when you disappeared that messed with my head." "I'm sorry." "'I'm sorry'! Is that all you have to say to me?" "It's all I can offer. I know you're not going to let me back in the house." "There's no point in you coming up. I dumped your camera equipment in the dumpster the night you left." "That was thousands of dollars of equipment." "You were missing, presumed dead. Did you really expect me to keep your shit?" "Let's go inside." "No, I'm going inside and going to sleep. You are getting a hotel room for the night, we are having coffee at 8:30am tomorrow when we'll have our last conversation and then you're going back to Inverness or the Amazon or wherever the fuck you're living now and not contacting me again." Niomi slammed the door. *** Niomi poured a glass of red wine the second she got into her flat. She normally didn't drink when she got home from a show, but the shock and anger from seeing Ian again had shaken her. If there was a moment to drink alcohol at 1am your ex-boyfriend coming back from the dead was a pretty good reason. She wished he had stayed away and for the first time she wished had moved in with Olivia when Liv had thrown the offer on the table. Niomi hadn't wanted to upend anything else, but now she wished she had somewhere else to hunker down, somewhere where Ian wouldn't know where she was. Why had he come back? Why had he stopped by? Did he want her back? Did he think she would want him back after all this time? She felt like she was going insane; like whatever she did, whatever decision she was made, Ian was always going to be lurking there. "He needs a dog," she muttered. "Someone who will be there for him when he leaves for a year." Ian had brought her a cat before leaving. The cat had gone to the pound when the police had reported Ian as dead - or at least that's what they thought. Seeing him again with his dark blonde hair and leather jacket had made her think of the first time she'd seen him, and for a second the old feelings had come back. Mostly it was relief though. It was relief that the anger, which had lain dormant for months was still there. Niomi thought about calling Liv, but Liv had been bothered enough by Niomi calling in the middle of the night that Niomi thought Liv deserved a break. Niomi took her wine and walked into the living room. She turned on the TV and started watching a soccer match she had recorded. She wasn't necessarily a fan of either team who was playing, but she recorded these matches so she would always have a distraction. Tonight it would get her mind off Ian who was hanging in the back of her mind. Niomi didn't want to think about Ian anymore. He didn't have to right to be there with her. She would never deny they had had some good times, but they were over and she was ready to move on with her life. She liked the way it was. She was grateful to Patrick for pulling her back into the theatre community. The stage had always felt like a home to her no matter where she was in the world. She was ready to put all of her energy back into that and right now she didn't have the energy for a relationship. She had Patrick, Olivia and the rest of their friends and that was enough. For now at least. And as she watched a Liverpool midfielder score a goal from eight yards out, she knew she had done the right thing by leaving Ian in the cold. *BAM = Brooklyn Academy of Music in Brooklyn, NY, USA and RSC = Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford-upon-Avon, UK *The play Small Island premiered in April 2019 at the National Theatre in London, UK


I stepped into the rickety elevator and let my bag slam to the ground. Who had ever convinced me to take up teaching bowling as a career? Oh yeah, that's right. I sighed and leaned my head against the wall. Well, I guess Denny hadn't quite left me high and dry when she fired me. She had pestered me for weeks about taking up bowling as a side gig, she said I was so good at it and wouldn't I just love the extra income? I snorted. Extra income? Yeah right. They paid me diddly squat for the steady, and might I add well done, evening shifts that leaked well into the night on many occasions. Denny had been so happy when I told her I had gotten the bowling job. Her eyes lit up and everything.

"Oh, yay, Robert! Congratulations!" she had said.  I started planning to ask her on a date right then. The next day, right before I asked her out, she told me that they had decided to let me go. Some lie about a change in economy and needing to lay people off and maybe I could get my job back when things settled. They'd call me.

I did not ask her on a date.

No one else that I talked to got fired. I gathered my things and left the office in a daze. Sure, helping make rockets and stuff like that wasn't as glamorous as it sounded, but still. I had enjoyed it, at the very least. Maybe I hadn't been as good as I thought. Like when you think you're killing it at Mario Kart and look at what place you're in and realize you rank 12 out of 12. Maybe I just hadn't been good enough…

And now? What kind of life was I leading? Boarding an elevator death trap in a run-down 12 story apartment building at 2 AM, looking forward to another graveyard shift teaching jerks how to bowl? I looked above the elevator doors to see what floor I was on, this elevator moved like molasses through honey. The monitor glowed with a green number one and I sighed as I realized I hadn't pushed a button. A deeper sigh escaped from somewhere inside me. There seemed to be an endless well of them these days. I punched the button for the twelfth floor and felt the car floor begin its ominous shaking as the shabby elevator rumbled to life and I found myself staring at the buttons. The square buttons extended in one very straight line from waist height to head height, my head height, at any rate. Because of this, the owners of the apartment building always put tall people with no children on the top six floors. Very tall people got floor twelve. I measured in at about 6'3" (they actually measured their tenants) and I got assigned floor twelve. At the time, that had felt like icing on the cake. Being forced to move into a crappy apartment and being assigned the twelfth floor. Just a cherry on top of the worst cake ever. When I got fired, I had been able to maintain my mortgage for about 5 months. I sold my car, my very nice car, to pay for the last month because I already had too many loans and nobody would give me another. My prayers availed me nothing. I was sure God had seen the mess I made and decided He could do nothing. The only thing I ever felt after prayers was an increasing need to get a new job. But there was no point in looking. And just quitting would have been financial death. I had chosen, instead, to move out of my house before the bank foreclosed. I had found this place. Cheapest rent for miles, and for someone who makes an hourly wage of less than minimum (how could that even be legal, again?), cheapest sounded good. $300 a month should have sounded too good to be true. I should have known better.

The owners never fixed anything because they never raised the rent and so never had any money leftover after bills (or so they said) to fix anything. And so I became the handyman formy own apartment. Which quickly turned into the handyman for the whole building. I had started with my own floor and when news spread that I was a decent handyman, I got women crying on my filthy doormat begging for help. Children who had sprinted up flights of stairs asking meto fix a toilet before their mom got home and got angry, three people slid notes under my door and left their own doors wide open for me to go fix a problem. I never saw those people, not once. I even got a few burly motorcycle guys asking for help. They always had light problems that they had tried and failed to fix. Every single one of the lights had electrical problems, mostly corroded wires from leaks in the ceiling. To date, I had fixed three faucets, seven toilets, two fridges, and 48 broken lights. Some of them more than once. I'd even fixed the elevator buttons twice, they'd get stuck and just quit working. I really needed to charge for all the repairs I did. I usually footed the bill for any extra wires and tools that were needed. Maybe they'd hire me on as the handyman here. That wouldn't be too bad. I shook my head. I was too exhausted from bowling to be a full - or even part - time handyman too.

My eyes drifted away from the buttons and fell on the poster I had taped there six or seven months ago when I had moved in.

Tony's! Pizza and Bowl! Now with free instructor upon request! (Schedule 2 days in advance!) I cringed. What purpose does an exclamation mark serve if every sentence has one? Even the parenthetical sentence had one, for goodness sakes! The free instructor sentence made me angry. They had said they'd pay my wage if I taught for free. I told them I expected $10 an hour and they had agreed, in writing, even. I had never seen anything over $7 an hour since I got my first paycheck. Every time I argued, they said, "oh, that's a mistake. Sorry! We'll send a note to management". I am convinced that they never even wrote the note. And they never let me go to talk to management myself. I quit arguing after 5 months, when I lost my house. More prayers unanswered and a growing pile of pay stubs that were proof. Last time I drove by my house, a little family had been having a picnic on an immaculate lawn. It had never looked like that when I lived there. At least it was in good hands.

The elevator shuddered to a stop and the rumble stopped. I looked at the monitor. 8. Eighth floor. I sighed. Here we go again. The elevator regularly got stuck between floor 8 and 9. I was a bit concerned that the rumble had stopped, though. Usually the elevator got stuck for a second up to a minute and then flung you up past the ninth floor. The tenants who lived on the ninth floor usually got off on the 8th or 10th floor and took the stairs. I was convinced that one day I would have to walk all the way up to the twelfth floor. If that day ever came, I would sleep on the couch in the lobby. Or maybe the floor was cleaner. I bumped my head against the wall a few times, would I be stuck in this life forever? As my head hit the wall a fourth time, the elevator dinged and the door slid open on a blank wall. I peeked out the door and sighed. There was a six inch gap between the elevator and the wall. "That's safe," I muttered as I looked down into the dark abyss. "It's like something from a horror movie". I shook my head and punched the "door close" button. This elevator was old enough that the button actually worked. A bit too well, actually. It had the nasty habit of giving in to the wishes of rival siblings and would catch fingers or arms of the other sibling in the door. So far, this had never led to too many problems. For children or the owners of the building. Nobody living here had enough money to sue anybody and still come out on top financially. We usually just shrugged and moved on. The doors slid shut with a screech to wake the dead and I began to wonder if I might be here for a while. I leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor. Interesting things always happened when I was far too tired to appreciate them. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 2:30 AM and my phone at 2%. That was fine, my phone could live for at least an hour on two percent. And that was if I was streaming YouTube videos the whole time. Of course, I didn't know how long it had been on 2%. Because after 2%, my phone died. 1% didn't exist. And then I realized, today marked one year since I had been fired. Happy anniversary, Misery. I rested my back against the wall and closed my eyes, I was so exhausted. Might as well just sleep here. The feeling of the elevator flinging past the ninth floor would wake me up. I woke up sometime later to the feeling of the elevator moving. It took me a whole minute to realize that it was falling and by the time I had the sense to freak out, it had screamed to a halt. The abuse to my ears was still ringing when I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 3:47. Great, this was just ridiculous, how long would I be stuck here? The monitor above the door flashed green and I saw the number 3 before the elevator car was suddenly plunged into darkness. Power out. I sighed and rubbed my face. I could feel the car inching downward.

And I was angry. One thing after another. Failure after misfortune after bad luck. My job, my house, Tony's!, this apartment building, my stupid heavy bowling bag, my car, this elevator, and now I was going to die trapped in an elevator in the dark with my bowling bag and a sign from Tony's!.

I stood up and blindly reached for the sign, tearing it from the wall and ripping it to shreds. I felt around for my bowling bag with my foot and when I found it, I kicked it. It hurt abominably, but I didn't care. I was done with being trapped. Trapped in an elevator. Trapped in an unfair job. Trapped in this misery I was calling life. And all of them seemed to be spiralling downward. Things needed to change and I was going to make it happen.

I stopped and pulled out my phone. At floor three, it wasn't very likely that I would die from the elevator hitting ground floor, even at free-fall speed. It was time to plan my life. I wasn't just going to sit back and let it happen to me anymore. Maybe that's what God was trying to tell me all those times I felt like leaving my job and then let misery stop me. Maybe God knew that I could make the change and He was letting me find my own power. On my phone, I opened a notes app. I saw old notes-to-self about things I should try or things I should do again. One note popped out at me. It simply said, "maybe you should try being a handyman. You like fixing things." That was it! Should needed to be a thing of the past. I opened a new note and started typing.

To do tomorrow: ~ Go to the police station and see what can be done about my stolen paycheck money.

~ Quit Tony's! and look for different work doing something I enjoy. Like being a handyman. ~ When I have enough money, MOVE. Maybe get my old house back? Or move to a different city entirely? As I typed this last sentence and hit save my phone died. The elevator lights slowly faded back on. It felt like a mic drop. The elevator rumbled to life and started its slow climb back to the top. I looked at the monitor and saw a green number 5 flicker into being. I smiled. It looked like I hadn't sunken as low as I thought.


He entered the house through the servants’ door. It stood half-open, moonlight slipping through the crack on cat’s feet. The old mahogany stairs stretched up to nowhere. He cupped a hand over the candle and struck a match. The smell of sulfur permeated the air. Flickering, the candle cast its firefly glow into the passageway. He left the door open and crept up the stairs. A wild night wind followed him, teasing at the flame and trickling cold into his skin. Fate was favoring him tonight. The young man paused at the top, hesitant. He put his ear to the door and closed his eyes. One hand strayed to his coat pocket and closed upon tin. The salt-cellar was cool against his fingertips. He drew it out and fumbled in the near-blackness. The candle-flame swayed, uncertain. Far below, the moonlight pooled on the threshold and watched with silent eyes. He took a pinch of salt and flung it over his left shoulder. All of a sudden the shadows seemed to shrink back. Little tendrils of smoke went writhing up from his light and into the cracks in the walls. The candle guttered dramatically and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. The night wind halted--all was stifling gloom. With a shudder he opened the venerable door and slipped through. The hallways of the ancient manor were surprisingly free from spiderwebs and dust. Peeling wallpaper rustled as he moved down the thickly carpeted walkways. A candle in a sconce gave off a dull glow, sending pale fingers of wax down the wall. He walked cautiously, testing the floor with the tip of a boot before each step. His thick black coat did little to keep out the autumn chill that permeated through every crack in the walls. A shiver ran up his spine and stopped his process. He froze, heart pounding. All was completely quiet in the house. The thick emptiness muffled even the faltering sound of his breaths. A chain hung around his neck, with a lucky coin on the end. The dull metal felt almost warm against his fingers. He continued on into the house, moving quicker now. The open door to the parlor loomed up on his left and he hurried past. The bulky shapes of furniture stood, half-concealed by the shadows. Now he was in the kitchen. Here a solitary lantern burned, left perhaps by some forgetful servant. The loneliness began to close in on his mind and he shook it off. He could not afford to lose time. The matchbox hung heavy in his coat pocket. The young man kept moving. It was not safe to stop. He wandered through the kitchen, silent as secrets, avoiding the loose floorboards that nagged at his boots. In circles he went, candle flame casting mad shadows on the plastered walls. The air smelled like aging wood and dust. Rows of drawers with brass knobs stared at him from the walls, begging to be opened. But the young man resisted. He scanned the room with his eyes. There was nothing of notice, nothing more than what belonged in a kitchen of this size. A leggy, insubstantial spider wound its way over the lantern handle and watched him noiselessly.

The deep tones of a grandfather clock, resounding from somewhere deep within the manor, sent him darting into the corner. His blood ran cold. Icy sweat dripped down the back of his neck and under the collar of his shirt. He muttered under his breath, reaching again for the salt cellar. But the resonance halted. It was precisely two o’clock in the morning. Now he hunted with greater intensity. There was no time to fear. He found the winding staircase that lead to the study and hurried up it, breathing hard. The ancient stairs made no noise as he passed up them. The candle wavered in a draft, sending golden highlights whirling on his disheveled hair. Ahead, the door to the study stood tantalizingly open. He lurched toward it--then paused. Carefully, he slipped into the study, polished boots sinking into the Persian rug. One hand clasped at the coin around his neck. It felt cool now, comforting. The young man closed the door, nearly all the way, and lifted his candle to survey the study. It was an old room, cloaked in grandeur and smelling strongly of incense. A majestic carved desk took up the majority of the space. Bookshelves haunted the back wall, their ornate fronts illuminated eerily by Newt’s candle. The grinning skull of an ape stared at the silent newcomer. Everywhere were papers. Letters, essays, and notes littered the floor and sat in neat bundles on the armchair. A hefty ceramic jar full of quill pens sat heavily on the desk, scuffed from frequent use. Strange shapes sat on the shelves, wrapped in cloth and smelling of mothballs. This was a room filled with knowledge and secrets. But the young man did not step out into the room. He watched with grim dark eyes. There was no sound in the study. Nothing moved in the dim. It was as if Fate had frozen time. The silent clock stood alone, tirelessly swinging its pendulum. The brass flashed as it reflected the candlelight. Newt reached with trembling hand for the saltcellar. There seemed to be no air in the room. Even the flickering candle brought no relief from the stifling darkness. He clutched the necklace in one hand and flung another pinch of salt with a deft movement. There was no change in the gloom. The salt made a skittering noise as it scattered on the floorboards of the hall. Now he dared look behind him. The staircase was empty. He glided over the carpet and into the study. The piles of ink-smudged papers rustled as he approached--he began to sort through them. The candle was set aside, where it kept company with the ape’s skull. Its little flame cast Newt’s shadow on the wall, looming up like some archaic monster.

Weather-worn parchment crinkled beneath his fingers. With growing intensity he skimmed each document and swept it aside. Pages and pages of hand-written material were cast heedlessly onto the floor. A folded stack of papers, wrapped with red twine, presented itself. Newt seized it with trembling fingers and ripped off the twine in one motion. Letters fluttered to the carpet like cream-colored doves. He caught one. One glance at the front gave him the information he needed--the folded paper was emblazoned with an embellished letter W. An electric chill ran down his spine. read. My dearest W, I contact you with grave news. I am writing this from the neighbors’--you know the elderly couple down the road?--where they have so kindly allowed us to stay. For this is a grim situation indeed! It is as we feared. Ever since the trials begin to come we have suspected an ill-meaning presence. And now we have had so much trouble that I am positive this house is cursed. You know of the affairs with Roger’s business, and the garden. Well now I too am affected. This house is always filled with a ghastly chill--I cannot abide it. My --

Here ink splatters had blocked out the majority of the paragraph. Newt scanned it with ferocity, caring not for trivialities. He began to read with desperation born of a hunger for answers. In the last few sentences he found them. He held the paper nearly to his nose, processing. This was the missing piece to a puzzle he had spent months deciphering.

As I write this, my daughters are readying the carriage. We cannot stay in this house any longer. Roger refuses to go. He thinks I have gone mad. And perhaps I have! Oh W, I wish you were here. Perhaps then I would feel safe again.

The evidence is laid before me, and the verdict is clear. I do not wish to believe it but I must. There is a spirit in our house… a ghoul of sorts. There is a curse upon this manor and I fear it has already fallen upon me and my family. I do not know what the future holds but I know I must protect my poor girls. Be safe, I will contact you again soon. Sincerely,

Lona W. He bent and picked up the papers that composed the rest of the bundle. An addressed envelope waited there for a letter that had never been sent. Newt straightened up suddenly, his shadow rearing against the wall like a wild thing. A mad look came into his eyes and a shiver coursed through him. His silent query had been answered. There was an evil presence in this house. A curse upon the home that should have been his. Blind with emotion, he tore the envelope in half. The fragments drifted to the stuffy carpet. His boots crumpled them as he turned and hurried to the door. He pushed open the door and slipped down the stairs, candle smoke trailing behind him. A firm resolve drove him on. As he returned to the main floor of the house, the unblinking stars watched him through the cracks in the curtains. He moved with less caution now, striding across the aging floors without fear. He passed through the parlor and down a set of steps.This was the east wing of the manor--a little tower of sorts that jutted out from the corner of the house. Here, a small yellow door sat framed by floral wallpaper. A thick round window set in the conical roof let in the creeping moonbeams. The scent of dusty rose hung in the air like something out of a dream. Newt cracked open the door and looked reverently into the little room. All was still. This was a pristine place, a place out of time. A vase of purple autumn flowers rested on the nightstand. Embroidered linen curtains hung motionless. The faded pink quilt on the bed was neatly folded. Even in illness, the occupant of this room had clearly taken pride in keeping up tidy habits. Not a thread was out of place. He took this all in breathlessly. It was as if he was looking down into a locket. This place held memories--memories he could not again enter. He exhaled, melancholy creeping into his veins and grasping at his heart. For the first time since entering the manor he allowed himself to close his eyes. The madness in his heart loosened its grip on him and lay down softly, like a great cat. On the whitewashed wall above the bed there hung a portrait. Daubs of oil paint glistened in the candlelight as he crept forward. It was a new painting, perhaps a few months old. The frame was gilded with gold leaf, in a fashion that had always pleased the dwellers of the manor. The girl herself looked radiant in the portrait. The ruddy cheeks and dark eyes were as lifelike as any artist of the time could have portrayed. One fair hand clutched a wildflower. Curls of hair framed the face, as elegant as befit a Roman goddess. Around the maiden’s neck, a silver coin hung, glinting in the painted sunlight. He choked--fell to the floor. His pendant seemed to tighten around his neck, threatening to steal his breath away. It was on a longer chain than hers. He remembered finding the two coins in the manor attic. A single hole ran through the center, bored long ago in a foreign mint. She had suggested mounting them on chains, hoping they would bring good luck. They had spent hours in the attic, fiddling with the chains and talking. The charm was meant to keep him safe, yes, but it was a mere piece of metal. She was his good luck charm. She always had been. But now the charm was all he had left. She had faded away slowly, a wildflower bitten by frost. The illness was full of ups and downs. It teased with sharp claws, played with her like a hunting cat. One day she would be able to sit up, and to eat again. One week the doctor had pronounced her well enough to go outside. But the curse was patient. It stalked her, caught her again and pulled her back into the darkness. With the summer leaves she had finally wilted. And Newt had never been the same. But now the hole in his heart was filled. Now all his questions were answered. It was not Fate that had stolen his lover away. No, Fate was a longtime friend of his. It was something else, a hateful creature from the black mists of death. Some kind of spirit formed from shadows who’s cruel possession over the manor had cost him everything. It was a tangible enemy, an outlet for his emotion. And now he felt nothing but madness.

Bent on the carpet, he clenched his fists until the blood left his palms. It rushed into his face, hot and blinding. The lucky charm burned against his chest. The candle fell from nerveless fingers and lay against the wood floor, scorching a black hole in the varnish. He staggered to his feet, turned away. The soft eyes of the girl in the painting seemed to beg him for help. The room swirled around him. The curtains rustled in an unnatural breeze. Against the floorboards, a black tendril of smoke curled up like a talon. The tears lasted only seconds. He ran to the window, breathing hard. The smell of burning tugged at the edges of his senses. Outside, the cold, emotionless moon stared down on the manor. It peered through the window at the hopeless boy in the room of his love. Somewhere in the house, maybe the ghost was watching him too. The blurred stars were the eyes of Fate. She was smiling down upon him. His eyes burned and he dug his fingernails into the windowsill. They left little half--moons when he turned away. There was nothing here for him any longer. Everything had been stolen from him.

He strode numbly across the floor and knelt to pick up the candle. A little section of the boards smouldered, glowing cracks spiderwebbing across the charcoal. The lucky charm burned like the dying candle. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he knew his enemy was near. He stared at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes, watching. No sound came from the house. “I know you’re here.” He rose, trembling. A piece of flaming ash dropped from the embers of the candlewick. Hot wax oozed slowly down his wrists. The darkness seemed to shift, to form. The ghost was at the door. Air trembled as an imperceptible tremor went through the room. The painting smiled down at him, innocent. Fate had always meant for this to happen. He knew now what he must do. Fever quivered in his veins. He tore the lucky coin from his neck, pressed his lips to it. The candle grew hot in his hands and he strode to the curtains. The candle flame caught easily in the soft, dry velvet. It shone, reflected in his lover’s painted eyes, as the room began to burn.


Lin- she had always seemed ordinary. People who used to look at her would not find anything special about her. At first glance, she was your regular woman in her twenties, doing some job or the other and living a seemingly content life. But that was actually not it. She was a secret agent, working undercover as a book editor. What others did not know was that while she worked on her stories, she simultaneously would be encoding messages. What people didn’t realize was that she was actually gathering and sorting data under the pretext of working on a rookie author’s text. No, nobody ever knew that she was part of something much, much bigger than herself or the streets or the city or the country… or even the globe. She was a worker at the Galactic Organization for Realizing Mythology- GORM for short. That was the most wonderful place one could ever fathom about, because all myths and traditions from across planets in the galaxy came true there. She was on the Chinese Department on Dimension Earth, and was pretty happy to be working there- except for one small complaint last Wednesday. “Dexter!” she yelled yet again into the dark silence surrounded by stars which did not twinkle the way they did on earth. Tao turned around in her seat. “Let me see,” she observed. “He did something again.”  “ Of course he had to! You won’t even believe what his brain cooked up this time!” Lin shrieked shrilly. Tao removed her glasses and stared straight at Lin. “Cut him some slack, you iceberg,” she repeated herself. “He’s the only American in this whole department of Chinese people. Imagine the amount of hard work he must have put in to get here! He must have had good reasons for doing whatever he did.” “But Tao-!” Lin began, but her colleague cut her short. “I’ve heard. He is going for the red threads of fate this year for the annual project, isn’t he?” Lin nodded, relieved to know her friend was well-informed for at least one time. Tao shrugged. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. It’s a pretty interesting topic. I can’t help it if you are so averse to love, honey,” she spoke. Lin looked thunderstruck. “But he wants us to try and follow our own threads to see where they lead! That’s the dumbest idea I ever came across. Your love comes at its own time.” she exploded. Tao shrugged again. “All I know is that we are working at a place which experiments with mythology as creatures know it, and also the fact that Dexter is a genius. He’s been designing that machine to view red threads since three years, and it’s finally nearing completion! How would you feel if something you’ve been toiling on might finally see daylight?” Lin turned away, leaving the question unanswered. She heaved around her paperwork and checked the time. It was nearly time to return to earth to play her role as ‘the boring editor’. She started packing her stuff to head to the elevators. What she could not tell Tao was that she had a deep-seated secret. It was entrenched so much that she could not pluck the courage to lug it out and tell the world. It was pure and simple- contrary to popular belief at the GORM, she did not despise Dexter. In fact, she admired him like a mad aficionado. She strongly believed that her own red thread was attached to his ankle, and both of them were meant to be together. But ever since Dexter started developing his tech, doubts had been sown into her mind. Were both of them really meant to be together? Were their cords ever connected? Could her fantasies ever come true? And that is why she never wanted him to succeed. She was afraid that once Dexter finished his work, someone else might be the one for him and she would be left standing alone, or accompanied by someone she had absolutely despised until then. But who would understand? She ceased her packing and stood up blindly. For some sudden reason, tears had started prickling at the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away quickly with her sleeve before Tao noticed and hurried away to the elevators leading back to earth. And that’s when she ran into a solid wall. “Oh, I’m so sorry… Lin! Just the person I wanted to see!” She looked up in shock. She had just plummeted ungraciously into Dexter. Dexter straightened up, his wavy brown hair bobbing slightly over his perfectly shaped eyebrows and clear hazel eyes. “Yeah?” she asked in a neutral fashion. That was the mode she ever assumed around him. He smiled. “You know about our project topic this year, right? I needed a bit of help with the instrument I’m working on. I figured you’d be the best person to ask help from,” he said hopefully. “Okay,” she said nonchalantly and followed him back into the department. He inhaled deeply as soon as he flicked on the lights which illuminated a small pair of framed glasses. They were grandly placed on a stand surrounded by contraptions of several kinds- he had really been working hard. Pride swelled up in Lin’s chest on watching all his works. That’s my man, she thought. “I need you to help me finish this invention,” Dexter said. “You’ll be given due credit for your part, don’t worry about that.” Lin was shocked beyond words. He was asking for the impossible. How could she ever? However neat and impressive the invention was, all she wanted to do to it was smash it or sabotage it in some way. Wait. Maybe… she actually could do that… and buy herself more time. She slowly nodded and began to study the glasses. They were in optimum condition. The lenses were the simple and plain, but made from the toughest transparent material in the galaxy. Ouch. That must have cost a lot. She decided to ignore the numbers running in her head and delved further. The frames had the main control panel, so they were the real deal. She suddenly swooped down to examine a button named ‘VIEW’. Was that sparking she saw there? “What’s this one for?” she asked, pointing at it eagerly. He leant behind a stack of books he was resetting. “Oh, that? It’s for a general view of all red threads in the world. It can be customized to a specific person’s thread’s view too.” Bingo, she thought. That was one spark she had to encourage. The wiring had grown old due to the amount of time it had spent inside the machine. This must have been the first function Dexter must have installed since the device’s creation. A new set of anti-frictional wiring would finish the machine, but that wasn’t what she was going to do. No. She was going to increase the amount of friction and additionally fry the internal system a little so that the glasses would break down after a couple of minutes of use. The blame would all come down to usage of outdated tools and overlooking of system safety, and the project would be scrapped. “I need access to the mainframe of this program,” she called out. He nodded. “I’m coming over,” he replied and rushed to her. She could catch a whiff of his cologne which she loved so much. He hit a few keys on his computer and looked at her. “There,” he said. “You can edit the program now.” The brightness and boyishness in his voice caught Lin off-guard. He was so enthusiastic about this small set of glasses lying in front of her. She stared at them. She was about to blow up three years of effort into smoke. And he had trusted her to strengthen it instead. How low could she get? A wave of epiphany washed over her. How it came about, she could not explain; maybe it must have been a sudden surge of guilt. But all that occupied her conscience at the moment was- she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t betray his trust and faith in her for her selfish desires. She took a deep breath. “Let’s fix you properly, buddy,” she whispered softly to the glasses and rolled up her sleeves. Within an hour, the work was done, and both of them had bidden goodbye to each other, promising each other good luck for the presentation the next working day. Eventually, the next working hours for the GORM did arrive, and Lin was nervous. The presentation involved someone finding their soul mate using the glasses. She wanted the invention to work, because she wanted Dexter to be appreciated. How happy he would be if it were to be accepted and put into mass production for the galactic public. And if he was happy, she would be too. A volunteer was chosen, the glasses were put on and the person immediately cried out, “There’s this… red string around my ankle!” And he frantically started chasing it. People jumped and skipped out of the way as he made his way through crowds and out into the streets. He finally jerked his head up when he sensed an end coming. “Well… I married the right girl, then,” he murmured shyly as he saw his wife’s ankle connected at the other end. The following throngs from the GORM burst into applause. Lin shed tears of joy. It had worked. Later on, the whole department was appreciated and congratulated- the glasses were going into immediate mass production. Lin could never forget the look on Dexter’s face as he heard the news. **** Four months later… “It’s arrived! The package has come!” Tao frantically pushed her bangs away from her face as she lifted Lin’s package. There it was- sitting in a shiny case, the glasses looked more beautiful than ever before. The design reforms had really changed the influence and sales of the venture. Lin entered running from the left passage. “Lemme try them on!” she squealed and grabbed the glasses. Her heart was thumping loudly in her chest. Who was going to be her soul mate? Was he even from this galaxy, or would she have to pay the heavy inter-galactic travel expenses? She jammed them onto her eyes and her fingers flickered to the all-too-familiar ‘VIEW’ function. She pressed a few more buttons to show only her string. An instant measure sprang up at the edge of the lens: 840 meters. “Why is it so short?” she muttered in frustration. But that could only mean one thing- her soul mate was very near. She broke into a run, completely going against office protocol. She nearly cried out when her eyes travelled to the ankle of the person at the other end of her red thread. Dexter.


“Mr. Stephens, it's time for your speech,” James reminded me quietly. I had been absently twirling my champagne trying to enjoy the photos that adorned the walls. They were not dull or repetitive by any means. Perdita’s photos were always quite exceptional. I stepped onto the marble platform which by now was garnished with heaps of flowers. Mounted behind it was a lovely oil portrait of Perdita. Even in painted form she had those soft doe eyes. I was about to clear my throat till a pair of eyes forced me still. Eyes that saw through me. But what could they see? I did nothing. I steadied my heart by repeating that to myself. Murmuring in the room stopped bringing my attention back. I began. “Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the first annual Perdita Clements Photo Gallery. As you know five years ago Perdita went missing on her drive home from an art show in Nashville. It was her biggest show yet receiving national recognition at only 18 years old. The residents here probably already know the police reports and findings by heart, but for our out of towners I will recap. Perdita was on the highway, but took the wrong exit. A gas station on a back road saw her last before her and her car vanished. Three weeks later her car was found stripped in a junkyard in Kentucky near the state line. The car showed no trace of Perdita. And all leads were a dead end. The dictionary defines photography as the art or practice of taking and processing photographs. And all of you here tonight know how much she practiced. Every scene you could possibly find in this beautiful little town Perdita would be their camera in hand. Though, she did not take and process photos. She discovered and shared them. Take a look around this room. Every photo is raw. Every photo has an unspoiled richness. From the portraits of our dear neighbors to the hidden valleys you see unbridled beauty. Everything is there for us lay people to behold. Her photos evoked wonder. Even the most lowly in spirit got a moment of awe. Perdita did not believe in editing her photos. She lived by the rule that everything was created the way it was supposed to be. She carried this sentiment into her daily life as well. She truly seeked to be kind and caring no matter the stigma or past.” The crowd hung on to my words with reminiscent, soft smiles. Perdita’s mother even began to dab her eyes. Before I could start my next sentence I was caught again by those eyes. Looking straight at me was a woman in one of the photos. The maid was dressed in white with long golden hair. Her tunic waved around her daring to lift her up. She made no mistake with her gaze. I felt it then and now she has pulled my chains to face her again. My hand tightened around my flute. I reminded myself I did nothing. I stared back convinced, but she only intensified her gaze. Her head tipped in a way that allowed her to look down on me. Ashment a mother would possess for a foolish child played along her features, but why didn’t she just spit upon me and move on. My hand trembled. I had to switch my glass to my other hand. I had reasoned with myself for years. I had felt I mastered the storm, but I could already feel the clouds begin to darken. I dared not to speak another word. “Mr. Stephens, are you alright?” James stepped up beside me. He looked at me with sympathy like I was one of them. An innocent mourner trying to honor the lost and not fall apart. I looked back at the maid. I passed James and stepped off the stage. I walked up to her and read the gold plaque. Perdita named the photo “Angel”. I had done nothing. I had done absolutely nothing. And... I was wrong. I was a coward. I had done nothing to help her. I looked back up to the angel, but something had changed. The icy blue eyes now seemed warm like a blue lagoon. The straight lips actually curved at the ends. Her arms weren’t still by her sides like I thought they were from afar. Her palms turned out, inviting me in now. I dropped my flute and let the glass shatter. A sob cracked through my lips, but I let it out. I put my hands on the walls of either side of the photo and bent my head. I cried. I cried for Perdita. What have I done? I heard a soft click clack of heels behind me. “It isn’t your fault, Noah. You did nothing.” Camile placed her hand on my back. I didn’t move. “Camile. I need to talk to the police.” Her hand flinched back. “Why?! Noah, wait!” I headed for the door. It isn’t worth it anymore. I have been quiet for long enough. If I am killed at least people will know she might still be out there. That is what is important now. Whatever I face it will be my penance. I started running , but before I turned out of the hallway I saw the last photo of the gallery. It was a candid photo of her friends laughing sitting in a tree. The plaque read “Found”. I quickly shrugged on my coat and opened the door. I hastened through the starless night. I didn’t even practice what I needed to say. No more perfectly crafted speeches. I wanted to say it all. Be rid of this diseased state. Despite the puddled sidewalks I only increased my speed. The wind blew at my back trying to help me go faster. Raindrops watered my lashes, but I barely blinked. I let the water drip down my face all the way to my chest. It was the cleanest I felt in years.


Florence pressed her palm into the horn. It bleated like a wilting goat, and her car reverberated from the noise, coughing.

 This would have been productive, if she had been the only one honking. Alas, the sound of her blast just drained into the sink of yammering traffic around her.

After standing still for ten minutes on Shepperton, she croaked her Volkswagon into park, and stuck her head out of the window, on the lookout for an explanation.

This hadn’t been how her morning started. She woke up early, picked up hot coffee on the way to her car, and left the house twenty minutes before her prosaic routine. Her mood had been light, remarkably uplifted, despite the slightly sultry weather, and the muggy frail fog that clung to the buildings. The traffic, too, had seemed as energetic as it could in Laleham, Surrey.

It was just minutes until the line of cars had accumulated through the middle of town, snaking through the entirety of the main road. Florence wasn’t even aware that there were enough cars to fall the length of the borough, and yet, here she was, sitting still.

She praised Jesus as she reached into the right compartment and landed on a pack of cigarettes. The box was soggy, and there were just two left, but she expected that this traffic wouldn’t clear for a while. Her lighter, a pink, depleted piece of plastic, which she always kept in her left pocket, arrived at the end of the stick, just as she heard a knock on the passenger window.

She jumped simultaneously as the flame peeked from the metal, and fearing that the lighter would ignite something on the seat, she immediately let go of the pedal, and pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. Turning her head cynically, Florence saw a young woman, around her age, with dark purple eyeshadow and a bright zebra print jacket, staring wide-eyed into her vehicle.

Florence, against all her better judgement, rolled down the window.

“Yes?” “Hi, ma’am. You don’t know me, but I need a ride to Ashford.” “The hospital?” Florence asked.

“Yes, ma’am. See, I’ve broken my foot, and I can’t walk there. I need to get something for it. It hurts bad, really bad.” The woman rolled her R as she said really . “Please ma’am no one else has helped me.”

Florence considered it for a moment. It was rare that she invited strangers into her car, she was someone who tended to keep her private life private. But perhaps it was the weather, or just an impulsive, quick dopamine-incited decision that caused her heart to pluck as she stared into the woman’s imploring eyes.

“Alright. Get in.” She brushed some papers from the seat, and unlocked the door for the girl squeezing herself in. “Just so you know…” Florence began, leaving a space for the woman to fill.

“Millie. My name’s Millie ma’am.” “Just so you know Millie , the traffic hasn’t moved in the past twenty minutes. I don’t think a car will be much faster right now.” “Oh. Well, as long as I'm not on m' feet.” “Right.” Florence responded, slightly disappointed that Millie didn’t catch on.

Millie, from a closer glance, was tiny. Her hair had inflated with knots, a blotch of blond scrambles pinched atop her head. Her face, and all but her cheeks, was pale. She was nervous too, her thumb digging into her palm. In front of them, a man opened his car door and swelled onto the street, rubbing his neck. His stomach, which was twice the width of the rest of his body, turned in a circular motion, his eyes darting across the line of cars. The man eventually reached the opposite direction, in which he noticed the two of them sitting, and began towards them. Once again, Florence rolled down the glass pane.

“Hello Mr. Poole.” “What in the hell is going on, Florence?” "Not sure, I would say try walking to the front, but that might not do you any good." Mr. Poole had shared the same neighborhood with Florence for the last ten years. He was a stout man, who was barely able to keep his head from balding, and who owned a handful of dogs that he shared with his wife, Mary. A kind man, but quite anxious as well. He wiped his brow, “Alright, maybe I will.” Mr. Poole then leaned down, “I see you’ve got a friend with you. Who’s this?” Before Florence could speak, Millie reached out a hand, “Millie, sir. My name’s Millie.” “Well, hello. Welcome to Laleham.” He tipped an invisible hat, “I best be off now, Mary’s probably wondering where I am.”

“Let me know if you find anything Mr. Poole,” Florence motioned to the line of cars in front of her, “I can’t imagine why there's a traffic jam in the middle of Laleham.” “Aye, yes. Strange times!” He called, and strolled to his vehicle.

“Why don’t you take a look yourself?” Millie implored. Florence shot her a glance, as if to imply, because you’re in here. The attempt for pettiness didn't quite work with Millie. She stared ahead, still shifting in her seat. “I can’t go up front because I have.. Chronic back pain. Real bad, too. I can’t walk too far.” Florence lied. “Oh, no.” Millie looked shocked. “I’m sorry to hear that, I am.”

They sat in silence.

Florence shoved her cigarette back into the compartment, and dialed in to the radio, wanting to avoid all conversation with this strange girl. It was another thirty minutes before the cars began to move. Sedately, the snake of cars encroached forward. And Florence, who at this point was progressively getting more annoyed by Millie, pushed her foot into the gas as far as the car ahead would allow. Surprisingly, as they passed the edge of town, there seemed to be nothing blocking the road. It was empty for other than a trash can, and an empty bench, neither of which she could imagine having caused such a blockage.   The road shortly indulged into multiple paths, and with Millie’s directions, she followed the left, more undulatory course.

After passing their third field of potatoes, Florence noticed a figure ahead waving wildly in the center of the track. And as they approached, she gently began to slow, studying the shadow as it formed into a tall, lanky man holding a suitcase.

The gravel gutturally scraping against her tires, she hauled the machinery to the side of the road.

The window peeled down. “Hello, sir?” Millie, who seemed just as intrigued by this stranger as Florence, called out. The man neared.

“Hello.” As he ducked down, Florence began to develop a whole picture. He was ghostly thin, dressed in just a white cotton linen, a leather jacket, and a pair of jeans. His eye bags dripped into his cheekbones, mouth barely able to form a polite smile. “Are you alright?” Millie asked, her hands holding the edge of the window, her eyes following his expressions. “I will be, yes.” He spoke in such clipped language, Florence couldn’t tell if he didn’t like them, or was just shy. His voice was much lower than one would expect, a rich, resonant sound tumbling out of his parched lips.

“Can we take you somewhere? I am on the way to the hospital.” Florence asked.

“That would be wonderful, yes.” He made such shrewd eye contact, Florence almost had to recoil. It was then she noticed that he was carrying a bag, nearly the size of a full human body. Millie seemed to realize this too.

“May I open your trunk?” He asked, lifting his duffel to explain. Florence nodded inaudibly, waiting for him to pull out a gun, or reach in to strangle Millie around the throat. She began to feel strangely protective of the girl next to her.

He strolled to the back, popped the trunk, shoved the bag in, then shuffled to the door. Florence unlocked her car once more, and he made his way into the back seat.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, “Where to?”

“The reservoir.” “The Queen Mary Reservoir?” Millie and Florence looked at each other, with a mirroring glance.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

The car tripped headfirst into a mournful silence. Beside them, the road was compressed with low iron fences and trees bathing the concrete in shadows. The sky was a mere grey, the waistline between providing light, and dampening the ground below with a wash of a silvery slate.

“What is your name, again?” Florence asked. “Two-foot. Or you can call me skippy.” He said this so apathetically, Florence was surprised it wasn’t followed by a laugh.

“Are you in Surrey for long, Skippy?” Millie interrogated. Florence swore she heard a small sigh.

“I live here, yes.”

“Where about? Florence is just down the road-” Before Millie gave away her address, Florence slammed her foot on the break. Millie’s sentence was cut short as the car lurched forward. As she glanced in the rearview, Florence caught a smile leaping from the corner of Skippy’s mouth.

“I live in Byfleet.” He said, almost replying.

“Surprised I haven’t seen you around,” Florence reacted, “That’s near where I am.” “I tend to stay in my house. You know, routine.” Skippy emphasized the last word potently.

Millie didn’t speak. She was still caressing her collarbone from the impact. They passed through another town, this one even less exciting than the last. Each road bump they hit, gave Florence a small jolt, as she apprehensively waited for Skippy to pull out a rifle and shoot them both. “What are you doing all the way out here then? Not to pry of course.”

Skippy didn’t acknowledge her for a moment. “I was just taking a walk.”

Millie, eyes moving alike to windshield wipers, fraught with nervousness, was clutching her seat. They coiled around the corner, and the sight of the reservoir’s bushes that laced the edges of the water came to view.

“Planning on anything fun at the reservoir?” Florence called, hoping to diffuse Millie’s forehead veins and expanding eyes.

“Just dropping something off.” He said, and Florence noticed the crest of his lips twitch.

She nodded, “Where should I leave you?”

“Here is fine, yes.”

She rolled to a blunt stop.

Skippy, giving a nod, opened the back and crawled out, spindly legs crumpling out of the seat like a spider. It was the moment that he closed the gateway behind him that Millie burst into tears. "I don't want to die, Florence, I'm to young!" Millie cried, her voice hoarse. "What if he kills us? Oh, god, I should have never asked for a ride from a stranger." "I know, I don't want to die yet either. Just-" Florence then heard the trunk close and imminent footsteps. She shoved her hand into Millie's open, wailing mouth. With her other hand, she made a signal to stay silent. Skippy reached the passenger window.

“It was nice meeting you-”

Before she could finish her sentence, Skippy launched his arm straight through the opening of her car window. Florence yelped, jumping back, and slamming her head against the roof, and began to flail her arms uselessly in defense. Before she could do anything more, Millie grabbed his available body, held it tight, and bit down into his skin. Skippy’s arm, in response to the sudden pain, bludgeoned the headrests, just as Millie ducked down to avoid his lashing arm. Skippy let out a cry of affliction, and revoked his appendage from the inside.

Florence gaped at the man now hopping on one leg, face stretched into a twist, clutching his arm for dear life. “I. Was. Just trying to-” He expired in breath, “shake your. Hand.”

"Oh! Oh no, oh dear." Millie looked over at Florence with a swelling expression of guilt.

“I am so sorry, Skippy.” Florence consoled. "Is there anything I can do?" “Sorry Skippy,” Millie frowned, following. “I just reacted and I- I am sorry, really.” Skippy had stopped jumping, and was now rubbing his forearm.

“Thank you for the ride, I will be going now.” Skippy grouched, enunciating his words slowly.

Then he picked up his bags, and left, still shaking his limbs with agitation.

The two watched him leave, chests still heaving with the aftertaste of shock. Florence stuck her key into the ignition, and began to move.

“Are you ok?” She asked finally.

“Yes. Are you?”

“That was so scary, I thought he was reaching in to grab you.” Florence’s shoulders relaxed. “I know, I’m sorry I reacted by covering myself and not protecting you.” “I’m sorry that I bit him.” “I hit my head.” Florence realized, reaching to touch the same spot. “Ouch.” “What do you think was in that bag?” “Definitely a body, no question.”

“Good thing I bit him, then.”

They both began to giggle, laugh, and then spill into a fit of air-locked, muscle spasm, laughing that took them a quarter of an hour to calm down from, all while rolling back and forth in their seats. “You bit him! I can’t believe you bit Skippy.” “Poor Skippy!” Millie cawed, holding her stomach.

The landscape changed outside their window as they entered the hospital grounds. The streets had become increasingly clustered as they made their way to the destination, the fields of barren green hills gradually melting into rows of brick houses.

The medical buildings were shrimpy, barricades of cubic windows denting the outside of chalky, nearly sepia walls. Florence, still smiling, progressed into the parking lot, and slid into an open space. The ignition now off, they were left in silence. “Well, here we are.”

“Yes. Here we are.” “I hope your foot feels better, really. I’m sorry that it’s hurt.” Millie turned her head towards her. Her face was structured like a heart, Florence noticed. Millie’s eyes flowered with tears.

“You’re a really nice person. And I am glad I met you.” “Millie, darling. Thank you for knocking on my window.” “Anytime.”

And wrapping her zebra coat around her frail body, Millie exited the passenger side, shut the door behind her, and stood while Florence reversed out of her parking spot. Millie dwelled in that spot as Florence drove away. And as she turned the final corner from view, Florence’s eyes lingered on the girl waving feebly after her fading silhouette in the rearview mirror.


Go to bed at a reasonable hour. Wake up earlier. Frankie woke up with the afternoon sunlight in her eyes. The room smelled of dust and sweat and old fried chicken. It was one thirty in the afternoon on January first. Frankie had gone to bed at half-past three. Not because she’d gone out. She was new in the city and had no friends here yet, and hated parties and wouldn’t have gone to a New Year’s party even if she had been invited to one – which she hadn’t been. No, she’d spent New Year’s Eve alone in her half-furnished studio eating spicy Korean chicken from the take-out place across the street and watching episode after episode of Indian Matchmaking. Then, for something completely different, she’d watched all three Die Hard movies in a row. The new year had arrived unnoticed sometime between the second and third Die Hard. At half-past two, Frankie had stood on shaky legs and arched her stiff spine. She reached her arms above her head and clasped her greasy fingers together, and then stretched her whole body by swaying left, then right. She’d left her apartment and pounded down the stairs to the ground floor, pushing outside, inhaling a lungful of cold air. Frankie found her new neighbourhood drenched in wet shadows and deserted. Her sneakers slipped on the frozen sidewalks. It was drizzling in December, the sleet shocking on her hot face, a welcome contrast to her too-hot apartment. She’d forgotten her coat and it was cold, but it was nice to feel cold, to feel something jarring after hours and hours of sitting in a hot, dry room with grease on her fingertips, bathed in the hollow white light of the television. She veered left and walked aimlessly, her mind energized, spinning plans for 2024. Get a pet . Like a dog (a small dog) or a cat (a calm one). Something living to share the apartment with, to breathe the same air as her; a warm body to touch when her mood dipped into moroseness. Frankie was used to being alone; she was an introvert, but something about being in a brand new city with nothing and no one familiar made her feel exposed. She’d moved to Calgary late last summer, just as the Winnipeg mosquitoes were getting fat and lazy. She’d left her mom back in Winnipeg, and her dad lived in Germany and called her once a year on her birthday. Her parents were both old, in their late sixties. They’d had her late in their marriage, almost like an after-thought that they later regretted, like they’d looked around and said, “Hey everyone else has a kid, why not us, eh?” And later realized they were too old and set in their ways to tolerate the scuttle of new life in their orderly home. Frankie grew up odd, without siblings or pets or many close friends. She chose a reliable-sounding major in university and dated Brian Liu for three years until he came out as gay and, last she heard, was married to his college roommate, Julian. That was all years ago. Three years and four months ago. Water under the bridge. Frankie reached a crosswalk and stopped to stare at the dark suburban street ahead. She heard car tires crunching on snow somewhere in the distance, but here on Frankie’s street, the traffic lights changed uselessly for an empty intersection. She frowned, turning back towards home. Frankie resolved to get a cat. From the shelter. She fumbled in the dark to take out her phone, planning to search up shelters in Calgary right then, but the falling sleet fogged up the screen and she hid the phone back in her jean pocket. It was getting too cold now, no longer a pleasant shock but a jittery painful one. She made her way back to her building, back up the concrete steps to the third floor, a trail of wet footprints in her wake. She stepped out of her shoes and kicked off her damp jeans and fell on the mattress that was the focal point of her apartment. She stared up at the ceiling. Buy a real bed. She’d already looked online, but all the beds were overpriced and hard to assemble, and it had seemed easier to just keep sleeping on the mattress. She did need a sofa, maybe a dining table. The studio was small, but even so, it looked sad and bare with nothing to fill it. Decorate. Get a plant. Buy a painting. She did own a proper desk that she’d bought off Kijiji for thirty five dollars. She worked remotely, so she’d needed a desk right away. Frankie worked for the same company she’d worked for in Winnipeg, writing and proofreading copy for technical manuals. Speaking of which: Find a better job. It was the main reason behind the move. She felt like Winnipeg held no jobs for her; none that she was qualified for, anyway. Winnipeg was a city she knew, a city with old disappointments. Calgary was something with promise, more people, mountains. She’d browsed Indeed a few times since she made the move, but everything she could realistically apply for paid less than the current job that she was sick to death of. She’d be a fool to quit one easy, work-from-home gig that paid well to work in a department store or wait tables. Not that anyone would hire her as a waitress. Frankie had an awkward air around her that made people uncomfortable and disqualified her from most jobs in customer service. So scratch that last resolution. She’d keep her old job, but do better outside of work . Be a better human being. She just needed…more energy. She needed to wake up, shake herself off.

Exercise more (or start exercising). Go for brisk walks. Join a gym. Get moving. Frankie had fallen asleep with that thought pulsing at the forefront of her mind, a resolution to be active. She saw herself running and running and running, her blood thrumming in her body and her breath burning and something just a few feet away. If she could just run a little faster, a little harder, and there it would it be…


May, 1838 My Darling Geoffrey, It is my hope,

my fervent wish to finally be off,

heading to you at last. The eternal waiting for cargo is finally over with notice that our ship will be transporting granite from Maine for the completion of the Treasury Department building in Washington.

It would seem a very important cargo so the ship will be well fitted out and equipped with the latest sea going innovations.

The time and schedule is being sternly met so barring weather complications,

it should be a swift journey as sea voyages go. I have been packed for days after carefully shopping for and

deciding on dresses and bonnets that

I hope will please you.

You do know, of course, that my happiness depends totally on pleasing you!

You my darling are what fills my mind on these long days of waiting.

I walk the avenues and pace the gardens wishing time to fly by but time is what it is I’m afraid. A week from tomorrow in the pre-dawn hours a carriage will arrive to take me to the ship.

I understand the docks can be a rude place with all kinds of coarse creatures but I so long to see you and this very longing is my courage to do this thing.

My cousin Alma will never leave my side as our journey begins.

She will travel with me to Washington where she will disembark for a long visit with her parents and I will continue my journey alone but very well chaperoned with the captain making me welcome at his table and with his party each evening. Do you remember my telling you about the excitement and pride I felt on my graduation from college?

I thought I could never be more excited than the day I graduated from the Boston Female Medical School but now I think with building excitement of walking on your arm, as your wife,

as you show me and teach me all about Charlotte.

My dearest you are my heart’s very wish,

forever and ever! I do so long for and anticipate your face, your very person there at dockside as my ship arrives.

If I were a silly silly thing I might say I would swoon but I am not a silly silly thing but a woman in love. It will be a long voyage but I will write a letter to you every few days of my thoughts and how I see us together.

How I imagine our life will be!

It will make a nice tidy bundle tied up in red ribbon, for you to read on my arrival.

Love Letters From A Sea Voyage.

With intense affection, Henrietta ~~~~ Geoffrey has read and reread the only letter to arrive.

In his heart he hopes that Henrietta is as sincere and loving as she sounds.

Their engagement was very short in actual time before the need for him to travel ahead to prepare and establish a life for them as man and wife.

All has progressed nicely. He found a large stately house with extensive gardens close enough to the hustle and bustle of Charlotte city life to participate in Charlotte society but far enough from the hustle and bustle for a private time of learning about each other.

He had a true wish for them to love as a couple in every way.

He wanted a family,

sons and daughters and the comfortable life he thought Charlotte may provide.

His offices stood apart from the actual workings of the dock.

The offices were on a hillside with a view of the ocean, not far from the docks where the real business took place but in a much more genteel setting.

He imported silks and woven rugs,

fine wine and furnishings for the fine homes in Charlotte.

From this vantage point he would get the first glimpse of Henrietta’s ship as it makes it’s approach to Charlotte.

The days are passing rather quickly and he has reports from business associates and agents along the route.

He is becoming more and more nervous but really, it isn’t nerves, it is profound anticipation!

He stands at his large windows looking out to sea, his thoughts are so far away.

He has wanted to be settled for some time but it took time to build an enterprise that would support the family he imagined in his dreams.

Beautiful wife, well behaved intelligent children,

all involved in the love and harmony of family.

Now in a few days, the beginning of his dream. On the morning of Henrietta’s arrival,

he has gone over his check list dozens of times.

He again stands before the large windows,

the ship should arrive by mid morning, all is at the ready. Going to the office door, he waves for his secretary and his secretary’s secretary to please attend him.

Once in the office he begins to itemize for them, all of the preparations and then he stares at them both.

He has begun with carriage,

and goes through the whole list.

“Well?”

“What have I forgotten.” His secretary,

Mr. Andrews looks blank but Mr. Andrews secretary, Mrs. Humpreys quietly whispers….”Fresh flowers in your home.

On the tables?

Anything no matter how small that you think a woman may like,

mostly that you took the time to think about her pleasure.”

“If you would like,

I can see to it.”

“Call at your home and see if the staff is prepared.”

 And with that the day is ready except for him ….be on time...smile….appreciate her…..and I know I will.

I have wanted this for so long. Messages are flying in from agents along the route and at last, tiny as a speck the sails become visible!

The ship is under full sail with favorable winds,

the distance is cut in half and soon it is possible to make out shapes of the seamen working the ship. Geoffrey goes to the dockside so she will see him and feel reassured.

He goes for himself too as he also needs to feel that this romance is real and genuine.

His Mother, rest her soul, always said..”If you want to see the real person, observe them in turmoil or crisis, a time of discomfort or confusion,

if they can remain courteous and kind, they have a good soul!” Geoffrey waits on the dockside and his heart hopes to see a courteous,

kind and beautiful woman!