Richard ‘Dickie’ Ramsbottom fumbled with his box of matches in the dark tomb. Frustrated, he repeatedly struck a match against the side of its box, trying to get it to spark. After a few unsuccessful attempts, it finally flared into life. “AT LAST!” He gleefully exclaimed, as the match took light. Applying the flame to an improvised torch of kerosene-soaked rags wrapped around a pic-axe handle, illuminating light filled the chamber, revealing its ancient mysteries. “Behold, Carruthers,” he jubilantly shouted. “The tomb of Ramses III!” Enfield Carruthers – assistant and closest friend to Richard, stood at the entrance to the chamber in complete awe, as he studied the colourfully painted walls through the flickering shadows cast by the torch. “Fetch me some lanterns, would you, please? This torch is starting to dim.” Enfield shouted a few words in Arabic and clapped his hands to stir the group of locally hired help into action. Immediately, half-a-dozen men lit just as many kerosene lanterns. Then, in a processionary line, they entered the chamber, carefully placing the lamps at various points of the chamber. “It’s spectacular, Dickie. Treasures beyond imagination.” Amongst the stunning riches of artifacts, was a strange group of kneeling figures, laid out in a triangular shape – all frozen in what appeared to be mid-screams, hands pinned to their ears. “What do you make of these, Enfield…? I count one, two, three… nine of them.” “Curious, indeed.  Not the usual embalming methods, I would expect to see.” Inspecting the most forward body up close, Richard was surprised to see a small piece of outer material covering the body, crumble to his touch – the dust settling on the floor. “Hmm,” Richard ponderously analysed. “Quicklime and animal skin. I’d hazard a guess at goat or sheepskin covering him.” “Of course! That explains it. To the ancient Egyptians, goats and sheep were deemed impure. This appears to be a deliberate attempt of defilement. To not mummify the body in the traditional way and draping the body like this, the Egyptians believed it would render the deceased unable to enter the afterlife. The practice was widely regarded as an after-death form of punishment for something bad the deceased had done… I say, Dickie… this could very well be…” “Yes, Enfield, I believe we’ve found our Prince Pentewere.” “Gadzooks, Dickie! The Patricidal heir of Ramses III. Congratulations, dear boy! But how is he different than these other poor souls? They all look the same.” “Except, he’s at the head of the triangle. At some point, they were arranged this way in a hierarchical formation… and in an extremely fragile state. The fresh air drifting into the tomb is going to accelerate the decay, so we may have to leave everything undisturbed until we assess each body’s condition. Tell your workers we won’t need them until morning, would you, old chap? Let’s try to avoid any further disturbances to the artifacts.” Enfield spoke a few words in Arabic to the inquisitive labourers milling around the bodies. Handing out coins to each of the men, they appreciatively single-filed from the chamber, out into the fresh desert air. “It’s getting late in the afternoon, Dickie. Dusk will be upon us soon.” “Look, no point in us both being here. Why don’t you bed down for the night back at camp? I’ll sketch out the dimensions of the chamber and document the bodies before joining you for a nightcap.” “Oh… I was hoping to explore some more, but if you insist, I’ll get some despatches sent off to our investors in London.” With a smidge of envious disappointment, Enfield reluctantly exited the tomb. Although Richard was leading the expedition, he couldn’t help but resent his friend’s authority. Both had a similar educational background. Richard just had more connections in higher places. Holding a minor degree in Art, Richard could have found his calling as a portrait artist. However, his love of archaeology – specifically Ancient Egyptian archaeology, earned him his Doctorate. In the Victorian era, title was everything. For Professor Richard Ramsbottom, it provided privilege, entitlement, societal memberships, access to funding, and a life filled with exotic travel. Enfield could only dream of such gifted opportunities. This was his second expedition on the coattails of Richard, and without his help, Richard may have passed the location by in his haste to find the lost tomb of Ramses III. Enfield’s topographical skills identified the tomb, so he felt that he deserved more recognition. The son of Ramses III, Prince Pentewere, was the bonus on the find. Suffering from vivid visions of the future, he had prophesised that his father’s policies would be responsible for repeated invasions, internal economic problems, and the decline of their culture. Convincing his mother, Tiye – a secondary wife of Ramses III - to be a part of the murderous plot, the king’s throat was slit while asleep in the royal harem. Although, there is no record of Queen Tiye’s punishment, Pentewere was allowed to take his own life, and was last seen alive, entering the tomb clutching a large rectangular amulet dangling from his neck. “What do we have here?” With the tip of his fountain pen, Richard curiously picked at some loose material under Pentewere’s chin. After a few careful pokes at it, something loose slipped down through the mummified corpse’s grasping hands and onto the dusty floor. Immediately retrieving it, Richard excitedly cleaned the rectangular board to reveal a green oval translucent stone embedded in the wood – a gold circular chain hanging loose at one end. Turning the paddle over, Richard noticed a set of shallow hieroglyphic writings engraved into its back. “What have you been hiding in your hands all these centuries…? I think my erudite skills in cursive hieroglyphs is about to come in handy.” Using his sketchpad, Richard deciphered the ancient text into English. The meaning of its translation continued to perplex him long after the sun had set and a full moon had risen, and as he sat against one of the majestically painted walls, he repeatedly recited the passage in the expectation that through repetition, an answer would materialise. “ Between the palms, the past is now,” he repeated. “…Around the head, a future grows, But beware, what is a head must remain, lest your body be bound in eternal pain ….” Alone in a tomb of Egyptian dead had no worrying effect on Richard. He had spent many a night in similar surroundings mapping out sarcophagi, artifacts, and decrypting wall drawings without superstitious fear overtaking his senses. To him, a tomb was as welcoming as his own warm study at home; however, the repetition of words sent a small, unexpected cold shiver through him. “I see no drawings of palm trees in here, and there are none for miles outside,” he introspectively determined. “ Between the palms… Between… ” While cradling the paddle and stone in his right hand, Richard closed his eyes to concentrate, inadvertently clasping the stone between both hands. Like a sudden onrush of blood to the head, an immediate vibrating sensation jolted his eyes open. To his shocked surprise, the room was filled with a luminous projection of moving images. Quickly realising he had suddenly and wondrously become a voyeur of recognisable and historical events, Richard watched in amazement at the history of Earth playing out before him; however, it appeared more than two-dimensional in presentation. Holographic in dimensions, the display portrayed dinosaurs roaming freely over open plains. Captivating images presented themselves to Richard in living multi-dimensional colour.  Sounds, smells, hot and cold sensations plundered his body – immersing him into a oneness with life and the universe. He studied with interest, the extinction level event of numerous active volcanoes, spewing their ash into Earth’s atmosphere. What followed was a period of elongated night, then a fifty-thousand-year ice age. Standing up to further submerge himself into the realistic scenery, he accidentally loosened his grip on the amulet, causing the projection to cease its performance. Taking a moment to recover from a virtual reality induced feeling of seasickness, Richard focussed on the tomb of Ramses III, speculating what other secrets it held. However, his mind – which had been feverishly and subconsciously working on interpreting the inscription, sprung into life. “Palms!... Hands! Between the hands the past is now … Zookers, that’s it! This strange and fantastic stone somehow holds the secret to time travel… This is sensational! Those doubters at the Glyph Society will be green with envy when I show them this. Enfield! My good friend must see this… Wait! I’m getting carried away by this alluring magic. I need to keep my scientist head clear and explore further.” Unable to resist the allure of the intoxicating amulet, Richard tightly grasped the stone, as an irresistible compulsion to explore its mysteries overcame him. To him, the experience had thrilled him like nothing before. He wanted to soar high as a bird in the sky, like an unmolested eyewitness to history, and immerse himself undetected amongst the creatures and events that once marched relentlessly through millennia. Richard’s second voyage through time, moved at a faster rate. The dawn of Man, the birth of civilisations, conflict, and death, all performed their rites of passage before him in microseconds, his journey only slowing to demonstrate the build-up to the murder of Ramses III. There, the vision showed how Prince Pentewere discovered the amulet in a secret tomb, and like Richard’s mesmerised reaction to the fantastic experience, so too had Prince Pentewere marvelled at its spectacle. However, when Pentewere subsequently placed the amulet around his neck, he was incensed at what he saw, and immediately decided o alter the prophecy that showed the decline of his peoples’ civilisation. By murdering his father, he was convinced he could save his heritage, but the amulet continued to present a future without him in it. The foreboding forecast was gravely realised after his murder trial, when Pentewere disappeared into the very tomb Richard now stood in – never to be seen alive again. Realising it may have a dangerous dark side, Richard once more released his grip on the stone to re-read the inscription. “ Around the head, a future grows, But beware, what is a head must remain, lest your body be bound in eternal pain… What does that mean? What is a head, must remain ? None of these bodies are missing their heads – although their screaming demeanour depicts a less than peaceful passing from this life… Lest your body be bound in eternal pain . Whatever these poor chaps did, they certainly look troubled in the afterlife…” “Dickie, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Startled by the interruption, Richard turned to see his evidently inebriated friend Enfield, standing lopsided against the doorway to the tomb. “Enfield, dear chap. You surprised me. You’ll never believe…” “Almost finished this bottle of Port while waiting for you,” he interrupted. “Thought you might have dozed off or something, so I’ve come to fetch you back for a celebratory drink to toast our marvellous discovery.” “What impeccable timing, Enfield. I need to show you something I’ve found. Something amazing.” Proceeding to explain his discovery, the encrypted text, and the immersive imagery, Richard demonstrated the stone’s ethereal qualities. Starting where it had left off, holographic projections displayed the rise and fall of empires, the creation of new technologies, medicines, and the discovery of the Rosetta stone that helped to decode hieroglyphics - like those on the back of the amulet. Nearing present time, the projections once again began to slow down their speed of display. Both men watched in total amazement at the playback of the discovery that led them both to this moment. This was truly a remarkable find, and as the projection dimmed then stopped, Enfield found himself desiring more. “What of the remaining inscription?” “Yes, I’ve had a little time to analyse that, and I’m convinced the text has an interesting form of an ancient typo.” “Typo? I’m not familiar with that vernacular.” “Sorry, Enfield. A typographical error in the writing. I’d say that whoever wrote this, lacked certain fundamental language skills. How does one correct something incorrectly engraved without bringing it to the attention of one’s masters? The answer is… one doesn’t. One just ignores it in the hope it’s never discovered.” “Sort of like a shy chamber maid not wanting to lose her position after breaking some crockery…” “Similar, except this unfortunate maid would have been more fearful of losing her life. You see, in this case ‘ A head’ is a typo for Ahead . What is ‘ ahead’ must remain.” “What the Dickens does all this mean?” “My dear Enfield, don’t you see? Between the palms showed us the past. Around the head, a future grows . That can only mean when worn around the neck, the amulet presents what is to come… the future! What lies ahead, must remain is a warning to not meddle with the future, but to let it pass unmolested. Knowing what lies ahead , may tempt those with that knowledge to try to change fate’s course. The consequences of corrupting the future could be extremely severe.” “Do you think old Pentewere here paid that price, or do you think his deadly deed brought on the consequence?” “Whatever the answer, we must treat the warning with utmost respect.” “I want to see it… I want to see what is to come… There’s no harm in knowing, is there, Dickie?” Richard took a moment to think of all or any ramifications possession of futuristic knowledge may bring. However, equally as curious, he shrugged his shoulders, and with a gesture of his outstretched hand, invited Enfield to proceed. “Thank you, Dickie dear boy. All aboard the future express, wot?” Carefully, placing the amulet over his head, Enfield rested it dangling around his neck. Immediately, the multi-dimensional projection picked up where it had left off. Both men silently watched as the moving images crawled through the visionary future. They viewed Richard presenting their find to the institute of Archaeology, followed the fanfare that accompanied them across the world as they attended conferences on the amulet, and witnessed the knighthood and accolades bestowed solely upon Richard, while Enfield slowly faded into the background. Universities, libraries, and streets were named after Richard Ramsbottom, while Enfield Carruthers became the forgotten man - rapidly plunging into the depths of self-pity and binge drinking sessions, before finally dying a pauper in a back alley of London’s newest museum, The Ramsbottom Museum of Modern Archaeology . “I don’t believe it!” Enfield’s protest was followed by him ripping the amulet from his neck and throwing it to the floor, where it disappeared under several layers of thick sand. “Steady on, dear boy,” said Richard trying to calm his friend. “I wouldn’t let that happen to you.” “You saw our future. The amulet categorically states it mustn’t be changed.” Feeling the effects of excess alcohol consumption, Enfield started to swoon. Seeing this, Richard went to his aid, but in a petulant fit of alcohol-fuelled temper, Enfield reacted in a fiery rage. Grabbing Richard’s shirt, he pushed him backwards, propelling him against the jagged edge of a wall. The crunching sound sickened Enfield to his core, but there was nothing he could do. As Richard slowly fell face-first onto the dusty floor, his eyes glazed over in a deathly stare, while Enfield helplessly looked at the dust cloud rising to meet him. Confused as to what he should do, he momentarily thought of calling for help, but hesitated as a domineering impulsive desire flashed through his confused state of mind. As ego and ambition took hold, greed inevitably consumed him, “What will be my future now?” He mused. “Will I be lauded as the discoverer of the eighth wonder of the world…? Let’s see, shall we?” Rummaging through the sand, he retrieved the amulet. Fixing the broken clasp, he once more, placed it around his neck. Like a gramophone record being reset to the beginning, the projection began at the current moment, then sped through the immediate future. However, the libraries and museums carried a new name on them – Gaston Maspero . “Who is that…? Where is my name…? I don’t see me anywhere in all of this?” Noticeably missing from this version, was any indication of Enfield’s own future. It was as if he had none. It was then that Enfield caught a glimpse of an inscription above the doorway. Indecipherable, it strangely appeared to him as legible. Pulling his spectacles from his breast pocket, he read it out loud. “ What is discovered brings knowledge. What is repeated brings darkness,” he recited. “What’s been repeated…? My God! Pentewere!” Without warning, Enfield’s legs buckled from under him, forcing him to his knees, as a high-pitched sound started to blast his eardrums out from his skull – all the while, a rumbling vibration began to loosen the sand above the doorway. Reacting to the pain, he tried to cradle his head with his hands, forcing his mouth to widen - agape in agony. Hideously frozen in place, his dimming eyesight remained fixed on the doorway’s inscription, while tons of sand filled the entrance to the tomb, blocking any escape. In the final few moments of consciousness, reflections of how the amulet had lain dormant for millennia waiting for the next opportunist, consumed his every thought. The nine bodies he now mimicked in pose, must have at other points in time, tried to change the future and ultimately paid the agonising price. The tenth victim questioned who the eleventh wearer of the amulet would be, but the answer would never befall him. As Enfield’s screaming expression of pain spread across his tortured face, his body gradually metamorphosed into a crusty, dried-out sandy shell beyond any methods of formal identification. Shielded by his dusty carcass, the amulet hung innocently around his neck, an inviting combination of gift and curse for all scholars of futurology to avoid at all costs. As it's only human to want to change the world, avoidance would undoubtedly be futile…


The second she left that town she knew there was no going back. she took a steady breath in and kept on walking. the second she got off the bus she left in a sprint, hastily trying to avoid anyone she might've known, but it had been an hour and that determination she had fizzled out. she was tired and food deprived.

Do I really have time to rest? "Isn't it a bit late for someone as young as you to be out?" the girl turned to face a slightly older man dressed in loose jeans and a black hoodie. "I dunno. is it?" she hadn't meant for it to come out so rudely but her patience was wearing thin. he held his hands up in surrender and stood up straight. "I was just concerned lady." "I'm sure you were"

well... she had sarcasm on her side if nothing else, that was certain.

"there is a motel down the road." she stared at him blankly. "did I ask?" a rhetorical question.  one of the best kind of questions.

was she really going to listen to some half drunk stranger on the side of the road?

well... why not.  her head hung low as she paced herself trying to find this, so called, motel that the stranger had mentioned. After what felt like hours, but were actually a couple of minutes, she stumbled upon a bright glowing sign with the word motel written in the

most tacky font.

well no surprise there.

The girl looked around the, well lit, lobby and at the old man who stood behind the counter. "Welcome to the East Side Motel. You looking for a room?" She needed to spend her money wisely. In general she scarcely used her savings but now was when it really mattered. she needed to survive on this until she got far enough away and could actually get a job.

"one night, please" that would be enough. she could get start walking again when the sun rises.

the man brought her to a small homely room fit for one person.  it could've been worse.

she sat her bag down and collapsed into the bed. never had she been this exhausted. she ran the most recent events through her head as she tried to remain sane. The drugs. The gangs. The decision that she made had caused this. she had no one to blame but herself.

the next morning she freshened up using the miniscule bathroom in her motel room. It wasn't a problem for her. She was used to living on nothing.

as she left she took in the fresh air, enjoying the breeze. "fancy seeing you here"

she looked over her shoulder to see the same stranger from the night before leaning against the wall of the motel. she could see him clearly now. he had bright blue eyes and curly golden locks. he wore a smirk that made his dimples stand out.

its like they were mocking her. "forgive me if I'm wrong but wasn't it you who mentioned this place" keeping that same condescending tone, she said "what is it going to take for you to leave a poor girl alone, stalker" he chuckled. "Stalker?" he slowly made his way over to her. "Don't flatter yourself. my grandad owns this place ,sweetheart. I'd be careful who you called 'stalker' around these parts."

"well. better safe then sorry."

he ran a hand through his hair. "We started off on the wrong foot. I'm Alec. My grandad owns the place you just stayed in and he wants to take me under his wing." "I don't remember asking?" "Feisty. I like it. come one, sweetheart, what's your story?" "What's it matter to you" "Come on. feed my curiosity" why is he persistent? is it really that boring here?

"I'm moving. Just needed change"  in her defense, it wasn't a complete lie . "That's what everyone says.

change . its merely an excuse to people. I've found that they're always running away from something or someone" she stared at the ground, struggling to find words. "or maybe I'm wrong" "yeah maybe" "I never caught your name." "that because I never threw it" "fine. Be that way. Sweetheart suits you anyways." she gave out a small laugh as she started up at him.

Before today she had thought he looked older then her but now in the sunlight, his boyish smile and aggravating dimples made her question if she was wrong.

"you said your grandad was going to take you under his wing, right?"

why was she so intrigued

"yeah he thinks that I should have my life together at 17. A bit much if you ask me." "So your 17?" he nodded. "what about you? or is that to personal for you to answer" she could hear the sarcastic tone roll off his tongue. rolling her eyes, she answered "I'm also 17" "so I get to know your age but not your name?"

"names are too personal. You can find out a lot about them from small details like that" "seems like you know a lot about that." "I know first hand" she could see that he wanted to press further but decided against it.

"So where you moving to?"

"I don't know yet if I'm being honest" "A journey without destination. That sounds riveting and it also sounds like you are running away" "At the end of the day everyone is running away from something. I'm just taking bigger actions, following my gut" "Must be something real bad if your 'big actions' means you can't even stay in the vicinity of your home. What about your family?" "don't have any" Alec couldn't find the words to what she had just said. Instead he put his arms around her and gave one of  the most awkward hugs she'd ever had.

"what are you doing?" "hugging you, obviously" "well can you stop." a slight sigh left her lips as she saw the bus pull up.

"it was nice meeting you Alec. Maybe one day we will see each other again" "I think I'd like that." She walked up to the open door. "see you later sweetheart" For one final moment she turned back to Alec. "Aspen" he looked at her in confusion. "My name" she turned to walk on the bus. "its Aspen"


My Papah says America will be good. He says it will take care of us. He says the city has better opportunities and we will have more food. He wanted me to go to a school and have a chance at a better life. Many people from our settlement had travelled to America and made a life there. Papah was confident we would thrive there as well. Just the night before I had heard him tell Mummah, "You worry too much. Look at Nico. He is settled in America, he has a place of his own. He works at the docks but thats a steady income. I can't let Lily grow up here. What future does she have. She will either labour or be sold." Mummah had sighed and finally agreed to his plan. I, however, wanted to stay here. Though under provided, we still had a home. I knew every corner of our suburb and America just sounded too scary. But Papah had made up his mind, so me, Mummah and Papah packed our lives and decided to board a boat. I took my stuffed girraffe to Papah. "Papah you think Lilo will get into America?" Papah laughed and caressed my hair like he always does. "Well we will have to sneak him in then." It brightened up my ten year old soul. Atleast I was carrying my favorite toy with me. "Papah how big is America." "Its huge enough to fit a hundred thousand people," Papah said. "Papah will there be children to play with." "Many." "Will we have a house like this." "A better one." "Will..." but before I could finish my next question, Papah interrupted. "Now now Lily will you ask all in one go. Maybe once you are in America you can see for yourself." With that he urged me to pack my things. We packed as many things we could. Mummah packed her clothes, two scarves and a little rice. Papah packed his weaving spindle. I took my favorite frock and Lilo. To think of it, we did not have much to pack. Yet it felt like we were leaving so much behind. Our hut was one of many. The weaving factory had shut down and my father had failed to find a new place to work. But then there wasn't much work either. You either worked at the cloth mill or you the cannabis farms. So like any poverty stricken family in a third world country, my father too had an american dream. A dream to make ends meet. A dream to have a plate full of food. Taking our meagre belongings, we lined up at the dock to board the boat of destiny. There were many people, young and old, clutching their lives wrapped in a bundle, hoping there will be a better place for them. Each face brimming with anxiety of a future untold. Among this crowd was my friend Norm, waiting for the boat,with his parents. "Lily!" his voice first vague, grew loud over the din of the dock, as he ran towards me. He smacked my back. "Hey, you too going to America." I looked back at the road that lead to our hutments. "Yeah." "Well it will be good to know someone in America. Will you come visit? I wonder how it is in America. My papah says they have big houses and fast cars. We will have food to eat...." I do not recollect the point at which I tuned out. He was excited, I wasn't. I couldn't imagine a world away from my home. My swing, my school, my friends, I was leaving it all behind. "so what do you think?" Norm questioned. "About what?" "About my new shirt." "Am sure it must be good." Just then my father called out and I sprinted to take my place in the queue. The boat docked in and people started clambering to claim their place. I didn't feel so confident. I hesitated and my father looked down. "Lily come on." "Papah that boat looks very small, how will we all fit? I think we should wait for the next boat." Papah knelt beside me and sighed. "There is no second boat. We either board this or we are left behind." With wide eyes I clutched his hands. He carresed my hair and said, "I will hold you, come lets go." My Mummah had already boarded the boat and me and Pappah squeezed ourselves in. At the very moment we heard the sailor call, "No more, the boat is full. Lift the anchor." We sailed through the night quietly. The sailors warned us of soldiers who would shoot us if we so much as squeaked. I clung to my Papah's chest. It felt safer than the rocking boat. No one dared to sleep. As the sky got lighter and the sunrays touched the horizon, we saw the shoreline. America Alas! I thought. The people on board began to hustle. The sailor begged them to wait till he anchored the boat but no one listened. Panic gave rise to chaos and our boat rocked hard before it capsized. People were flung over the edge into the dark deep water. Screams filled the twilight as people splashed to save their lives. Papah and I went face down in water. We glugged and kicked and tried to stay afloat, but the wines in the water, tangled our legs, pulling us down into its depths. "Papah, Papah." I tried to call but my words came out all garbled. In moments the fight went out of our body and Papah went under water, me clinging to his shirt. As I sank, I saw the sun shining, sparkling the water over our heads. The painful burn in my lungs increased as I gasped for breath. No one heard us, no one saved us. As the water grew deeper,I realised, there was no America for us. There was no Mexico. There was no place that meant life. There was no home to go to.


“Today is the day I change” I looked for any reaction from my one person audience but Rian barely even moved, her nose remained firmly buried in her book. “Are you even listening to me?” I asked her. “Nope” I deflated a bit but I couldn’t blame her. I had said it over a million times but saying was the easy part. I actually had to do something about it. And that was the difficult part. “You know maybe a little positivity would go a long way. How does anyone expect me to change if my closest friend doesn’t even think I can?” Rian sighed. “Would that make you leave me alone?” I shrugged. She finally dropped her book and stood. I sat up in my chair wondering what she would do. To be honest, I had not expected her to do anything. Rian and I had been best friends since we were children and she was a lot of things, but positive was not one of them. Not to say she was always a Debby Downer but I had only seen her put effort into encouraging someone once. Her effort had failed miserably. I was the effort that failed miserably. I watched her as she brought her hands up to her cheeks and pressed them into a weird imitation of a smile and her voice suddenly went up a pitch as she spoke. “Sean. You’re my bestest friend in the whole world and I’m so happy that you’ve finally decided to quit drinking.” At this point, her smile was stretched wide and her eyes closed while her hands waved at her sides like she was an anime character doing a bit. Then she ended it with two thumbs up. “I always believed in you Sean” I was speechless. I watched with my jaws on my chest as she sat down, picked her book and continued reading like nothing had happened. “What the heck was that?” Surprisingly, I wasn’t the one who asked the question. I turned to see my other friend, Jasper standing at the doorway with three boxes of pizza balanced on one hand and a six-pack on the other. I shook my head and turned back to Rian, but she was back to ignoring me. “Sean. What the heck was that?” Jasper asked dropping the beer and the pizza on the table. “I’m gone for two minutes and you guys have gone full freak on me?” “Dude, I have no idea what the hell just happened.” I was just as confused….. actually, more confused than he was. Seeing as neither of us had any answers, we turned to the one person who would. She didn’t even pay us any attention. “Come on, Ri. You’ve got to explain that” Jasper pushed when she ignored our stares. “I don’t want to.” Rian said simply. She reached over and grabbed a pizza slice from one of the boxes Jasper had brought in. “How did you guys even get to that?” Jasper asked. “cuz I’ve been running calculations and I just don’t understand how you guys got to ….that in your conversation” I shrugged as I grabbed a slice. Jasper handed me a bottle of beer while looking at me expectantly awaiting the story. I looked to Rian and she was actually listening. “I’m gonna quit drinking.” Jasper laughed. “Yeah right” “I’m serious. I’m gonna quit. I’m gonna change my life. Be a good person.” I’d actually been thinking about it for a while. When my ex-girlfriend, Janice, broke up with me, I’d retreated into the bottle. Within a span of two years, I became an alcoholic. I lost my job. I lost the respect of my peers. I lost my own self-respect. “Just like that?” Jasper asked. “Yeah” Jasper and Rian shared a look. I didn’t understand what was being communicated but clearly it was about me. I hated when people spoke about me behind my back and they both knew it, so they were probably doing it to annoy me. “What is it?” “Nothing” Jasper shrugged, taking a swig from his bottle. I snatched the bottle from his hands. “Tell me” He looked at Rian again. “Look it’s just…. We’ve been here before.” “What do you mean?” “Remember when we held that intervention after you crashed your car?” I flinched. I did remember. That was the only time I’d ever heard Rian give a speech; an inspiring one at that. I also remembered the promise I made them – to stop drinking. Most importantly, I remember breaking the promise the next night when I got into a drunken fight with Rian’s fiancé. They’d broken up that night after Rian got into a shouting match with him. He asked her to pick between us. She picked me. “Look, Sean. We really want you to change as well. But the thing is you’re never willing to put the work. Change isn’t automatic. It’s a process. You’ve got to actually want to change if not…” He shrugged. “You’re wasting everyone’s time” “That’s harsh.” I said quietly. “I’m sorry man. It’s the truth” I looked at Rian. She was always in my corner. We made that promise when we were young – Rian and Sean against the world. “Do you agree?” She looked away from me. “I’m always with you Sean. But I don’t think I have the strength to even try again if you’re not going to go through with it” I hadn’t realized how much I’d been hurting her or those closest to me. Suddenly it all made sense. Why they were always around even when they didn’t need to be. Why Rian hadn’t been on a date for over seven months. Why Jasper was always the one to get the beer. They were trying to make sure I wasn’t passed out drunk on the rails outside of town again (That only happened once. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life) Right there, I made a decision. I grabbed the bottle of beer Jasper had handed me earlier and walked to the kitchen. I could hear Rian and Jasper following me. I stopped at the sink and poured out the entire content of the bottle into the sink. I turned back to see their surprised faces. “I’m serious this time. I’m done being a liability. I want to change. No, I need to change” “It ain’t gonna be easy Sean. You’ll have to join AA sessions. Avoid bottles for the rest of your life. It’s gonna be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Are you sure you’re ready for it?” I nodded. “Sign me up” “Okay” Jasper said with a smile. I was proud of myself for making the decision but what made it all better was Rian’s smile. She hadn’t smiled like that in a while.


The rounded corner of the clipboard hit the white tile first. It bounced, tilted, and repeated on the opposite corner. The back of the clipboard then slammed into the floor and audibly shook the metal bar as it landed.

“I’m so sorry,” Heather blurted out as the dropped item echoed throughout the barren room. She pressed her lips together in immediate regret, but then kept talking. “And now I’ve spoken. I’m sorry for that too. And that I’m still talking.” STOP TALKING. Stop making noise.

Heather inhaled through her nose. The receptionist smiled without showing her teeth. It was a kind gesture. It signaled that Heather was not the first guest at Spring Hill Retreat to break the first rule: silence.

Heather had signed up for the retreat’s mini session. It was a chance to experience the feeling of complete silence, but only for two days. Attendees were given instructions on how to arrive silent and stay that way for the entire 48 hours. Each person got two t-shirts upon arrival. They had their name printed on the front and back as if they were on a sporting team. When she’d read the brochure, Heather thought it was somewhat odd to share the names. They wouldn’t be able to say them, but it would be stranger to not know anyone’s names at all. The Jersey style shirts seemed like a fair compromise.

Heather retrieved the clipboard from the floor and located her name on the list. There were only seven guests so she did not have to do a deep search for her name. She added an X to the box next to her name, scribbled her signature on the line, and handed it back to the receptionist.

She dropped the pen back into the cup. The clang of the tip as it hit the bottom made of metal again echoed throughout the room. Heather squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. This would be a long two days. She could feel the glare of the older man sitting against the wall.

BE QUIET .

The brochure had listed dozens of reasons to attend the silent weekend. Stress, drama, mental health, all the usual suspects were reasons. They were obvious choices to step away and hear your own thoughts. But in Heather’s case, she had her own list of reasons to want to get away from it all. Her job was a dead end. She had left a role that could have been a career for the start-up company. The start up finally gave her a reason for her monthly student loan payment that ate up half her salary.

Heather’s relationship with Drew had come to a screeching halt when he decided that Alexis was more fun. When he announced he had met someone else, Heather felt nothing, to her surprise. After six years of dating, she didn’t shed a tear. She responded to Drew with “Okay, I think most of the suitcases are yours anyway.” Her emotional response didn’t increase as they unraveled their lives from each other. Drew and Alexis didn’t bring her happiness or unhappiness. They existed in the same world. Heather kept their apartment and transferred the deed into her name. If she had the energy to open the burgundy curtains, the view of the lake was nice, especially in the mornings. The location of the apartment gave an unobstructed view and she couldn’t see any neighbors. Most of the time, Heather left the curtains drawn. The promise that they’d never know they had neighbors from their realtor had been true. In six years, they had never heard their neighbors. No loud bass, no fights, no barking.

The receptionist motioned that she would be right back after she clicked on Heather’s name on her iPad. She was going to retrieve Heather’s shirts and her welcome-please-shut-up package. All the attendees got sound-reduction items for the common areas. Slippers with soft bottoms that resembled grippy socks. Linen pants to avoid whooshing sounds. Toiletries were in silicone containers with matching silicone baskets. If you needed a specific product, advance notice was okay. The staff would fill a rubber bottle with your requested product. But the general idea was to use what you get for the two days, as appearance was not the highlight of the weekend.

There were no snack wrappers, aluminum foil, or crunchy food throughout the premises. The welcome basket included soft snacks. They were in more silicone or wrapped in wax-lined linen. The only need from the eater was that they do it with their mouth completely closed.

Heather hadn’t accounted for the stress of staying quiet, though. She had already failed within the first eight minutes of being on the property. She could feel the embarrassed sweat on the back of her neck. As she shifted her weight she could notice every sound that emitted from her clothes and breath.

The smell of Aiden’s cologne reached Heather before he did. The emptiness of the room helped with that. She breathed in the scent of patchouli and tobacco and felt a little calmer. She felt Aiden slide next to her at the counter. “I think they made the pen cup out of metal just to mess with us,” he whispered. “When I signed in, I really tossed it in there and Mr. Gumpus over there looked like he wanted me thrown out.” He nodded in the direction of the same man who had frowned at Heather.

Heather turned in surprise at the broken rule. She met Aiden’s brown eyes for the first time and felt her entire body relax. She could feel the pressure as it slid out of her chest. Her ribs felt lighter. The lump that had been in her throat for years slid away. Aiden’s face was kind but there was more to it than that. She uncontrollably grinned. “It’s cruel,” she whispered back.

Aiden’s face lit up. “Do you think they do it on purpose? Like they bet each other on how awkward they can make us feel when we get here. If I didn’t feel awkward already, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.” Heather didn’t know if it was the empty room, or the excitement over feeling alive for the first time in a long time. But the words slipped out of her heart before her brain had time to stop it.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Aiden’s lips revealed a hearty grin. She felt it too. He nodded. “Let’s go make some noise.”


To my darling, nameless girl - you won't remain nameless for long, I promise. I had planned to name you Harper, but after holding you, I knew it was wrong. I thought about Camille, or Diana, or Lyla, but none of them seemed right either. Give me a bit more time. I'll find something very soon. Happy birthday, sweet one.

With love,

Mom Eleanor stares at the computer screen. The letter is the first of nine hundred and thirty-six emails. This is the first time she has opened any of them. It is daunting - reading through these one at a time. She's tempted to skip to the most recent - or shut the laptop altogether - but instead, she moves her mouse up and clicks the next one. To my sweet firstborn - you may be wondering what this is. Well, this is your eighteenth birthday present! I made this email address specifically for you and plan to write to it whenever I can. It's like an electronic scrapbook! Look, I even put photos in! The first one is right after you were born. The second is you with grandpa, and the third is you just being cute. I have yet to pick out your name. Soon, though. It'll be perfect.

With love, Mom The photos adorning the bottom of the screen are truly horrendous quality. Despite the pixelated and unfocused mess of colors, Eleanor still smiles, making out a young woman grinning deliriously into the camera with a tiny baby in her arms. The second one was a little clearer, an old man staring down at the baby with absolute wonder as he sat in a plastic hospital chair. And the third... The third is the clearest. The one clearly taken with the most care now that the chaos of afterbirth had been settled and all that was left was this tiny human studying its new world for the first time.

Eleanor moves back out of the email, hovering over the third before scrolling up a bit higher. She isn't sure which this is - perhaps the ninetieth email written? Ninety-first? Eleanor clicks it, and is greeted by a photo of a toddler covered in green cake.

I do not understand the fascination with frogs,  was the first thing written, and Eleanor bursts into laughter. She had forgotten that the frogs were such a long phase of her life.

I'm not sure I can ever fully forgive you for 'ribbet' being your first word instead of 'mama,' but I suppose watching you smash your face into a green cake as you screamed it repeatedly does soften the sting. We've set up an aquarium for your birthday and filled it with three frogs. You've stared at it for three hours now. Your grandfather says it isn't normal to stare at something so long, but I've been watching you watch the frogs for three hours now, and it doesn't feel odd. I guess that's just what happens when you love something.

Happy birthday, little frog.

With love,

Mom There are more. So many more. Eleanor reads one after another, torn between savoring each word and gluttonously stuffing every letter into her mind. She reads just one more - then two. Then eight. And suddenly, time zips by, and she is no longer in the toddler section but reading about a nine-year-old who wore superhero costumes and got stuck in trees.

I won't lie to you, little frog. Things are getting harder around here. You don't seem to notice. I'm glad. You're always so ready to see the best in everything. You don't ask why we have less food. You just say it's yummy. You don't cry about not getting more toys. You just make your own out of paper and crayons. I wish I could give you so much more. I thought I could handle this by myself - but maybe I should give you to your grandfather for a little while. Just until I get back on my feet. I need a job, and you need someone who smiles at you more.

If you don't understand now… please understand as you read this. I don't want to be away from you. I don't. It's just for a little while. I promise.

The next letter is sent a month later. No job yet! But soon. Your grandfather sends me pictures of you every day. I miss you. And then a week later. Nothing. Weren't they saying there was a worker shortage? It certainly doesn't feel like it… And then a day.

Nothing. Another day. Nothing.

One more.

Nothing . And then… nothing. No letters came for weeks. Eleanor kneads a hand over her forehead, coaxing away the rising tension in her temples. By her feet, there is a low whimper, and she looks down to see a pair of labrador eyes peering up at her with a pitiful look. Smiling, she bends down and kisses his nose, grabbing a treat from a container and watching in wry amusement as the dog snatches it away - the sad moaning and groaning gone.

Shaking her head, Eleanor opens the next email. I've done something awful, little frog. I only write you this because you'll be eighteen when you read it, and you should know what kind of person your mother is. I was interviewing for a job - yes, another - and a woman came into the waiting room... Interviewing for the same job. I realized it was between her and me. She was a nice woman. She has a son. He's around your age and likes racecars, apparently. She said she would take him to a race down in Florida if she got the job. She didn't get the job. I told her I was interviewing for something else and that she was in the wrong room - and when I went to interview, I told them she ran out. It was a terrible thing to do. I won't do something that awful again. I promise. But what matters is you get to come home now. I'll see you soon, little frog.

With love,

Mom From outside the window Eleanor is next to, there's laughter. Children are racing down the street, and a man yells at them to slow down as he chases after them. Eleanor grabs the curtain - thinking she might close it - before letting her hand fall away.

The next letter is dated a few months later. I stole something today. You would think a job would pay you enough for both rent and food, but it feels like we have to choose every week. It was just some frozen peas. I'm sure nobody noticed… but I've decided not to tell you that stealing is wrong. Sometimes, little frog, we need to do things to survive. It is only wrong if we take out of greed. Not out of need.

And a few months later. You said you hated me today. It's normal, I think. You're angry I left you and then took you away from your grandfather into an ugly apartment with stale food and one bed. I still kept your aquarium. There are four frogs in it now, but you never seem to look anymore. I still watch you, at least. I hate how fast you're growing up. I hate how it isn't fast enough for you.

It'll get better. Soon. I'm going to try and get you something nice for your birthday.

With love, Mom It gets harder to read. More stealing. More fighting. The letters get shorter. Angrier. Eleanor flinches when she opens the next one. I broke your aquarium today. I'm not entirely sure what happened. They say thirteen-year-olds are hard, but I never expected a hard life on top of it. I was just… angry. Angry that you forgot about that school project, and it was so late, and that we didn't have the money to get what you needed, and then you got upset, and I got upset, and I am so, so, so sorry. I tried apologizing, but all you did was pick up the broken glass.

I tried to help. You just got more upset, so I made dinner instead. It hurts, a little, seeing you cry as you try to put leaves and rocks into a shoebox for your frogs. I hadn't realized you still liked them.

I'm sorry, Davina. We'll get this figured out.

With love,

Mom A knock thuds through the house. Eleanor jumps, swearing loudly as she closes the laptop and gets up. Another knock comes - nudging the melancholy into irritation as she marches down the stairs, passing a large aquarium and framed photos to get to the front door. The dog barks belatedly but makes no move to get to the front door. Eleanor glances out the window and sighs. "Dad," she says once she pulls open the door. The man turns, having been waving at some neighbors, before smiling at her. "What are you doing here?" "And hello to you too, Eleanor," he says, tipping an imaginary hat. Eleanor scowls, and the wry attempt at humor fades. "It's Davina's eighteenth birthday," her father says, voice softening. "I didn't think you should be alone." She had half a mind to slam the door in his face.

Unfortunately, her father had already walked by her into the house. Eleanor closed the front door, letting her forehead rest against the wood for a moment before taking a deep breath and glancing over her shoulder to where her father was waiting for her. His hair had gotten whiter since she'd last seen him. The wrinkles on his face were deepening, but his health seemed strong, and his mind sound as he slipped into the kitchen. "I was hoping to be alone today," Eleanor admits, running a finger over the granite countertops. Her father ignores the comment, flipping on the espresso machine and grabbing two mugs. "Dad." "To do what? Read emails?" Eleanor didn't answer. Someone had to read them, she thought. "You shouldn't do that to yourself."

"They're memories." Her voice grows a little distant as she says the words, sitting on one of the counter stools. She stares at the frog mug her father had taken out and then pinches the bridge of her nose. "Two years," she says, a little numbly. There is a whirring from the espresso machine. "I just needed two more years, and she could have had all of this." "...an espresso machine?" her father asks dryly, but Eleanor is positive he knows what she means. "I live in a two-story house with three televisions, wood flooring, and a backyard that I don't know what to do with." Her father hands her a mug, steam rising from the cup. Eleanor just stares at it. "And I still can't seem to burn through this money." "You should be proud of yourself, El. You pulled yourself up-" "I wasn't able to give her any of this," Eleanor says. She's holding the espresso but not drinking it, instead using the mug to keep her hands warm, praying the glass burns her as she clenches it tighter. "I think every day of things I wanted her to have. Food, her own bed, private school, nice clothes…" she trails off and forces herself to try and at least taste the drink her father had made her.

"You were a good mother, Eleanor." Her father places his own mug to the side to look at her. "Davina loved you very much." Outliving your child leaves one contemplative of the what-ifs. So often, you wonder what kind of person they would have turned into if they had lived long enough. Then there were other times when you dared to wonder what they might think of you if they lived long enough to see how you've changed.

"I told her in those emails that I wanted to be honest with her about who I was… but I didn't put even half of the truth in there," Eleanor admits. There's a clink as she puts her cup down. "I mugged a woman in the park once to get her a birthday present. When she was living with you, I got arrested. Twice. I never even mentioned her father," she breathes out and places her thumbs to her forehead.

A silence settles over them. It was strange - to read a version of herself that only Davina knew and that time had altered. It felt so far removed from who and what she was now… Like her daughter had perhaps not even known her at all. Her father reached over, lightly pulling her hand away from her face. Eleanor blinks back the tears, taking a slow breath.

"I could have gotten her a car with all the money I have now," she murmurs, and her father sighs, squeezing her hand tightly. "A safe one. Then she wouldn't have ridden with Carly that day, or-"

Her eyes drift to three sealed bottles of wine. They were gifted to her over the holidays from work or as a housewarming gift from strangers who were unaware of her distaste for drinking. A newer development, spurred by the drunk driver who had hit her daughter and her friend. He was alive somewhere. In some jail Eleanor didn't bother to look up even though she had been told several times. She didn't care. "I'm going to read," she decides, slipping from her father's grasp. She got up, leaving the coffee to grow cold on the counter as she grabbed her laptop from upstairs. This time, she takes it to the living room, curling up on the couch. She can hear her father still in the kitchen but ignores him as she clicks the next email. Davina - We tried pecan pie today. It's bizarre to live your entire life not realizing you've missed out on something. I sometimes get stressed, thinking that you might miss out on things. I thought the pie was delicious. You spat it right out.

I don't know what about this makes me so happy, but it feels important to tell you about it. With love,

Mom If Eleanor still drank, she would have cracked open the wine at that one. How was this her? It had been strange to start reading the first couple of emails - the voice of a teenage girl excited to be a mother. Someone bright and loving and warm. Eleanor doesn't feel like any of those things now… but she also doesn't feel like a desperate, angry adult scraping by each day.

She wasn't sure what this era was. Change was peculiar in that if it was slow enough, then you never got to mourn what once was.

Hello again, little frog! Happy birthday! I can't believe you're sixteen already - which sounds cliché, but I mean that. You're spending the day with Carly, but we're going to the movies when you get back. I have some exciting news that I'll tell you tomorrow… I got a new job! Something fancy and corporate. I'll tell you more about it later, but I'm thinking we celebrate with a nice dinner.

With love, Mom

This was where the notes changed. Again. This is when Eleanor changed. Again. The mouse hovered over the remaining fifty emails. She remembers each of them - she had broken her computer once after pressing send.

There's no use reading them now. Eleanor doesn't want to read her grief - the begging and apologies and mourning to a cave with no echo. Shaking her head, she pulled the mouse away, figuring she's had enough for today.

Then her eye caught something to the left of the inbox. The number of remaining unread emails sat bolded near the top, but underneath was the word 'Drafts' with a 'one' beside it. Eleanor frowns, trying to remember if she has ever logged into this account before. She clicks it twice, so the email pops up in a new window.

Surprise,

the first line read.

Tis I! Allow me to explain. I was looking for my birth certificate to sign up for driver's ed in your desk, and I found this super old-looking sticky note in a plastic bag with login information. I decided to bring out my detective skills - and I found this! Please don't be mad. I know this is supposed to be for my eighteenth birthday, but I've already read through most of these. I couldn't help it. I miss you sometimes. I get why you have to work all the time, but it feels like we can go for days without talking. Maybe I'll get a job now that I'm sixteen, so we won't have to worry about bills so much.

Either way, I marked all of these as unread again. That way, when I open this up in front of you, you won't suspect a thing (we both know you'll be looking over my shoulder as I log in). But when the time is right, I'll send this, and you'll be like, 'wow, Davina's so smart and like a super secret spy.'

Or maybe at eighteen, I'll be super mature and serious and delete this because I'll be an 'adult.' Who knows? I hope I'm not too different from how I am now. You once told me that sometimes it's hard to like yourself, and it takes work for everyone to get there. There are time it feels like you have to start that work over when you change.

I hope you know I loved you the entire time we grew up together. I know I haven't always been an easy child. I did my best, and I know you did too. Hopefully, we'll help each other work out how to love ourselves for whoever we are in the future too.

Thank you for the birthday present, mom. And the eighteen years.

With love, Davina


“Mom! Mom! It changed; I swear.” I said pointing to the family portrait hanging above our mantle in the sunroom. From the couch in the den, I heard an exasperated sigh, “Honey, we have been over this, so many times. Boy who cried wolf ring a bell?” she said with her usual dismissive tone. I ran to the kitchen and tugged at her sleeve, “No but look, it’s true! Come on! Please!” Reluctantly she agreed, putting down her phone and pulling her nest of blankets off of her, all the while groaning in annoyance. I continued pulling her, to make sure she got the perfect angle of the portrait. “Ok, stand right here and just look.” The portrait hung high on the wall, four feet tall and three feet wide. An ornate picture frame resembling circular brush strokes bordered the edges. It was our family, my father, my mother, and me, posed like you would imagine a family would pose in those old Victorian style portraits, but in color. I was younger at the time, around ten or eleven, dressed in a new white dress with a red sash around my waist and shiny white shoes. I remember feeling so pretty when we sat for the artist. I was sitting in a chair with no back as my mother and father stood behind me. My mother was dressed in an elegant black evening gown. Her bright blonde hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of gold. Meanwhile my father was dressed in a black suit three-piece suit and a grey tie with white stripes. He had his hand around my mother’s waist and the other in his pocket. She gave a half-hearted attempt and stared at the painting. She shrugged her shoulders, “What? It looks like us.” I pulled her a little closer, “No see, right there. Your hand. It isn’t on my shoulder anymore.” She looked at her hand and saw it was hanging by her side behind me. “Emma, I don’t think my hand was ever on you when we sat for the guy.” My face scrunched in anger, “NO! Don’t you remember? I even asked you to move your hand when he was painting because my shoulder was getting hot.” My mother leaned down to look me in the eyes, “First off, don’t you raise your voice at me. Second, you just answered your own question. I probably moved it and then the guy just left it like that.” “Are we done?” she said beginning to walk back to the couch. I continued to observe the painting, lost in thought. “Was she right? Was the hand there before? No, I clearly remember seeing the hand on my shoulder in the painting before. It even showed my mom’s perfect nails. No, something is going on here. I let the matter go for now, mainly because I got incredibly bored sitting in the sunroom and looking at the same picture for hours on end. The painting did not change and after a couple of days, my father finally came home from his business trip to London. He was a Claims Adjuster for one of the largest insurance companies in California, so his job required him to travel a lot. I didn’t mind it too much. He was usually only gone for a couple days, and he always managed to bring back some kind of trinket for me and something sweet for mom, usually a dessert. I told him about the portrait in the sunroom changing and he waved it off as a trick of the light from the sunroom windows. “Maybe I was seeing things.” I thought to myself as the painting continued to remain unchanged. Another few days passed. I was just coming back from a sleepover at a friend’s house. When I passed the sunroom, I saw it. The portrait had moved again. This time it was my father’s hand. It was no longer in his pants pocket. Instead, it had moved closer to my mother, obscured by my own visage in the foreground. Immediately, I screamed for my parents. “MOM! DAD! IT MOVED AGAIN!” “No, it didn’t honey! You are just seeing things again.” My mother said dismissively from their bedroom upstairs. Growing frustrated with this constant gaslighting, I marched up the stairs to their room. I could hear the faint whispers and giggles coming from the other side of the door, so I knew they were both in there. The door was locked, so I banged my fist heavy on the door. The loud knocks were met with the sound of scuffling through bedsheets and panicked whispers, as my father said, “J-just a minute sweetie, mom and I…” he trailed off as my mother picked up where he left, “…getting ready to go out to dinner.” I banged on the door again, “Dinner can wait! There is something wrong with the family painting. My father unlocked the door and pulled it open. He was half dressed in his after-work clothes and half dressed in his work clothes. His pajama sweatpants hung off his side, untied at the waist. While he wore his white collared shirt unbuttoned, fully displaying his white undershirt. I couldn’t see mom from the doorway, and every time I tried to crane my neck to see the other corners of the room, dad would position himself in front of me. I pushed on, more concerned about the painting moving, “Dad! Come on downstairs, I swear it happened this time. Wait, weren’t you getting ready for dinner?” My father looked panicked, as he pushed me along away from the door, “Well yeah, but there isn’t a dress code for dinner, we can wear we want sometimes.” He said with a small smile. “Now, show me what you are talking about with the portrait.” I dragged him down the stairs, excited to show him but more excited that he wanted to see it. I positioned him the same way I had done to mother earlier. He stared at the painting, taking a long time to go over every detail. After about 20 seconds of waiting for him to notice, I burst out, “Do you see it?” He continued looking it over, “No, I don’t. What changed? It looks normal to me.” I walked up to the mantle and pointed above me at his hand, “See? Your hand. It was in your pocket, now it is behind my head, reaching towards mom.” He gave a quizzical look, “I don’t know Em, I remember the artist begin really particular with where our hands were placed. I bet it was just a design choice to put my hand behind your head.” “Who was the artist? Do you remember?” He thought for a second, “I can’t remember his name, but I remember him being really cheap compared to the other artists. I gave him a sad look, “You aren’t listening to me. Your hand was in your pocket. It has been since we got it.” He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, “Listen, I’m sorry Em. Maybe you saw a similar picture at your friend’s house while you were sleeping over, or maybe the light coming from these windows? They haven’t been washed in months.” Soon my mother came down the stairs to join us, “Well? Did it change?” I yelled out, “YES!”, while my father said “No.” My mother naturally sided with my father and the matter was squashed when she said, “Well, let’s get dinner, maybe it will change after that.” Days went by with no change. My father went on a few more trips for work, and life continued normally for a while. There were days where I noticed something had changed in the portrait. My mother’s smile fading slightly, my pristine white shoes getting less shiny, there was even a moment where I thought I had moved further away from my parents as they moved further into the background. I stopped going to my mother when I saw the picture change slightly. She would always wave it off as my own overactive imagination, eventually I stopped going to her. I started keeping a photo log of the portrait. One picture in the morning and one picture before I went to bed. But to my own amazement, whenever I noticed a change and went back to yesterday’s photos to compare, the change would be reflected in all previous iterations of the portrait. I tried memorizing every detail of the painting, even going so far as to get on a chair and use a magnifying glass to study the different aspects of the painting. This did nothing but worry my mother. I even started to think I was merely seeing things like everyone said. Another instance of a child’s overactive imagination. Nobody believed me and any evidence I could get to prove I was right would become useless once it changed. My mom started getting worried about my obsession over this painting and made the decision to put it away for a little while. She took it down above the mantle, put a tarp over it, and stowed it away in the basement. I actually liked this, as the routine of worrying over this portrait was over. No longer waking up and first thing checking the portrait. No more up-close observing going over every finger, every facial feature, every position in painstaking detail. I would check in on the painting every now and again, but without seeing the picture daily, it was hard to compare if anything changed or not. Until one night when my father came home late from one of his business trips. He had been going more frequently than before, blaming it on the expansion of the company and appeasing new clients. I was asleep in my bed when I heard the crash of glass shattering and my mother screaming. “YOU BASTARD! YOU ABSOLUTE PIG!” I stumbled out of bed and walked down the hall to their room. As I got closer I could barely make out what they were saying, “Abby, please calm down. It isn’t like that. You are going to wake up Emma.” While my father was speaking softly, my mother had no control over the volume of her words. “CALM DOWN? LIKE HELL I WILL! Get your stuff and leave! I can’t believe you would do this to me, to Emma!” My father started raising his own voice, “I TOLD YOU IT ISN’T LIKE THAT! It just sort of happened!” I stood on the other side of the door desperately listening to their argument. I could hear the sound of bags being opened and clothes stuffed tight into them. “This is your stuff; you can come get the rest whenever. You are not welcome in this house anymore.” My mother said through tears.” In a soft voice, “Abby, please don’t do this.” She didn’t care, “You disgust me. Leave.” Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing my eavesdropping to the both of them. Their bedroom was a mess. The toiletries from my father’s bag were strung about haphazardly across the floor, shards of broken glass from my mother’s vanity mirror were scattered everywhere, and my father stood in the doorway, bag in hand. The look of shock on both their faces instinctually made me tear up. My father leaned down and gave me a big hug. He leaned in close and said, “I am sorry Em, dad is going on another business trip. But I don’t know how long this time. I love you, so much.” With that he got up and walked down the stairs and out of the door. My mother walked over to me and said, “Go back to bed sweetheart. We can talk in the morning.” She walked with me back to my room and tucked me into bed. “Good night Emma, I love you.” She shut the door, but I could still hear her stifled cries. She cried all night and even partially into the morning. I helped clean up my mother’s room the next day, and over the next few days, I saw father for a few minutes of the day while he loaded up some of his stuff. An old guitar, his computer, a couple of desks and chairs, until I didn’t see him anymore. My mother told me not to text or call him. I didn’t understand why. We never had the talk in the morning like she promised me that night. As we were loading the stuff he didn’t take with him into a dark corner of the attic, on a whim I decided to check the painting. Old habits, I suppose. I pulled the tarp down and what I saw stunned me. I called mom up from the second-floor landing, “Mom, come look at this.” She crawled up the ladder to the attic and squeezed her way to where I was. “What is it?” She noticed I the tarp on the floor, “Not this old thing again, are we really going to revisit….” She stopped mid-sentence, mouth agape. The portrait had contorted to an entirely new design. We were no longer posing together, instead we were apart on opposite ends of the painting. My father was on one side, with a woman I had never see before. The two were embracing in a passionate hug while holding each other’s hands. His clothes had changed from his usual suit and tie to that of a more relaxed khakis and polo shirt. The woman had bright blonde hair like my mom and I, but she was shorter than my mother with a pointy nose and decked out in diamonds. Meanwhile, my mother and I were on the other side holding hands. I was still dressed in my white dress with the red sash and my mother still had on her elegant black evening gown, but instead of holding my father, she was clutching her engorged stomach. She looked similar to when I saw old photos of her when she was pregnant with me. We stood in front of the portrait for what seemed like minutes. The vindication of being right seemed so trivial at this moment. The days of frantically checking for the slightest changes felt so far gone. Our family was broken, and the portrait cemented that fact in both of our heads at the same exact moment. I looked to my mother, to gauge her reaction. “Is she mad? Sad? Happy?” I thought as I studied her face. She looked at my father with the other woman and whispered, “They look so happy.” A single tear rolled down her face.


The man himself is coming to tell us—Vice President Numb Nuts. He's such a spineless wimp. How did he ever become a vice president? I'll tell you how. It's because Boeing is not what it used to be. That's it. Its current level of incompetence is staggering. I used to be proud to be part of this company, but those days have long vanished. And sitting over there is another reason I've lost confidence: Clark Suck-face Truman. Look at him all smug and confident. I can see what he's thinking. He's such an open book. He's thinking of his thank you speech for choosing him as the team lead. And who am I kidding? Numb Nuts is probably going to do just that. He wouldn't know talent if it bit him on his overworked posterior.

I'm the only one who knows my value. I would make a great lead, but they will never give me the opportunity. They are a bunch of idiots—the whole company is full of them. "Thank you all for coming," Vice President Chumley Lutz said. "I'm here to choose a team for the Quad Rotor Aerial Vehicle project. I'm very excited about this. I hope everyone here is as excited." We clapped. Although, I don't know why. We looked like a flock of muppets. "I'm appointing Clark Truman as the team lead." Of course, he did. I don't know why I let myself get all worked up. Why do I allow myself to hope? The twit babbled on and on until he stopped and made eye contact with me. "Now for the backbone of the team – Bob Sparks. Come on up, Bob." I gazed at him. He thinks I don't know, but I know what he's doing—parading me in front of everyone like an old tiger at a circus. I capitulated, stood beside our illustrious potentate, and smiled. I know how to act. I put on my gracious face and shook Numb Nuts' hand. After my award-winning performance, the meeting ended, and I returned to my office. A memo on my desk told me to see the company shrink immediately. What the heck? Why would Bug Eyes need to see me? "Hello, Bob. Come in and have a seat," Dorothy Flingmyer said. I sat and tried not to stare at her enormous eyeglasses. They had to be an inch thick. "Bob, do you know why I asked you here?" "No, I don't. You see, I'm not a shrink, so I don't have all the answers." She ignored me. "I asked you here to discuss your recent behavior with Trent Holfax. Do you recall the incident?" "Are you referring to the incident when I informed Mr. Trident…excuse me, Trent…that his calculations would turn our plane into a submarine? Or when I told him McDonald's was hiring, and he could use me as a reference? Or the incident when I suggested his degree must have come from a state college because it was the only explanation for his ignorance of aeronautical engineering? Or…” "That's enough, Mr. Sparks. It's obvious you recall." She lowered her glasses and looked at me. "You understand this type of behavior is unacceptable?" "You mean telling the truth is unacceptable?" "You know what I mean. You tend to see only the negatives in people, and your belittling manner is appalling." "Did you say appealing?" "Mr. Sparks, you need to take this meeting seriously. Your position here is on the line. If I don't see significant change, Boeing will release you." She adjusted her glasses. "I believe we are going to be able to work this out. I think some simple exercises can tame your cynical attitude." "Push-ups? Sit ups? Squats?" "Please don't interrupt, Mr. Sparks," she straightened. "I want you to keep a gratitude journal for several weeks. We will meet again next month and go over it together. If I see progress, then all is good. Understand?" "So, I tell you about my crushes, my favorite teacher, and how my mom doesn't understand me?" "You have a problem, Mr. Sparks. I expect thirty entries on how grateful you are on various subjects." Well, I did what she said. It's an entire month of mushy stuff and puffy praise. I wonder if this was some disciplinary tactic. Who has ever heard of a gratitude journal? "I see you used a five-year diary. Pink. With a lock," Dorothy Flingmyer said with a look of disdain mixed with unbelief. "Only the best for this assignment." She cleared her throat, "Well, let's begin." She flipped through a few pages, counting the entries. "I see you have thirty. Very good." "Actually, I have thirty-one entries. You must have missed one." She counted again, "Ah, yes. There are thirty-one." She opened the first page and read: May, 9th, 2024 I'm grateful it's Thursday. Although, Friday would be better. May 10th, 2024 I'm grateful it's no longer Thursday because Friday is undeniably better. May 11th, 2024 I'm grateful it's Saturday because, unlike Friday, I won't have to see Trident or Suck-face. She huffed, "Are there any entries not evolving Friday?" "Um," I combed through my mind. "Yes, skip to May 18th." May 18th, 2024 I'm grateful our team wasn't given an important project since it mainly comprised of baboons. My 19th, 2024 I'm grateful that Boeing's new policy of hiring nincompoops makes me look better. May 20th, 2024 I'm glad Suck-face didn't call me champ today. "She put down the diary in frustration, "Who is Suck-face?" "Clark Truman." I gave her an innocent look. "I'm sorry, I thought it was obvious." "From now on, I want you to refer to him by his real name." I mentally searched, "I did. See May 30th." May 30th, 2024 I'm grateful I almost forgot Suck-face's real name is Clark Truman. "Mr. Sparks, I'm afraid I won't be able to recommend you remain at Boeing. Did you even try?" "I understand, but if you could read the last entries, you might change your mind." June 6th, 2024 I'm grateful for Mrs. Flingmyer's suggestion to write this journal. After reading my earlier entries, I see how negative I've become, and seeing the problem is half the battle. June 7th, 2024 I'm grateful for renewed interest. After ten years, I dusted off my old fiddle and was surprised at how much I remembered. Letting go of my negative attitude has rekindled my joy of fiddling. June 8th, 2024 I'm grateful for our follow-up meeting on Monday. I have so much to share. "I'm impressed, Mr. Sparks. It seems our little exercise has benefited you immensely. I knew if you could see the truth, you would come around. I will recommend you stay with us, provided you continue journaling." "You couldn't stop me if you tried." We ended the meeting with a friendly hug. I walked out thinking about how to thwart Suck-face's proposal to allow our Quad to run on multiple fuels. He's such an ignoramus. Oh, and I can't wait to get Trident in a corner. He's almost too easy, but I will enjoy destroying him anyway. His elementary ideas deserve it. I'm grateful I found my fiddle. It reminded me it wasn't the only thing I could play like a fiddle.


The temple of Apollo in Delphi was a glorious, golden-stone, sun-drenched ruin high in the mountains, which you could see perfectly well from the parking area. Fortunately, you could also access the coffee stand from the parking area, as the locals were pretty astute when it came to avoiding regulations. I used my fairly meagre retainer to grab a cup, which I figured was a better use than spending it on the entrance fee. Technically, my client might think otherwise. Technically, I wasn’t entirely convinced by some of the things my client was thinking, so the cup of coffee easily won out. I had a job. It was kind of a scammer’s job, but occasionally it paid. I’m a witch. None of that white-witch, blood-witch stuff, it’s more of a ‘whatever it takes to pay the rent’ kind of a deal. If I think it’s going to help, I wear a long flowy dress and a little sword thingy on a necklace. Sometimes I carry a few candles and sage in my purse. Luckily my reputation precedes me. Once, I cast a spell. It made the local news (here, where I’m also ‘that eccentric foreigner’, which probably helped). It wasn’t actually hocus pocus, but rather a sincere wish to understand what had happened, a purely coincidental arrangement of smoke and mirrors, and a blast of intuition so extreme and sudden that I found myself pointing at a bystander and shouting “she did it!” The woman in question tried to run away. It was all very dramatic. She’d been defacing monuments undetected for years. When you live in a land of millennia old temples, people take that sort of thing seriously. It hasn’t really happened again (the intuition, not the defacing monuments. That probably happens all the time, although that one lady went to jail). These days its just me traipsing around looking for clues and figuring things out like a regular detective. I get paid about the same either way, but my clients are far more gullible than a detective’s usually are, which makes things a bit easier. I took my cup and wandered over to the nearest park bench, where a cat came to join me. It sat half on my shoe, squinted at me, then sprawled out with it’s eyes closed. Which shows that a stray cat has better sense than I do. I arranged myself only slightly more upright and pulled out my binoculars. I’d been charged with finding a scrap of paper at a tourist site. My chances, I figured, were extremely low. What was worse, the scrap of paper held the phone number of a woman called Sophie, who my client assured me was the most beautiful woman in the world, and who he’d almost successfully picked up yesterday, then had second thoughts about, and now was having another change of heart and wanted to call her after all. Which is fine, you know, if it was all on his own time. But I couldn’t help thinking that if he was that hot for her he would have figured that out yesterday and getting someone else to do the running around afterwards is all a bit creepy. I mean, what if I actually found Sophie’s number? I’d be responsible for her having to let him down gently, or else for him needing to explain to her where her phone number had been before he actually called her. Wherever that may be. So my plan was this: I was going to sit here with my binoculars, taking in the sites from a distance. And if, chance against chance, I actually found what he was looking for - well and good. And if not, I’d phone him and say my witchy craft was on the blink, keep the retainer, and leave him to try to pick up some other woman. It was a good plan. I just hoped he never saw what it looked like in action as I soaked up the sun on a park bench outside a tourist site he thought he’d paid my entrance fee for. I could have stayed there all day. I’m pretty sure that cat was going to. But actually after an hour or so I was startled by a little golf cart rumbling up to empty the bins. Although that’s not really an auspicious moment to take my intuition from, I gave it a good hard look. And then I sat up straight and looked again. The golf-cart was being driven by an Amazon. I mean, she was gorgeous. Hair all swept up off her neck. A uniform shirt in khaki that showed off her strong arms. Collar bones peaking through at the collar. And she was looking at me with that slightly bemused look that the locals always gave tourists. Or smiling. Maybe she was just smiling. It felt like the sun was shining just for me, and I would do anything to get a bit more of that attention. “Hey, excuse me, do you speak English?” I asked her. “Nai,” she told me. Nodded her head. “How can I help?” Her voice was rich and warm. “A friend of mine lost something here yesterday. A scrap of paper”, which, as conversational gambits go, it wasn’t really ideal. “It must have been a very important scrap of paper?” “He thinks it was his fate” I told her solemnly. I could see her deciding whether or not to debate that one, but then with a shrug she gestured me to join her on her golf-cart. Let me tell you … I sat on her golf-cart. You better believe I did. And there wasn’t much room on that tiny bench seat. She was taller than me. And somehow more put together. I wracked my brains trying for some casual conversation. No luck. Except, probably a couple of minutes too late to sound sensible: “Hey, where are we going?” She smiled at me, all sunny competence. “You wanted to look through rubbish didn’t you?” Oh right. Yeah, of course. After a few more awkward moments she asked me, “He’s a good friend, this friend of yours?” It is very important in the witch-crafty detective business, not to make any assumptions about why people ask certain questions. Answer in long form, I counselled myself. Perhaps draw her out a little. My throat seemed a little dry. “Um, No?” “But he has you looking for his lost thing?” She pressed. “Oh well, no. He’s actually paying me to do that.” She gave me her full attention at that, so I felt I needed to elaborate. “I mean, I am a witch. Well, not a witch, actually, a detective, but he thinks I might be a witch and might magically find what he threw away yesterday. Because he thinks it might be his fate” “But he didn’t think that yesterday when he threw it away?” I gave her a rueful sort of smile. “Maybe he was fated to wait a day?” I suggested. “Maybe his fate deserved a chance for second thoughts?” She replied. The drive took us into the grounds-keeper’s shed. Inside, I felt I was glimpsing a very prosaic behind-the-scenes of the otherwise majestic national icon. A kitchenette, a work table, some gardening tools. The calendar above the sink was set to the wrong month, with a beautiful picture of a roof-top bar on the ocean. Turns out the rubbish was dumped into a big skip and my new friend was showing me exactly how I should climb in. The fates were pushing me. I had my good shoes on too. Never-the-less, I dutifully climbed into the skip. I rummaged half-heartedly, while the Amazonian grounds-keeper watched me with one eye-brow raised. “Are you really looking for a scrap of paper?” She asked me. I guess I wasn’t looking very hard. I didn’t bother answering, kind of half smiled. “Because if you are really looking, perhaps the oracle would have the answer you are seeking?” I laughed. “There’s no such thing as an Oracle, well not in this century anyway.” “It is true. She only spoke in riddles anyway. She may have made this man believe he had his fate on a piece of paper, when really she was trying for something else altogether.” “For him to waste his money, I suppose. Did she charge for her services?” I asked The Amazon had a lovely laugh. “She did! But then she was not a fake”. You know that record screeching sound? “You think I’m a fake?” I asked “You told me you are ‘fake’!” In my head a search party went out for the end of a sentence that started with “yeah, but …”. They didn’t find it. Missing in action. So I am a fake. I’d have had no chance at an Amazonian grounds-keeper anyway. And I was dirty now. I may as well look for the wretched phone number. I put a little more effort in, and was knee deep in ice cream wrappers when another grounds-keeper arrived. An older man, grouchy and worn, he gave me the once over then made his observations in his own language, to his colleague. I didn’t bother following along. I could understand the tone well enough. It started with ‘What the …?’ And ended somewhere around ‘Crazy lady’ with a brief bypass into ‘I hope she isn’t making a mess of the rubbish’. I think I mentioned I’m fairly intuitive? Well, the two of them discussed this for a few minutes, until the grouchy man threw his hands in the air, and the Amazon gave him a very loud ‘look’. She cleared her throat, then said to me “I’m heading off to finish my rounds. I hope you find what you are looking for”. I couldn’t think of anything to say in return, but watched her retreating back like it was the last sane thing I would ever see. How do I get myself into these messes? Grouchy man grumbled at me, then pointed at the clock. “You have half an hour before the rubbish truck comes” he told me. I’d like to say I spent that half an hour methodically and efficiently sifting and sorting through rubbish. Mostly I sulked. I did move things about a bit, and every time there was the slightest noise from outside, I looked up, hoping for something to brighten my day. Nothing did. I didn’t find any useful looking scraps of paper either. If I was a slightly worse person, I probably would have written a fresh one for him. Pick some likely looking ‘Sophie’ from a dating site, and help two strangers out, all for this one low fee! But truth is, I was too miserable to be bothered. So when a truck rumbled up outside and grouchy told me to get out of the skip, I actually felt pretty relieved. My shoes were filthy. I had sticky stains where ice cream wrappers and coffee cup lids had spilled on me. I had no phone number, and the one potential saving grace to the whole day was a brief encounter with someone who realised I was a fake and had stormed off. Perhaps it was time I rethought this witchy-detective thing. It wasn’t really working out. I washed my hands, and called my client and give him the news. At least I could express fairly genuine regret. I made the call in the grounds-keeper’s shed. I didn’t bother hiding what I was doing, and apart from a few sly looks, the grouch just turned his back and got on with what-ever it was he wasn’t doing. So I didn’t realise when that hot Amazon turned up again. I didn’t realise she was standing in the door eaves dropping on me trying to let the client down gently. I only noticed her at all, because grouchy snapped a stern “Sophie!” In her direction. Wait, What? Sophie? I looked at her. Well I had been told she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and clearly anyone wanting to find her could do so at her place of work. Had I spent an hour in a rubbish bin looking for her number when I could have just asked her? Actually, why didn’t I just ask her? She was looking straight at me, like maybe she knew what I had been looking for all along. I hung up on my client. My dress was not very clean. My shoes had seen better days. I’d failed to earn my fee. “Sophie?” I asked. I gave a tentative smile. “Do you think I could get your phone number?” Sophie took on a look of mock seriousness. “That depends” she told me. “What would you do with it, once you had it?” My smile got wider. I knew the answer to this one. “I don’t even need the number. I just want to ask you on a date. To a roof-top bar overlooking the ocean”. “No clients?” She asked. I shook my head. No way. This was my fate now and I wouldn’t be throwing it away for all the world. Sophie beamed at me and smiled and nodded, and told me to wait for her to finish work. Luckily I knew a good spot to get a coffee, and enjoy a spectacular view. Sophie joined me on the park bench not long after, the sunset laid out in hues of orange and gold in front of us, and that one cat still lying where I’d left it hours ago. It squinted up at us as Sophie took my hand, almost as though it understood the day we’d had, before it stretched and walked away, leaving behind the scrap of paper it had been lying on all day, and the phone number incautiously scrawled on it. A job well done, I’d say.


France 1918 Staring at the now limp form, lying on the trench floor in front of him, Bert began to shake uncontrollably. Looking down at the rifle in his hands, he recoiled in horror at the shock of what he had become, and as he tossed the weapon to the ground, it now became clear to him as to what he had to do. Australia 1913 Looking down at the young child lying on the roadway, a feeling of anger and disbelief began to surge through the mans body like a tidal wave. All that he had been taught to believe in, was now crushed and broken like the small body in front of him. Raising his head to the sky, he opened his mouth to speak, but like a wounded animal all he could do was howl in pain, as he slowly dropped to his knees.

Finally composing himself, in a quiet voice he asked, “Why have you done this to me, is this my payment for all I have sacrificed for you.” By this time, a small crowd had gathered, quietly bowing their heads in respect for the small child. Many who knew the man, felt pity for him and his loss, but also for the sad realization that his faith had failed him. France 1918 “What’s wrong with old mate,” asked the new soldier, pointing along the trench as he settled down into his position on the muddy floor. Glancing over at the digger sitting by himself, his companion said. “Oh, you mean old Bert, he’s had some sort of a death wish ever since he arrived here.” Then changing to a more serious tone, he continued in a whisper. “They say a long way back, he was training for the clergy, and just when he was about to head to New Guinea as a missionary with his family, his kid was killed right in front of his eyes…never got over it, now he volunteers for every patrol that comes along.” Looking back along the trench, the new soldier could now see Bert asleep in the darkness, his helmet pulled down over his eyes, his hand instinctively resting on his rifle beside him.

Reports of a massive push by the Germans had been expected over the last couple of days, and all the troops were on high alert expecting an attack that could come at any time. Small patrols had been sent out into No Mans Land during the night, to try and get an idea of the strength of the troop build-up, but they had been forced back by heavy sniper fire, leaving the Allies with no idea as to when the attack would begin. “How would you get over something like that,” exclaimed the boy, “you’d definitely have to wonder if there was a God.” “Lad, I think he’s been testing that theory since he’s been over here,” replied the older soldier, “and at this rate, he might find out if he’s not too careful.”

Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by a series of flares that shot up illuminating the night sky. Before the two men had time to react, Bert was on his feet, rousing the men along the line, and on arriving at the young diggers said. “Hurry up you two, get on the parapet now, and keep your heads down.” Waiting quietly, they all watched as a volley of smoke shells were dropped into No-Mans Land, making for an eerie setting, as the mist drifted across in front of them. As the light of the flares slowly faded, they all knew what was about to follow. When the first wave of German infantry burst through the billowing haze, there seemed like no way of holding them back. The fighting was relentless, with machine guns cutting swathes through the attacking enemy, but they continued to advance at a frightening pace. Out of the chaos a group of Grenadiers made their way through the maelstrom, the enemies appearance causing panic amongst the defenders as they breached the trench. The young soldier completely taken by surprise, cowered on the ground as one of the attackers moved towards him and thrust a bayonet into his chest. As he was about to pull the bayonet from the boys body, Bert clubbed him to the ground with the butt of his rifle. Lying dazed in the mud, he looked up at Bert who had drawn his rifle back and was ready to plunge his bayonet through the man’s chest, when all of a sudden, he was stopped by the sight of something. Holding the tip of the bayonet against the mans body, he reached forward and tore open the man’s tunic, to reveal a silver crucifix. Looking to the Germans face, then to his chest, he stood there confused, and then as if repelled by the cross, slowly staggered back and slumped down against the trench wall, tears forming in his eyes. The German clearly confused and not able to understand what was happening, began to move, at first Bert leveled his rifle, then lowering it, indicated for him to go.

As the German turned, and tried to climb up out of the trench, a shot rang out, and he fell back at Bert’s feet. Staring at the now limp form lying on the floor of the trench in front of him, Bert began to shake uncontrollably. Looking down at the rifle in his hands, he recoiled in horror at the shock of what he had become, and as he tossed the weapon to the ground, it now became clear to him as to what he had to do. 6 Months later - Chaplains Department “Glad to finally have you along with us,” said the Major, “you do realize that with your background, you could have signed up, volunteered as a padre, and totally avoided the front line.” “Thank you, Sir,” replied Bert, “I’m very glad to be onboard, and yes I know that would have been the logical thing to do, but….” The Major seeing the hesitance in his reply, quickly cut him off. “Look, as I always say, it doesn’t matter how you find your way, just as long as you get there in the end.” “So now down to business, some of the men are going on leave, and we are planning on having a talk tonight, on…um...ethics and the local culture, do you think you could look after that.” With a smile, Bert looked at the Major and said, “Yes Sir, I think I should be able to handle that.”