I. It was halfway through LIT 201: INTRO TO AMERICAN LITERATURE that I realized I hated American literature. Every book we read ended the same way: our plucky main character gets on a train and thinks wistfully to the past, then brightly to the future. It’s a cheap metaphor, the train, a symbol for progress, forward movement, Westward expansion, rfonwards & upwards, etc. And American stories are just like that, straight lines, like train tracks, flat, giving the illusion that you ended up somewhere different, further ahead, than when you started. Me personally, I prefer stories that close up in a nice little circle, like a snake eating its own tail. Everything is a cycle and everything repeats. Stories that convince you otherwise are liars.*             * I have only a liberal arts degree from a barely accredited college to back up literary

huffing-puffing, so do take this with a grain of salt.

II. It was also in LIT 201: INTRO TO AMERICAN LITERATURE that I realized I was a lesbian. My love for women, as well as other gender identities who identified with lesbianism, was long-confirmed. It was the distaste for men I had trouble accepting. Lady-crushes had blown up and popped all over my life like pearly soap bubbles, and I held out hope that perhaps, one day, a nice fellow would make me feel the same way. There was a promising prospect at college even, a boygenius, chess-master extraordinaire, nearly-professional badminton player.

Sad cow eyes, gangly hands forever awkwardly arranged, a pleasant smile glowing incandescent from inside -- really, he had potential. And he was so so nice. “Sweet” was the adjective thrown most his way. He was soft, a dandelion, but that’s the thing with men, beneath that niceness is either something hard and lumpy or else the cesspool of an unformed, childlike psyche absolutely horrified by adulthood and looking for a mommy-substitute. Boygenius was the latter, what a shame. And then LIT 201 asphyxiated away any last breath of hope for me & men. The books we read written by men were all so judgemental & self-assured. Man-authors think they know exactly how women work, how other men work, how life ought to be lived, so on. Every one of them thinks they’ve found The Answer and will defend it red-faced and turkey-jowled, shaking and yelling and slobbering to their little literary grace. And these were the man-geniuses who’d made it on a college syllabus, the best of the bunch, the smartest males our species had to offer, and still, such a disappointment. What chance did the common man stand to win my love?

III. I got into the business of love quite young. It started when I was maybe six and excruciatingly aware that I would eventually die. I don’t know if people are born with this knowledge and then kind of forget as the alphabet and 1-2-3 crowd out infant brain-space and I just failed to forget,

or if it’s a fact I wove together from loose bits of reality (the dead robin on the sidewalk, hushed whispers of some relative’s funeral, a superhero blasted with cartoon bullets). Either way, it was horrible, and it hung heavy between my ears. I suddenly stopped wanting to do anything. My parents were busy -- careers, etc -- and it took them a few days to realize I was nearing catatonia. It’s like when you have a pet fish and stop by its tank for the first time all week and peer through the aquarium-wall-algae and think oh no it’s just kind of lying there on its rock and oh shit, I don’t think I’ve fed in a week.  Not that my parents didn’t feed me for a week. They just did it a bit absentmindedly, is all. They realized they’d fucked up leaving me with old people for so long, and their immediate solution to glue together the shattered bits of my psyche was lots and lots of time spent with kids my own age. What better place for that than boarding school? That was where I met my first and most enduring love, Ariadna.

IV. Yes, her name really was Ariadna, and yes my lesbianism did sprout in an all-girls boarding school, the same way a dried bean shyly releases its roots atop a wet paper towel, and yes, my initial assessment of Ariadna as a perfectly flawless creature had been absolutely correct. In my 20 years of knowing her, I have discovered only one pertinent flaw in her character: Ariadna is irredeemably, irrevocably heterosexual. But that first day, we were both maybe six, and we didn’t know each other yet. I stepped squinting onto the playground, eyes watering beneath a merciless sun. My first recess carried such gravity, it made my chest hurt. Which kids would I align myself with? Those on the play-structues, on metal twisted into rocketships and pyramids? Space was limited at the top, and you had to earn your place. I watched one girl grab the metal bars, swing herself over and down, a windmill, her bloodied, calloused hands earning small, subtle, approving nods from the others perched like guardian crows. My stomach contracted into a fist. There was no way I would make it with them. The other alternative was the sandbox full of dead-eyed kids sitting still, scared, drowsy, like fish lying on ice at the supermarket. They seemed to be awaiting instruction. You didn’t want to look at them directly, or their whole hunger would bore into you, the tiny crumb of attention hitting their salivary glands. It was horrifying, realizing you probably had more in common with them than the hawks flying on the play-structures. I resigned myself to sand. Better accept defeat immediately than be pummeled to submission. One girl in the sandbox, however, did not look up. She was aflutter, tiny hands assembling, breaking things apart, moving moving moving. This was Ariadna. I eased into the sand beside her. Her tangled head shot up, her eyes locked on mine. She held up something squirmy between her thumb and pointer finger and asked dare me to eat it? As if I would be taking the greater risk by putting the dare upon her. Um. Is that a caterpillar? and of course it was a caterpillar, and she stuffed the whole fat green sausage of it into her mouth before I could authorize a dare.

V. It was a K-12 boarding school, and we spent all thirteen years there, squishing the manicured wet grass of our campus with progressively larger Mary-Janes. I’ll spare the disgustingly sappy details but yes I slowly fell in love with her and never told her and though it was probably pretty obvious, it was relegated to the things-we-don’t-address basement every friendship houses.

VI. We went to different colleges, and we stayed in touch but of course it wasn’t the same. We ended up in the same town in upstate New York after graduation, a horrible little coincidence. She called me every few months to try and schedule a catch-up-over-coffee, but I conveniently always happened to have my phone on silent.

VII. It was also by coincidence that my grandma lived in that upstate New York town. I moved back in with her, the same grandma that raised me from ages 2-6, the same grandma whose constant creaky complaints about deteriorating teeth and hair and joints probably stitched together my early comprehension of death, and around the same time, I found out Ariadna was dating boygenius, who no longer played badminton but was still very much into chess.

VIII. The morning I decided to become a writer, it snowed. The two things were of course unrelated, but still, it seemed like a sign. Ariadna had announced her engagement to boygenius a few weeks before, and it was in those few weeks that I had fallen more still than ever. These things were also unrelated. My grandmother’s slippered feet shuffled around me, a slow carousel, bringing and taking away cups of water, meals, old magazines I left untouched. I just didn’t see much of a reason to leave. Love had been the one reason, love and coffee. But I got Grandma a Mr. Coffee for Christmas, and we brewed our own coffee now in the cheap, plastic, toy-looking machine, and every attempt at love seemed to land my heart in a meatgrinder. Why bother looking with interest into the eyes of a passerby on the street, why bother feeling “!?” inside when they look back, “!!!” if they smile, if everything landed “__” and blank and empty and painful the way an empty stomach feels. But maybe I just artistically sensitive and maybe it was a good idea to monetize that sensitivity, let the world soak in through my pores, wreck its damage on my organs and convert that into text, maybe even a novel. If it was any good, I could restore balance in America’s LIT 201 syllabuses, fix the lesbian-to-man-genius ratio.

IX. The morning it snowed, my grandmother said my, you’re up early, which I wasn’t, it was 1 in the afternoon, but nature had decided it was time to move on from autumn’s decay, and I couldn’t agree more. I pried myself out of bed, snapping its linen chains, brushing stray crumbs of countless meals off my sheets. In my burst of inspiration, I even threw my sheets in the laundry hamper, promising myself I’d wash them later -- my first time in weeks. I told Grandma I’m going to Starbucks and she said Why? We have coffee at home and I told her no, it wasn’t the same, I needed Atmosphere And Ambiance for my writing. Be careful, she said , it’s snowing out there. And I said,

I know Grandma, and she replied it’s snowing much too early this year, it’s only October and I said I know, Grandma, it’s climate change. And she concluded with make sure you get on the right bus and I finished with of course I will.

X. I didn’t get on the right bus. I ended up near Target instead. At least the snow had melted by then, liquidated by a bright, clear, harsh sun.

XI. The parking lot of the Kingston Target is the weirdest place on Earth. A swatch of dirty civilization, an asphalt pad littered with broken glass and cigarette butts, placed neatly in the Catskill Mountains, which circle it like the edges of a bowl, blue and hazy and soft with autumn foliage. A train toots, thud-thudding over ancient train tracks. It’s far away, but the sound carries, so it sounds like it’s right there in your ear. It’s a reminder of a bygone time, when New York was first growing fat and industrial off infant commerce, when fancy ladies with fancy last names cruised the trains for weekend getaways in Upstate estates, when hungry advertisers commuted every morning to Manhattan, seeking glory in Times Square billboards. There’s seagulls in the parking lot too, laughing in their little bird way. Their calls seem misplaced -- you’re supposed to hear them relaxing on the beach, not pushing a grocery cart. But the Hudson River stretches wide and blue and sparkling under the Kingston bridge, and perhaps it’s enough of an ocean for them.

XII. The bus wouldn’t come for another hour. I felt hot and stupid, my face sweating against my mask, my scarf. I looked like a child with overeager parents, so bundled up against a cold that had since passed -- it was no longer snowing. I thought about going into Target, but its spell is powerful, you never leave without an armful of products you don’t really need, and I worried about missing the bus when it came back again. So I deposited myself onto a red bench -- what better time to write? I balanced the laptop on my knees. And then I was looking at a blank screen.

XIII. A car honked. Parking lot squabbles, I assumed, but the minivan was right in front of me, and the man in the passenger seat was staring at me, directly at me, and I thought it was an angry consumerist couple who could not stand a beggar setting camp up before their beloved red-and-white tower. But the man was familiar. Boygenius’ hairless arm dangled limp from the window. Which meant that behind the driver’s wheel was XIV. Ohmigod hi! Ariadna’s clear bell of a voice rang out. What are you doing here? I told her I was buying coffee for my grandmother at Target. We just got a Mr. Coffee I explained and my grandma loves it. Ariadna called me sweet. Like a soldier ant releasing its acids straight into my heart. Do you need a ride? she asked and my brain said no no no but my mouth said sure, why not? And then I was in the backseat, brushing aside granola crumbs, feeling as small and uncomfortable as a child squeezed in their parents’ backseat. We paused at a red light, and Ariadna whipped around towards me, cheery, fresh, a cherry plucked right from the bag, and asked Would you by any chance want to come with us? and I realized she’d been chattering away, happy as the parking lot seagulls the whole time we drove out and into the street and at the stoplight, explaining exactly where she and Boygenius were heading, exactly. I had to get back to my grandmother, she would be nervous, and my writing career! It waited like a stern, patient mother waits in the kitchen for her teeanager who’s breaking curfew. Um yeah sure I’ll come with you guys, insisted my unruly mouth.

XV. Ariadna was never one to miss a season. In school, she made garlands from dried leaves and yarn for autumn, paper snowflakes for Christmas. I was never too good at cutting the latter. You’re supposed to just fold eight times and cut triangles “wherever you feel like it” but I lacked cutting-intuition and mine came out like pizzas left outside and shredded by racoons. Ariadna’s were beautiful though. I usually preferred to just help her out. Halloween now still meant she was driving Boygenius and I to a pumpkin patch.

XVI. Ariadna was talking talking talking, and Boygenius didn’t respond but to say let’s make sure we get there fast, it’s gonna storm soon. I said it must be the leftover rain from that hurricane down south, and Boygenius said yep and I said isn’t it weird it’s called Hurricane Zeta? Aren’t they usually called with human names? and Boygenius responded yep they have a certain number of names set aside each year but there’s been so many hurricanes already that they went through all of them and I said dang it must be global warming and he said yep.

XVII. We wandered the pumpkin patch, them holding hands, me trailing behind. I try not to stare, but I see how weak Boygenius’ grip is around Ariadna’s hand. She told me she likes her hand being held tight enough to squeeze out all the blood. It’s heartbreaking, when someone has precisely the one and only thing you want, and then takes such bad care of it. Like being a kid who wants a dog and seeing someone drag their poodle by the leash, walking too fast for the poor animal, distracted by their phone. The pumpkins seemed to grin at me, ripe and orange and finding something terribly funny. I kicked one, when no one was looking.

XVIII. There was corn looming ominous, dry, rustling like old fingers on all sides. The skies were growing gray, the storm was coming soon. I never knew quite what to do with myself at a pumpkin patch.

XIX. There were food vendors at the pumpkin patch, searing funnel cakes, twisting spokes of hot kebabs. The smell greased my nostrils. After Ariadna picked out a tiny, hamster-sized pumpkin for herself, we walked around, just looking. An old man sold crickets. Fried, pickled, frozen in lollipops, barbeque-flavored, mixed with pistachios. Boygenius’ face drained absolutely of color. I cannot believe people eat bugs, he whispers. That is so disgusting. I can’t believe it. If I saw someone do that, I think I’d vomit. I wanted to tell him how, funnily enough, if he could believe it, when Ariadna and I met, dot dot dot, but she looked quite alarmed, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking, and in her wide eyes I saw it said, their relationship was new, where tiny things were still being sorted out, where a small thing like eatings caterpillars as a child for fun could ruin it, and please don’t say anything. The inside of my head felt itchy. I needed to say it. I needed to say it! But that would be betrayal. Ariadna’s face was twisted in a painful bow. I quieted my unruly mouth. Her secret would be safe with me.

XX. There were other attractions too, a slide built atop a hill of hay, a petting zoo with mottled goats. But Ariadna’s eyes fell to the little train, a rickety contraption, with each cabin built to accommodate a toddler and not much more. The first mad raindrops pummeled its tin roof as she and I and Boygenius squeezed in, them in the cabin ahead of me, me bent in the one behind them. As the train groaned along its humble railroad, a track circling the pumpkin patch, I watched him massage the back of her neck. It was unbearable. I looked out, at the horrifying storm clouds rolling in. They would make a lovely symbol for my next story.


The Tea regulation Charity fumbled trying to put the key in her apartment door lock. The dark hallway, her gloved hands as well as the folders and books in her arms made it more difficult than usual. As soon as she was able to slip the key in track, she opened the door and quickly slipped inside. With a deep sigh, she relocked it and dumped the armful on the table. She hurried into the small kitchen and turned the stove burner on high beneath the water kettle.  Retracing her steps, she unbuttoned her coat and flung it over the back of the chair at the table, and hurried again into the kitchen to set up the tray. Teapot, one packet of tea spices, a sugar bowl, a can of cream, and a large mug. She placed the tray on the table and sat down, waiting for the kettle to boil. She was beginning to relax as the tablespace had a faint aroma of the spices: nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, and fennel. She closed her eyes as the aroma carried her back to her childhood days, Mama’s smile as she carried the tray from the kitchen, and her brothers and sisters vying for a place in front of the biggest mugs around the table. All became quiet with the sound of her father’s footsteps. Papa was coming from the family shop next door for tea time. She smiled remembering each precious face. Being the youngest of eight children, she watched them disappear from the morning tea time to their life activities. There came a day when she was the only one at the table with her parents for the morning tea time. Those were precious times, which would never be possible again. Her home had changed completely two years ago. When Papa died, leaving Mama alone. her eldest brother, Baba with his wife Makosa and their two small children, moved back into the family house with Mama. Baba was now running the family shop and Makosa was the one preparing the tea tray. Last week, during their weekly telephone call, Mama had teased Charity that Makosa makes a great tea and is an expert at serving. Charity wondered if Baba’s children were also becoming quiet when they heard Baba’s steps in the hallway connecting the shop. The kettle’s piercing whistle brought Charity’s mind back to the moment. Once the hot water was poured and while the tea steeped in the pot, she sat back down. What was it about tea time that brought structure to society and diverse cultures? The English had introduced the practice that had found a hollowed place around the world and observed religiously. The tea leaves were not originally from England, but once embraced, they became irretrievably ingrained.  It was treated as a precious well-guarded transplant, which was grafted into the trunk of each society the British culture touched. No matter if it was in a jungle or a desert, what the altitude, stifling heat, or cold weather in the middle of a war or an island holiday, the rattling of teacups on a tray could be heard mid-morning and afternoon like clockwork. It made the day predictable and, in a sense, a token of reassurance that all would be well. If there was anything life offered little of it was the comfort of a predictable day. These two columns of support in the structure of one day at a time in life, for some reason, made the day doable. How simple could the price of comfort be? Hot water and dried leaves were a cheap price to pay for comfort, with or without milk or spice or lemon or sugar. Maybe that was it, tea was the token for security. It was the anchor of the comfort emotion and adaptable to any situation. It wasn’t like the bells tolling from the church tower, the muezzin singing from the mosque minaret, or the bells or drums from a temple, evoking a cultural response. It transcended all of these to be international. Tea time was recognized everywhere she had traveled except in America where the mid-morning break was called coffee time. She had wondered why she was so unnerved and distracted after she first arrived. She discovered the secret one morning when she was sitting in her apartment feeling at the end of her rope. She knew she needed to get to class, but had no energy or desire to go. Looking at her watch she saw it was 9:45. The thought came to her that it was tea time and tea was not yet prepared. She jumped up and went straight to the kitchen to find the kettle and the ingredients stashed in the back of the cabinets.  She was humming by the time she sat down over the steaming savory cup. It was shortly afterward she felt energized. It was such a grounding experience she had resumed a daily tea time in the afternoons and when at home in the mornings. A change in her state of mind and sense of well-being had ensued. She had happily mentioned this to Mama during a weekly call. Mama had said she had packed the tea sachets knowing she would need them. She was surprised that Charity had not been using them all along.

“Taking time for tea is important! It is the one thing you can take anywhere with you and at the same time, it helps you to stand. It is like your bones helping keep your shape and helping you to stand. Everything positive or happy time memories flood your heart when you take tea at tea time. This helps you keep your emotional shape and stand up again if life is trying to knock you down.” “My friend said I should ask you if there was some medicinal effect from the spices used in addition to the caffeine from the tea leaves. Do you know anything about that?” “Don’t waste your time looking into that. Just take your tea and focus on what you are supposed to be doing. Do a good job and finish your schooling so you can come back home, get a good job, and get married.” “I guess that is the one thing that has not changed, Mama.” “What are you talking about?” “Your goal is to get every conversation and all my efforts focused on me getting married.” “Of course, where else would you be focused? I will know my job is finished when you have trained your daughter to serve a tray of well make tea. I have to help keep you on the right path. So, tell me did you locate a shop where you can buy the spices?” “Mom things are different here. You can go to the corner supermarket and buy s bottles of each kindꟷ” “Bottles? What are you talking about? You need fresh spices! You find a shop where all the spices and flour are for your bread. You need to find the right place for the quality you need. This is very important. You can also ask other questions about possible community connections. Maybe he has a son or a friend of the son who is looking for someone to marry.” “Oh, Mama!” “What? At the least, you will have the proper tea for your health. You never know.” After a deep sigh, Charity agreed, “I will look for a shop with fresh spices.” When Mama asked about the spice shop, Charity assured her that she had a large supply remaining, but would look when her stock started getting low. This excuse would not last forever but for the present, it was working. The aroma of the spices released by the warm water in the teapot was gently filling the room wiping every worry and negative thought away. A heavier wave of scents rose from the golden liquid as she poured tea into the cup in front of her. She usually closed her eyes at this point and allowed herself to be transported to the table with all of her family gathered around it. Even Papa was there smiling and Baba’s round cheerful face looked over at her. Sipping the warm liquid, all was right with the world. With a sigh she opened her eyes to the real world where she was far from home, Papa was forever gone and Baba’s face was narrow and bearded. His son was the spitting image of his younger self and others were preparing the tea in place of Mama. There was homework to complete, dinner to prepare and she would have to get up earlier than usual to put air in the bicycle tire. She did a visual check to make sure she had set the locks after she had closed the front door behind her earlier. She added the milk and sugar and after stirring to perfection, she took a sip. “ Yes,” she whispered to herself with her eyes wide open, “all is right with the world.”


Rustlers? “You two gonna pag-nag back there all day? We got beeves to round-up. And I for one want to get back to the ranch house tonight for one decent meal for the week.” “Lighten up there, K-Keyes. Who d-died and left you in ch-charge anyway? We all got equal b-billing with the B-big B-boss.” “Then hustle up there, Stinky.” “W-wish ya didn't call me that no m-more. That encounter with th-that polecat was so long ago his stripes have f-faded away by now and he would just be a c-cuddly p-pussycat.” “Been calling you 'Stinky' for so long don't even know what your name was. What does it matter. We all go by some sort of nick-name. 'Slim' there because he is and 'Tiny' because he isn't. I don't even play the ivories much anymore yet you call me 'Keyes'. Just gotta keep with 'Stinky' 'cause it sticks. Quit ya belly-achin'.” “Well, don't ya'll ever ca-a-all me late for dinner.” “Don't worry so much, Tiny. You have enough saved up ya could miss a meal or two.” “Ha-ha. Ya'll too funny!” “Hey, Fellas, see what I sees?” “What is it, Slim?” “Couple riders atop that ridge yonder. Looks like they's a drivin' some beeves 'afore 'em. Think might be a rustlin' some of ours?” “If they are that's a hanging offense. Let's ride over closer so they see us. If they bolt we know they are up no good and we can shoot them down. Stinky, you hang back some and keep your rifle trained on them for back-up. Otherwise, we just need to get their story. Could be passing through is all. Big Boss owns so much land it is impossible to always go around.” “Sure is pretty land we're passing through, wouldn't you agree, Red Eagle? Grass so green stretching out far and wide. Trickle of a stream in that valley. Maybe we should steer these steers down there for a drink. Looks like they have that same idea anyway. Thirsty cattle can smell water and we have kept them on the move for a long spell already.” “Harrumph.” “Wonder whose land we are on? Haven't seen a homestead for over two days. Hope we aren't trespassing. Not all these landowners are the friendly type who don't mind you passing through.” “Riders.” “Yeah, I see them now. Don't have guns drawn. Maybe won't be a problem. Perhaps we can get their permission to carry on or they can point us to a way around if they don't want us here.” “HOLD UP THERE! State your business, Strangers.” “Howdy, Neighbors. We come on friendly terms. Name is Marcy, Ford Marcy. Just passing through on our way from Texas. Got about a hundred head of longhorns from my father's ranch down near Fort Worth that my friend, Red Eagle, and I are driving to his Osage tribe hold up in the Indian territory, northern part of Oklahoma. Sorry, we didn't know who this land belongs to in order to ask permission to pass. Would that be you?” “Well, now it just might be. A hundred head, you say. That don't sound like it would be very profitable for all the trouble.” “We aren't in it for the money. My father's cattle have been reproducing like crazy so now that the war is over he needs to move some of them. Red Eagles' people need the meat now they can't hunt buffalo. I am headed to Kansas to marry my sweetheart I met last spring on the wagon train I was leading westward. After some tragedies she bailed out and I promised I would be back. Oh, that's way too much information. The two of us couldn't wrangle any more than this herd. So here we are. Been eatin' dust 'bout two weeks already with about that much still to go. Do you need to see our ID papers? Guess that would stand in for a bill of sale. Pops is doing this out of the kindness of his heart. No money is exchanging hands.” “You are right. That is more information than we need. Let us just take a look at the brands and make sure none of ours are accidentally getting mixed in.” “Oh, by all means, but if that has happened it has been totally their own idea. Can't help it your fellas like the looks of our girls, you understand. You are welcome to cut them out. We have our hands full just keeping them together and headed in the right direction. Hard to keep count. We have been tracking in a general northeastern path following some of the rivers. Where exactly are we anyway?” “Hey, Keyes, remembers what some of those drovers in town warns us about Texan longhorns? Might have some tick diseases. Don't wants them mixing with ours.” “You are right, Slim. Marcy, you might have to buy any of ours that have attached themselves to your herd.” “Whoa, that wasn't in the plans. I have never heard of any problems with our herd. Would you know what to look for?” “Not me or the boys here but our Big Boss might. We were hoping to get back into the ranch tonight. Maybe we can check with him. It is going to take you at least a day to pass through his land anyway.” “Be much obliged.” “Come on, Fellas, let's have a look see.” “Mind if I tag along? Want to take a closer look at their health. Stay here, Red Eagle, make sure none are cutting back behind.” “Humph.” “He sure don't say much, does he. Isn't it kind of lonely out on the trail with someone who doesn't talk?” “Most of the time we are on opposite sides of the herd anyway but you have a point. All of your guys talkative?” “Sometimes way too much. That Stinky never wants to shut up does he, Tiny?” “Y'all right 'bout that, Keyes.” “So you are 'Keyes', 'Tiny' is the one not so tiny and 'Slim' is the tall thin guy. Got that but who is 'Stinky'?” “Oh, he is up on the ridge watching over things.” “I take it you try to keep him separate because of his name?” “Oh, no. That's just a hold over from childhood days when he got too close to a polecat.” “Hows ya manage with a native as ya companion? He looks mighty fierce and none too friendly.” “Don't worry, Slim. His best quality is loyalty. And that means a lot. Just like all of you seem very loyal to this Big Boss. Tell me about him.” “Well, he is big, very BIG. And he is the Boss, very Bossy. What more is there to say?” “Well, Slim. We could tell how generous he is.” “Y'all means like when he lets us share his ribs, Keyes?” “Yeah, there is that,Tiny, but he treats us well.” “He has ta if he wants our help. This too big a place to run alone. But I sure does likes his ribs. Da ya remember the one from down Laredo way? She was so-o luscious... “ “Okay, Tiny, I don't think he needs to know everything. Let's look over these beeves.”


As the mournful night drifted by her window, Susanna knew nothing of her future, and very little of her past. Every person in the train car, including herself, drew shallow breaths under the dampened light. Cigarette sighs hung in the air, and a dozen sullen eyelids drooped down to the floor. Susanna stole secret glances at the others, when she dared. She liked to imagine what brought them here, onto this dark, creaking train, hidden beneath the belly of midnight. One woman had coarse hands and sensitive eyes. She was loosely wrapped in a work uniform: the night shift. Maybe she worked at night to feed her children during the day… maybe she had multiple jobs… maybe this was the only one she could find. Whatever her reality was, the woman seemed gentle, if only a little resigned. Then Susanna looked behind her to see a tired man yawn back into his seat. He had a face made of lines. The creases on his forehead were parallel to his blocky eyebrows, to his narrow eyes, to his furrowed mustache, and to his wiry lips. Every time he yawned, he seemed to fold into himself like an accordion. Susanna wondered what could’ve made this man so exhausted. And if it was just tonight. She looked again at his eroded face–her guess was no. It was every night. The night sky raced beside the train and finally began to slow. It moaned as it eased itself into the station. Susanna reminded herself that she had her own story, too. Her own secret that she couldn’t seem to forget. She was running away. Several hours ago, Susanna had thrown everything she needed into a large, canvas bag. An extra pair of clothes, a toothbrush, her medicine, and her portfolio. She forgot to bring her books. When she first boarded, she merely shrugged this off; but now she cursed herself. This was going to be a long journey. The car doors gasped open. A few people shuffled off, a couple people meandered in, but the gentle woman and tired man stayed. A part of Susanna wanted to turn and talk to them. So, what brings you here? She would say, softly. But Susanna also knew that traveling alone brought not only freedom, but danger. Especially for a young woman like herself. Susanna must have dozed off, for when she awoke, the train had halted at another stop. More people stepped off, but none stepped on. Just as the doors began to shut, a stray hand flew forward, clasped onto the rim of the door, and yanked the rest of its owner on board. His young, wide eyes frantically searched the faces of the other passengers. The door, by now, had closed, and the train resumed chugging along. Yet the man still had not taken his seat. Something about him seemed unusually urgent and fresh. His suit was pressed, his stubble shaven, and his gaze anxious-yet-alert. Susanna was unsure if the man’s appearance made him more trustworthy or more suspicious. Keep an eye on him, she told herself. Never trust a stranger. Suddenly, the man’s eyes met Susanna’s, and something in them flickered. Not something like fright or anger, but something like… Well, Susanna didn’t know what. The man seemed less tense now as he approached her. “Thank God,” he said as he took the seat next to hers. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” “Do I know you?” Susanna snapped at him. The man turned to her, and the frenzy in his face melted. A hint of sadness tinted his eyes. “Oh… I’m sorry. I must’ve mistaken you for somebody else.” Susanna nodded and held her bag closer to her. The man sighed to himself and rubbed his temples. For several quiet minutes, his attention locked to the dark window, and Susanna thought she spotted a few tears inching down his cheeks. Eventually, he turned back to her. “What brings you here?” he said, softly. Susanna looked at the man’s dewey, pleading eyes. She could almost see him as a little boy, as though he were a child crawling towards a stranger for comfort. “Well, to tell you the truth,” Susanna smiled warmly at him, “I’m headed to New York. To sell my paintings.” The man was impressed. “New York, you say!” Susanna nodded proudly. She seemed to have cheered him up. “Are those some of your paintings there?” He pointed to the portfolio sticking out of her bag. Susanna beamed, took them out, and slid them towards the man. He held the pages carefully in his hands. Delicate strokes appeared almost stitched onto each canvas. The first was a self-portrait: a girl like Susanna staring sideways at the viewer, a glint of mischief shining in her eye. Then came a series of imagined portraits, fictional faces that Susanna must have conjured from her dreams. A young soldier, his serious brow furrowed above a familiar, kind gaze; three middle-aged women walking down fifth avenue, their faces bent by laughter you could almost hear; and two children, a brother and sister, the boy helping the younger girl into the loving arms of an oak tree. The final portrait was of an old woman standing alone on a beach at dusk. Her face, barely turned towards us, was smudged beyond recognition. Like a dream Susanna just couldn't quite place. “These are beautiful.” Susanna could not doubt the honesty of his words; they trickled out from somewhere deep within him. Smiling, she shrugged. “I have more at home, but these were all I could carry.” Susanna recalled what she’d told herself a few stops before– do not blindly trust this man. But something about him seemed so soft, so forgiving. It was like she’d known him all his life. “Who are you looking for?” Susanna asked. The man’s voice gasped like the opening of the train doors. “Just… someone who ran away… someone I lost.” The man’s hand reached out again, this time wrapping Susanna’s hand in his warm grasp. Suddenly, Susanna saw it all: packing her bag, running from her house in the pouring rain, boarding the subway, getting strange looks, taking her seat, and watching the night chase after her. Now she looked back down, saw the man’s hands and hers. Hers were so… old. They looked like wrinkled papers, loose, purple, and etched with age. Frantically, she looked out the window. Where was she going again? But the tunnel was only filled with murky darkness. All that Susanna could see was the reflection of a watery old woman staring back at her through the smudged night. The lights flickered. Her attention swerved back to the inside of the train car; it was empty except for the two of them. She turned back to the man beside her and pleaded: “What is happening?” The man rubbed her arm soothingly. “Let’s get you home, Ma.” At the next stop, when the train moaned to a halt, a young man held the hand of his elderly mother and helped her step off the car. The woman turned and watched the sliding doors breathe shut one last time. Then she whispered to her son. “Matthew?” “Yeah, Ma?” “When you got on the train, was it just me in the car?” Matthew shook his head, earnestly. “No. There were some other passengers, too.” “Did you see the woman in the uniform? And the very tired man behind me?” The man hesitated before nodding. “Yes. And yes.” I smiled. “Thank you, Matthew.” As my son and I climbed up the stairs and out of the station, the lilac sky peaked mercifully down at the both of us. “Am I still painting?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the yawning sun. Matthew lifted into a grin. “Yes.” “What do I paint?” “A lot of things,” he shrugged, “But you’ve always had an eye for faces. People.” He pointed across the road to a mural splashed on the side of a brick wall. It was a mosaic of five women– each a different age, each a different temper, but all of them with the same compassionate glint in her eye. “See Ma,” he said, “that’s you.” One by one, the golden sunlight moved onto each of the women. As it did, each of them turned and bravely faced the violet dawn.


Break Free by Jay Lugun Ara tossed and turned. Another sleepless night for her. It was impossible to ignore how things kept repeating themselves in her life and how it became difficult solving them by herself. She thought instead of begging for assistance and understanding here and there, she would feel better if she prayed. Ara was being unfairly treated by her employer. In a few weeks she would be redeployed and had been summoned to leave her office. Working for the company in another state would have suited her was she younger. Now it was an absolute no-no. They simply could not eject her from her seat and replace her but all her supplication had been to no avail. The day before as she walked along the corridor to her boss office, the knob of the door was momentarily stuck and she needed to push hard for it to open. It appeared strange because she had opened and entered that office many a times. Just as she was struggling with that issue suddenly external events also appeared to align with her feelings. She could not help noticing how some days back, while heading towards a colleague office, she found him standing and locking his door at an unusual time. And guess what? That colleague told her squarely that he could not do anything to help her and excused herself. Stuck and closed doors. She wondered if they were signs that there would be delays in her endeavour or people would not stand by her? Or mere coincidences? Whatever they were, she would not be discouraged because she was certain that she was being discriminated against. Other colleagues would simply not answer her calls and Ara was infuriated as she had always stood by them in tough times! She thought of another manager in the same company. Someone she had a short date with in the past but she backed off as they had very little in common. When she called him he listened and even proposed her to meet him over lunch. What a relief! Finally, someone was out there for her! Her respite was short lived because she discovered her ex-boyfriend had other plans and was more interested in having her in his bed! She sat up in bed as she assimilated all the lessons learnt during the past week and how lonely and desperate she felt. At first she thought she would simply give up her fight specially as she found nobody gave a damn about her or how the odds were threatening her health and life. It was so unexpected from a company she served for twenty long years of her life and where she sacrificed many a pleasures in order to invest herself totally in her work. But it was clear that hard work and commitment were dismissed by the new team in management. She was merely another cog in the machine. She could still find another job if she left but she would not lose heart so easily. She wanted to shout out at their faces that it was against the laws of the country to treat her the way they did but she knew her new boss would not appreciate and perhaps make a hell of her life. Yet she mustered all her courage and prepared a long and legally correct letter but the moment she decided to email it to the human resource department, her laptop went blank and started an interminable configuration! She never sent the email. Another blockage or sign? It was hard for her to figure out. Karma seemed all set against her! She cried and felt lonely as never before. To cut out the all-consuming stress from her life, the young woman decided to stop trying for a while. She felt she was living in a bubble thinking day and night of all her options, of her finance, of her choices and she felt sick deep down that her life no longer belonged to her. Rather she was a mere puppet in her employers’ hands. People she had thought to be her friends were simply coworkers and it was entirely her fault if she believed of finding friends or considerate colleagues in her workplace. The following morning, feeling drained out, she left for a long walk in the nearby park. She listened to her inner voice and tried to comprehend what was happening to her and the reasons behind it all. She felt serene as she sat and listened to the rustling of the leaves and some distant birds chirping. Nature seemed to absorb all her pains and distress. Ara also felt refreshed and energized and walked back home and prepared herself a large and generous breakfast. It was days since she had had a decent meal. Besides, she took the day off and cleaned her two room apartment thoroughly. After taking a bath, it was as if she had taken a rebirth. She experienced so much freshness and vigour. The connection felt in the park stayed with her as she went on with her house chores. Later as Ara dozed off on her sofa bed, she prayed the Universe with all her might to send her a sign as to what lay ahead for her. She sensed she was ready to let go and accept her fate because she was too disgusted to fight any more. It was perhaps better finally to leave. When she woke up it was 04:44 on her mobile. She took it and immediately scrolled her contact list and smiled. She knew exactly what her next step would be. During a residential work seminar and a chance meeting a couple of years back, she had come across one of the leading directors in another major branch. That elderly lady had expressed her admiration for Ara’s dedication towards the company. They had shared a great deal together during that week end going for swims and other sports events organized by the company in a spirit of team building. The director’s parting words had been to contact her anytime should she need it. But Ara never did because there was no need of that until now.  She left a message to her praying with all her soul that she would call back and she did later on that same day. Lady Luck took on her to inquire and a few days later the matter was cleared up in Ara’s favour! Ara was dumbfounded! How could it be possible that a chance meeting a couple of years back solve a burning issue that was threatening to capsize her life? How was it possible that she woke up thinking of that director? How did her brain made all that connection and came up with exactly what she needed? It was so surreal, so bizarre that she would never be able to explain it to herself! How could she ever explain that to someone else? She felt the Universe did indeed send her a sign at a moment she had tried everything and everyone she knew could help. It was a most incredible occurrence and it happened after she had time to find out some bitter truths about her colleagues’ sincerity towards her. It was as if that incident occurred with a purpose. That of awakening her to the people in her life. Or was it to awaken her to other truths about Existence? Her own dilemma appeared a calculated divine design. Ara had the feeling she was not alone and there was a power somewhere and she could connect to that source to have her prayers answered.


Dear You, I'm still mad at you. You should know that better than anyone. I inherited your temper and Dad's love for books and writing. You might wonder why I started my letter with ' Dear You ' but you're smart, I got that from you, you'll be able to figure it out. I don't know if I'll be able to forgive you, and it's not like you'll write back or maybe even read this once you see the return address, but my shrink says that it'll be good for me, and Dad agreed. He doesn't talk about you, he's gotten really good at changing the subject.

Lately I've been looking at myself in the mirror and thinking of you. I look at myself in the mirror and think about how I look almost exactly like you. Something I've always resented. You have the same butt length black hair, except you always wear it in a messy bun, I put mine in a ponytail or braid. I stare at it's reflection in the mirror, glossy and thick, occasionally annoying. You have the same golden-hazel eyes that have those flecks of green and blue in them that have always mystified me. They're slightly slanted so it makes me look like I have Asian ancestry, which I don't. Though you've always loved things like sushi and bon mei, so different from me, who loves foods like cheeseburgers and lasagna. We both have very tanned skin, almost like coffee mixed with creamer, that light brown. I never liked coffee but you love it. I have a light sprinkling of freckles across my nose and the tops of my cheeks, which I still claim are from Abuelita and not from you. Though you have them too and Abuelita doesn't have those freckles anymore. Have you seen her since The Thing? Probably not. She's been over a lot recently, she gets this look in her eyes though whenever she sees me open the door. I know that it's because I look so much like you and it hurts to see me because of The Thing. As I write this, I keep glancing at myself in the mirror. We're so similar, and it honestly makes me a bit sick. I'm getting this queasy feeling in my stomach now as I write it. We're both tall, though you were always a few inches taller. We both have long legs, you always joked with me about how guys would stare at yours in high school and laughed when I told you that they did the same to me. We even dress in a similar style. A mix of hippie and punk rock and trendy. Although you always were a bit more trendy than I am, I've always liked to stand out, while you like to fit in, to be accepted. You probably still are, both accepted and trendy. Unlike me, who's always been 'chosen last' like in that song. Do you remember when I played it for you?

You said that you didn't like it and told me to change the song to something happier. And when I asked you why you didn't like it you hesitated before telling me that you weren't always popular or trendy, you used to be that person that was 'chosen last'. I couldn't believe it, and I still can't. You were always chosen first to my memory, by Dad, by Abuelita, by your friends, even by me. And by that man you ran off with. That man you started a new life with. And I had to find out from Dad that you got a divorce. You didn't even say goodbye. Not a hug, not a kiss on the forehead while I slept, not a whispered ' I love you '. Dad told me that you left in the middle of the night, you stormed out with just a suitcase and your purse. You didn't try to text or call me to explain everything, no phony excuses about, having to leave for love, or because you just couldn't stand Dad anymore. Nothing. Every time I look in the mirror, when I'm checking to see if my hair looks okay, or when I'm parting it after a shower, I see your face looking back at me. It sounds, and feels like something from a horror movie or novel, the kind that I like to read in summer, with a cold iced tea. Because it's less scary that way, in the sunshine and with the good taste of tea dancing on your tongue. You never understood my love of the thrill of horror books, you preferred your romance novels with swooning women on the covers. I hate seeing your face where mine should be in the mirror, reflected back at me. It makes me feel even more angry at you, I want to never look in the mirror again. I want to change something about how I look. Maybe I'll convince Dad to let me dye my hair blue or get more ear piercings or use more makeup. Even though you know how much I hate it. You always used a lot, especially towards the end. I thought that you just felt like it, or wanted to look nice for Dad, but it was for him all along wasn't it? I know though, that I should just move on, try to forget about you and go on with my life, get a boyfriend, graduate high school and go to college, get married, have kids, be happy. But I'm afraid, I'm afraid that you're going to come back someday, hoping that I'll choose you again. I'm afraid that I'll see a pleading, trying-to-be-pitiful, expression on your face, my face and that I'll cave, and I'll let you in. And I'm afraid that I'm going to get hurt again, because you'll leave me. You'll find someone else. But there's also the possibility that you'll have another me, another little copy of yourself. Another little girl you'll raise and smile at and help up when she falls down. Another girl who you might leave, and she'll have to feel what I'm feeling. The feeling of anger and disgust and sadness every time I - or she - feels when we look in the mirror. And that possibility, is what scares me more. I still love you, you know. I'm not going to call you Mom, you don't deserve that anymore. I just looked in the mirror again, at my eyes, my hair, the naturally red lips that we share, the long fingered hands, and that odd-guy-out freckle on my right shoulder. I feel like an exact copy of you. But I know I'm not. I don't leave family behind, I wouldn't leave my daughter to grow up without a mother. So now, when I look at my reflection, when I see your face where mine should be, I'll try to remember to be better. I'll try to remember not to be like you, to not abandon the people I love. So goodbye. . . Mom. Love, your daughter, Alona.


“How difficult would it be to screw all my furniture into the floor?” Samantha contemplated while washing the dishes for the third time. "Maybe glue would be better." Gawking at the clock, she moved on to fluff each pillow twice. She then lit her eucalyptus-spearmint candle. It was made for stress relief but was probably just a placebo. Rushing into meditation was counterintuitive, but her definition of productivity prioritized quantity over quality. Legs crossed and eyes closed, she repeated, “Have fun. Have fun. Have fun.” Last week, she met a guy for a walk at a forest preserve. His conspiracy theories dominated the conversation. Five days before that, she met another man for drinks. He refused to tip the waiter. A week earlier, she met a man for coffee. He was not the man in his photos. Samantha needed a good date. Some would say she was desperate. Others would suggest near hopeless. After watching a self-help documentary, she became infatuated with control. Count the shoes. Reorganize the bookshelf. Measure the portions. Trim the house plants every day. Tape the floor to mark where the furniture goes. Triple check emails. Triple check text messages before sending them. Go to bed at 10:30 p.m. every night. Rise at 7:00 a.m. every morning. No room for error. Tonight, she had a date scheduled with Brian. She described him to her friends as "a simple man." She scurried around her apartment trying on different shoes, shirts, pants, and skirts. One garment short of her whole wardrobe. She tested her make-up in various lightings and at different angles. Jumping from the family room to the bathroom to the kitchen. Snapping profiles. Approximating his point of view, assuming his dating profile listed the correct height. She counted 100 strokes of the hairbrush and reapplied her deodorant twice. Despite all the effort to get ready, it took her even more to leave, as if she was allergic to the doorknob. She didn’t have OCD but hopped around every crack in the sidewalk. Better safe than sorry. She got into her car, locked it, double-checked all the windows were shut, and triple-checked the volume sat at 10. Not 9 or 11, 10. Even though she had been to this bar before, she still used her phone for directions, checking her estimated time of arrival every four seconds. She would arrive ten minutes early and get seated first. She needed to be seated first. She needed the seat with a better view of her surroundings. The waitress would not spook her. She would be protected. She parked further away than she planned, so she hustled a bit. An increased heart rate did not help her nerves. And then she stepped on a crack. Lord. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Have fun. Have fun. Have fun.” She opened the restaurant door and entered. She tested a smile on the host, warming up for her big event. “Hi, I have a reservation for Samantha.” “Follow me.” She flicked her eyes between looking at the floor and the people she walked past. In her pocket, she grazed her thumb along her fingernails, back and forth forever. Within thirty feet of her table, she saw Brian sitting in her seat. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Have fun. Have fun.” She thanked the host and settled for the second-best position. “Hi, Samantha,” he started. “It’s nice to meet you.” She remembered that it was okay to say that at the beginning of the date. If he said it at the end, it meant he wasn’t interested. Samantha didn’t want another bad date, especially one that was caused by her. “Hi, Brian, nice to meet you as well.” Under the table, she drummed her fingers on her thighs. She always followed a specific rhythm and pattern, and now was not the time to challenge tradition. Strictly using her middle fingers, she’d hit three times on the left leg, three on the right, six alternating between the two limbs, and two on both legs at the same time. She only stopped to flip through the menu. He talked for three minutes straight, let her squeeze in five words while he wet his throat, interrupted her, and carried on for another two minutes. He gave her plenty of time to repeat her mantra to herself. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Have fun.” She learned he worked in banking, had five siblings, enjoyed mountain biking, dabbled in video games, enjoyed medieval literature, dreamed of being a history teacher, talked with his mouth almost full, and that he rambled when he got nervous. “Breathe in. Breathe out.” When he started talking about politics, she ordered another drink. He still wasn’t done with his. When she finished her dinner, he had half his plate left. When the waiter asked if they would have dessert, Samantha faked a yawn. She winced in guilt when he insisted on paying for the meal. “Breathe in.” They grabbed their things and exited the restaurant.

“It was nice to meet you, Brian,” she said. As he tried for a hug, she excused herself to get to bed early. “I’m so tired. I don’t know why.” Walking back to her car, the once all-seeing woman had now become blind. Perhaps, she stepped on each crack on purpose. Like a missile programmed to hit its target every time. Once home, she kicked off her shoes and let them topple over and fall out of their assigned area. She plopped onto the couch, shifting the furniture out of its taped-off territory, yet she didn’t flinch. For the first time in months, she was steady. She had no plans to do the dishes. Her pillows would remain unfluffed for weeks. She was done with meditation. She never liked it anyway. With her coat still on, she made her way over to her collection of candles. She dusted off a vanilla candle her mother gifted her and lit it. Its one-wick flame marked the start of this woman’s new Olympic games. She didn’t give a fuck anymore.


“Oh! There it is!” Jacy said.

Finally, she pulled out a golden ring, covered in mucus. She reached in again and pulled out several pieces of uncooked pasta, five lego pieces, three screws and a nut, six beads of different colors, a piece of blue string, a button, a red pencil eraser, and a spring from a pen.

She reached in deeper with her forceps and pulled out a hair clip. “Aha!” she said, “That should do it.” But he shook his head no and wailed. There was more.

“This might be uncomfortable,” the doctor said. The shiny forceps went into his nose. There was something up there, definitely. Milo whimpered but stayed still as she pulled out a small pom-pom. “Is that all?” she asked. He gently shook his head.

She reached into a drawer and pulled out a piece of silvery metal. It had two long legs like a pair of chopsticks attached at the end, but longer. “Let’s try the forceps,” she said. She put them back. No, that wasn’t going to work. She looked over at the tray and picked up the scalpel. It was sharp - if she had to cut, she would do it. But Milo squealed as best he could and backed away. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Don’t worry.” The doctor used her light and looked up in there. There was certainly something stuck inside. It looked white and fluffy. “I can see it!” she said. “I’ll get it out in a jiffy.” “He can’t breathe through his nose,” Jacy explained. “He hasn’t been talking all day. Maybe...he...put something...in there?” she offered, tentatively. After what seemed an eternity, with Milo wheezing the whole time, the doctor came in and introduced herself. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked, looking at Jacy. The nurse checked his temperature (normal), and his pulse (a little high, to be expected under the circumstances), and his height (pretty tall for his age). “The doctor will be in shortly,” she said.

Jacy helped Milo to sit on the paper-covered bed, and sat on the little chair herself. She patted his hand comfortingly.

Just then, the nurse brought them into a small room with a bed and a chair and told them to wait.

At the front desk, the receptionist only asked their names and had them sit on the chairs, where Jacy read “The Nose Book” to Milo until he started to squirm.

Jacy hailed a cab. “Hurry!” she told the driver, and gave him mom’s credit card. He didn’t flinch - he’d seen lots of kids running around town before. They got there in record time.

“Oh no!” she said. “Come on, we’ve got to get you to the doctor!” He walked over to the lego bin and picked up another one. This time, she saw it go straight into his nose. He smiled, then cried loudly, in a strange hiccupy voice.

“What are you doing, Milo?” she asked. He did seem a little blue. His mouth was open and he was panting.

But now Milo was dancing around on one leg, and trying to get a lego near his face. He wasn’t able to talk at all.

She suddenly remembered the ring and looked around. A moment ago, it had been on her hand, and now it wasn’t anywhere. Well, it must be around here somewhere. She would find it later.

Then she did the dishes, tidied up their toys, swept the floor and made mac and cheese. But Milo wasn’t hungry. He just mumbled to himself.

Jacy decided she’d played by herself enough. She needed to be a good big sister. She played legos with Milo, they did some drawings, and they even made bead bracelets. Mom would be proud. She tried on the earrings, and the necklace, and finally, the ring. It was the most beautiful, and fit her finger a little loosely. She took them all off except the ring, walking around with it and admiring her hand.

Mom’s dresser was a place of magic. She dusted herself with the powder, and sprayed herself with the perfume. She walked around in the heels and draped herself with the scarves. Then she saw the jewelry box.

Mom had left her old purse on the sofa. Inside, Jacy found a credit card. She stuck it in her pocket secretly. Then she walked upstairs.

“I will!” Jacy promised, and shut the door and squealed. She immediately ran to the cookie jar and ate four, letting Milo out of his playpen and giving him a few, which he stuffed clumsily into his face.

“Okay... I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. The number’s on the fridge if you need me. Look after your brother,” she said, giving her a kiss. Her heels clacked down the walk and into the waiting cab. She turned back to say, “Be good!” “Oh Mom! Of course! I’m old enough, please?” she begged. “Do you think you can manage on your own? Really?” Mom asked, looking skeptical and hopeful at once.

“I don’t need one! I can take care of him!” Jacy said, jumping up and down. “I’m just going to call the babysitter,” Mom said, picking up the phone. Jacy’s face fell.

“Thanks, honey. I’m headed to a meeting, I need to go for the evening and I can’t leave you here alone.” She dumped out her purse and transferred the items to a different one.

“Wow Mom,” Jacy said. “You look great!”

Mom walked down the stairs in a dress and high heels, lipstick on her face and hair all shiny and neat.

Milo was toddling around in his playpen trying to stack blocks. They kept falling, and he found that hilarious. She just watched him for a while, then continued coloring.

“I’ll just put this away and get dressed. Watch Milo for a moment, won’t you honey?” Mom asked. Jacy nodded. There wasn’t much to do.

Jacy’s eyes shone. It was really lovely. She couldn’t wait. “You Grandma gave me this,” Mom said. “And someday soon, it will be yours.” It was adult sized, but shiny. On the sides were inscribed the words Peace, Love, and Happiness.

“Jacy, honey, I want to show you something,” Mom said, holding a shiny golden ring.


Dave moves the boxes from our shipment this morning in his usual burly silence. His brows are hard-set and he keeps his head down, blocking out everything else but the task at hand. I wonder, for the hundredth time, how someone like him could stand working at a florist, where everything is sweet-smelling and full of color. From the first moment we began working together about three years ago, I could see that everything about him was in stark contrast to our surroundings: always dressing in dark colors, always a stony expression, seldom bothering to utter a word. At least I try to be professional. “It’s good that these bulbs came early,” I say, “But how are we going to get a truck on short notice? We’ll need more than our van to get them to the branch in Loterville, and there’s not enough room to just keep them here.” “Already got one, Adeline,” Dave mutters, almost sounding bored. “A truck? When?” “When we ordered the bulbs.” “How could you reserve one so far in advance?” “I know a guy.” “The same guy we usually talk to?” “Hmph.” I can’t tell if that’s a yes or no. As stoic as he is, it seems to be worse when I’m around. Like he just can’t be bothered. I’ve always wondered what it is about me that he doesn’t seem to care for, but then he’s not exactly what they call a ‘people person’. He minds his own business and expects everyone else to mind theirs. But today he seems on edge, and once again it’s up to me to keep things bearable. “Well, in any case they’ll be really happy to get these. The blooms are best I’ve seen in a while. I like them over the white ones. What do you think?” “They’re flowers. They’re all nice.” “Yeah but which do you really like ?” “I like them all.” It’s hopeless. He might as well be saying he doesn’t like any of them. I bet if there was a gray-colored flower he’d like it. It would match his soul. “We need to recount these,” he says, straightening up to survey the boxes, “There’s an uneven number. We might be missing a few.” “I’ll get the list.” I jump up, slightly relieved to get a few moments away from the curmudgeon. I dip into my office by the back rooms and get the clipboard with our list of orders on my desk. On my way out, a flash of color catches my eye. The door to the next room is slightly ajar, and I can see what looks like a bouquet of bright-colored flowers sitting on the desk beyond. Curious, I deftly push open the door and walk up to the flowers to inspect. It’s a lovely bouquet. Yellow mums, marigolds, red roses and lots of pink lilies, tastefully punctuated with baby’s breath. All held in a pretty crystal vase. There’s a card sticking up at the top: Adeline, Happy Birthday! Enjoy the flowers <3 That’s so sweet! This must have come from our boss - she sends me a bouquet every year on my birthday. She always uses the choicest blooms. But this year she’s a day early. I stoop down to smell one of the lilies when I hear steps in the hall behind me. “You weren’t supposed to see that!” I whirl around to find Dave standing in the doorway, his frame nearly taking up the whole space. His shoulders are tense and he’s running his palms down his sides. “Not yet, anyway…” he adds under his breath. “I just –” I gesture vaguely to the vase of flowers, taken off guard by his sudden change in demeanor. Dave sighs. “Well, happy birthday,” he says, sounding defeated and gesturing vaguely as I did toward the bouquet. “Thanks,” I reply uncertainly, “They’re really nice. But they’re early.” “Yeah, they…came in this morning.” Dave’s being weird about me seeing them. I can’t imagine why – though it’s a surprise to have them today, it happens every year. Why would he be bothered? He’s never bothered. “I’ll get the truck,” he says, “We can start loading the bulbs and make the shipment this afternoon.” “But we haven’t recounted the boxes yet,” I say, waving my clipboard in the air. “I found the other ones; we forgot to bring them in,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away. * We make it to Loterville by 2 pm and the delivery goes without a hitch. Just when we’re wrapping things up with the shop owner, our boss Susan DeGellinger sweeps in through the front door, tinkling the shop bell hanging above it. “Hey all!” she says with a bright smile. Her blonde hair is up in an elegant bun and she’s dressed in business casual, Starbucks in hand. “I was just thinking I might run into you guys here – I heard you got the bulbs in.” “Yeah,” I say, “Just finished with the delivery.” “Great.” “Oh, and thank you so much for the flowers.” “Flowers?” Susan walks up to the front counter and sets down her coffee and bag. “Yeah, the bouquet for my birthday.” “Oh,” She leans sideways on the counter with a frown, “I was going to get you an edible arrangement – spoilers! But maybe Anna ordered them?” she turns to the shop owner who had just returned behind the counter. “No, wasn’t me,” Anna replies. “Oh…” I glance up at Dave standing beside me. His hands are shoved in his pockets and there’s a glimmer of sweat near his hairline. What is with him? And why did he lie about the flowers? “Maybe they’re from a secret admirer,” says Susan, waggling her eyebrows. “Yeah right," I laugh, "Especially since almost every guy I know is either taken or unavailable.” “You never know,” she shrugs. Dave clears his throat. “I’m going to close up the truck so we can head back.” He shoves a thumb over his shoulder and stalks off toward the back of the shop. “Is he alright? He didn’t look so good,” says Susan. “Yeah he’s been acting a little weird today. Maybe just one of his moods.” “If he gets worse tell him to go home. The man’s going to work himself to death one of these days.” “Will do.” * When we get back to the shop, Dave is completely silent. We go about our separate tasks – he’s messing around with the cash register and I pick up a broom to sweep. We’re closed today, so we’re just doing some housekeeping before wrapping up. I grip the broom handle as I sweep with slow, deliberate strokes. I want to confront him about the bouquet, but hesitant to break the ice. I keep predicting he will deny the whole thing, but he clearly knew about it, and obviously wanted to keep it from me till my actual birthday tomorrow. So what is he not telling me? I risk a glance at him. He’s frowning at receipts from yesterday. How do I go about this? Do I just… Oh, to hell with it. He’s going to be disagreeable anyway. “Why did you lie about the flowers?” He freezes. His frown deepens and he doesn’t move for almost a full minute. Then he slowly gathers the receipts to clip together. “I didn’t lie,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes fixed on the countertop. “But you knew I thought they came from Susan, except she didn’t get me any this year and you didn’t tell me who they were actually from.” “Does it matter?” “Yes, it does.” “You got flowers for your birthday. It’s a nice thing. Who cares if it’s from Susan or not?” “I care, because you’re being really weird about it and I want to know why.” Dave heaves a sigh. “Look, just tell me—” “It doesn’t matter!” he blurts. “Who cares? I don’t care –” “Yeah because you don’t care about anything!” His tone sets me off. I shove the broom into a corner and cross my arms. “You don’t have to tell me you don’t care. I know that! And I know you don’t care about me and that’s fine, I just want to know where they came from. That’s it! Is that so hard?” He finally looks up at me. His gaze is intense, with something like regret etched between his brows. I stare right back, waiting for his response. When it doesn’t come, I scoff. “Whatever. I’ll just take them and go home.” I stomp toward the back rooms. As I pass behind the counter, he leaps a couple steps forward to grab my arm. “Wait,” he says. I look up at him about to protest, but his expression stops me in my tracks. He looks…sad? “I’m sorry,” he whispers. I blink at him. He loosens his grip on my arm and shoves his hands into his pockets like he did earlier at the other shop. “I’m sorry. For always – well, I know I’m not a joy to work with.” He shrugs. “It’s just that…I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he rubs the back of his neck and avoids my incredulous stare. It takes him a few moments to seemingly gather himself before taking a deep breath. “The flowers are mine – er, they came from me.” I blink again. “You?” “Yeah. They…always have.” “What do you mean?” “Susan never sent you flowers for your birthday. But I always signed them with her name.” “What?” Dave takes another breath, still looking anywhere but directly at me. His face is rose red. “Why would you do that?” I ask. “Because…I wanted…I thought if I…” he sighs, “I know we’re not usually on the friendliest of terms. I thought it might be weird if I just gave them to you.” “Well, what’s wrong with that? I’ve always liked them, and it’s my birthday anyway. What would be so weird about that?” He sucks in a breath, shaking his head slightly. He looks at me with a strange mix of uncertainty and eagerness, like he’s asking a question or… Oh. Wow. Okay, this is so far out of left field – no, it’s so far out of the stadium, the city, the continent. How? This is the guy who shrugs everything off and ignores me and even sometimes avoids me and...it’s all backwards. I don’t know what to say and we stand there awkwardly for what feels like ages. I look up and see Dave – flushed and sweating buckets – and it’s like seeing a whole new person. Where has he been all this time? I consider for a second. Maybe the real Dave is completely different from the one I know. Maybe he never meant to be so standoffish. Maybe he just couldn’t… I step forward and tilt my head to catch his eye. At last he seems able to meet mine, and now his dark brown gaze is so steady it doesn’t break. “You could have just given me the flowers.” He takes a shaky breath. “Yeah well…” “And if you didn’t hate me all this time, you didn’t have to always act like you did.” “You think I hate you?” he looks genuinely pained. I gesture vaguely with a look that says well, duh. Another sigh and a shrug. “I guess it’s just my way to cope.” “Still doesn’t give you a pass.” “I know. Sorry.” More awkward silence. This whole thing has taken such a wild turn. Part of me wants to dig further in, to talk more about why he’s always so closed off and whether things will change from now on. But in the moment, it feels like there’s nothing more to be said. There will be more time for digging later. Maybe. I hope. “You are good at arrangements, though,” I offer tentatively. He looks up and breaks a half-smile. I’ve never seen him do that, and I’m almost surprised his face doesn’t crack. But I have to admit it’s a really nice smile. “Thanks,” he says. “So…I’m going to take that one home now.” I point over my shoulder toward the back room where my bouquet is waiting. “Yeah, go ahead.” I’m about to turn away - then pause. “Dave?” “Yeah?” “…It’s kind of nice to know that you don’t hate me.” He looks right at me with another half-smile and says, “Not even a little.” Suddenly I feel my own face grow hot. What is happening?! Before he can notice I whirl around and disappear into the back hallway.


Tim was all alone this night. It was not a stroke of sheer luck but a well-planned move. Tim's flat was a bachelor pad. His friends would make a point to stay till midnight every day after an intense day at work. Someone would even leave the bachelor pad in the morning.

One day, Tim decided to take a sabbatical from the routine and enjoy some alone time. He was longing to spend some alone time after reading a book on Meditation. That book, which he picked up accidentally at the dental clinic, ignited a burning desire to experiment with the practice of Meditation.

He brought scented candles in the lunch recess from the nearby shop, hiding from his colleagues who were busy enjoying the free time of an hour between intense work hours. Tim worked in a Data Mining Company, and he had to analyze those intense data to define a shopping pattern of some random John or Jane Doe. 'Listen, I am going to visit my aunt, and I will have my dinner over there. And he insisted on visiting my flat after that. So, sorry friends, bachelor-pad will remain close for today.' said Tim to his friends. 'Give us the keys and ring me when you elave your aunt house. We will exit the premises after that.' said one of the clever friends. 'No, Robert. She might insist to visit before the dinner, and in that case, it will be a problem,' clarified Tim. The argument went back and forth for thirteen minutes. After which, the friends agreed to drop the plan of getting together at the bachelor pad for one night. They agreed to meet at another friend's house this night.

Tim hurried to his flat and locked the door. He did not even turn on the lights because he knew his friends. They will take this route to check whether Tim was saying the right thing or not.

He lightened the scented candles and turned on the ambient music as suggested in the book. He closed his eyes and tried to enter the state of thoughtlessness. It was hard, but it was not impossible, according to the book. He began by imagining the white circle on his forehead and started concentrating on that. He remembered the things that he was not supposed to remember. He continued with his effort but was not able to reach that state,

The police siren at maximum decibel hindered his effort, not once but twice. That was it. He was not meant to meditate as per his thoughts that were adamant on staying inside his mind. Only if they leave and empty the space, Tim can enjoy the infinite bliss of Meditation. But, the thoughts were not leaving him alone and so, was the police siren. It was not normal as his locality boasts of the lowest crime rate in the city, and he was the product of that. But the police siren meant something was not right. He decided to take a break and enjoy the fresh air. With all the lights closed, no candlelight and no ambient music, he entered the balcony and sat on his lawn chair enjoying the cool breeze and scenic view of nightlife in the city. Tim enjoyed some alone time, and he was glad that he opted for that. Darius and Lyla were not glad at all for choosing that night to rob a betting den of the local mafia family. The lovely couple who were professional thieves somehow decided to rob the betting den and were now chased by men in uniform and men in suits. The amount they took would be enough for five lifetimes, but the risk attached with that amount will not let them enjoy the money for a day.

On the way to exit after the robbery, Darius was exchanging bullets with the mafia bodyguard. He killed one of the sons of the Mafia in that gun battle and also injured a cop on the mafia's payroll. That was the reason that the licensed and unlicensed guns were after them. Darius and Lyla somehow managed to enter Tim's building. The light of Tim's flat was off. The door was locked. So Darius thought of taking refuge in that flat. With years of experience coupled with the fear of getting caught by police or the Mafia, Darius quickly opened the lock. Lucky for them and unlucky for Tim, the security lock was off because Tim forgot to switch it on after entering the flat. He was in a hurry to hide, and thus he failed to enable the lock after punching in the codes. Tim saw them entering but was frightened to do something about it. What can an average build guy who sits all day in the office in front of a computer can do? 'Baby, what now? We can not escape the city with the Mafia and police behind us,' said Lyla. 'I did not knew about cop being present there. He is the reason we are in this shit. Otherwise, the job was easy in and out. Mafia would never report the robbery to police and police would have never chase us,' clarified Darius. 'The robinhood life-style will come to an end, my love.' 'No, there has to be a way. Otherwise, the orphanage and the old-age home would take a hit. Our robbery from the rich and crook sustains both insitution.' 'Now, we are struck. Police knows that we have entered this building, and we will be shot anytime now.' 'My love, whatever we did, I am proud of that. Let us end our life at our own hands.' 'Wait,' said Tim Darius and Lyla were surprised to see Tim and Darius quickly pointed the gun towards Tim. 'Wait, I have a plan. I might help you survive this night. After that you have to do it on your own.' 'But why? and most importantly How?' 'I listened to your conversation. How. Leave that on me.' The doorbell rang, and Tim quickly opened the door. All of his friends entered the flat, and Tim gave some clothes to Darius and Lyla that made them blend in with the others.

They started the music and other stuff on a bachelor-pad. The police were searching every flat of the building but from the outside.

Without a search warrant and that too at this time of night, police failed to locate them. Darius and Lyla survived the night.


Barbara, a gifted storyteller, called the picturesque town of Highink her home. Nestled among rolling hills and lush forests, the town boasted towering trees that seemed to whisper tales of a bygone era. From the depths of her creative abyss, Barbara conjured characters, breathing life into seemingly lifeless words on her journal's pages. Highink's citizens were captivated by her grand tales, immersing themselves in the enchanting worlds she wove. However, even this master storyteller grappled with a formidable foe familiar to many writers: writer's block. Time seemed to lose its meaning as seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to days. A wooden desk held Barbara captive, suffocating her, as her arm resisted movement. Leather-bound pages awaited her pen, yet silence persisted. Trapped, Barbara yearned for escape. She galloped along glistening, stone pathways, seeking inspiration within the enchanted forests surrounding her. Among whispering leaves, rustling trees, and babbling brooks, her creativity still eluded her like a fleeting dream. Ideas slipped through her fingers, like grains of sand slipping through an open palm, evading capture with every attempt. Disheartened, she returned to her desk, where blank pages taunted her, reflecting her creative struggles. Seeking solace, she wandered to the town square, hoping for inspiration. But instead, the townsfolk questioned her absence. Once an engaging storyteller, Barbara vanished like a magician's act, disappearing amidst smoke and mirrors. People longed for her captivating stories, but she asked for their patience. When someone inquired, "How difficult is it to write a story?" she struggled to find the right words, her voice silenced by the weight of uncertainty. Feeling lost and disconnected from her creative muse, she fled, questioning why fate had forsaken her talent. Why couldn't she pen her thoughts down? In the darkness of her struggle, her words flickered away like elusive fireflies, leaving her feeling isolated and alone. Sorrow pounded in her heart as she grappled with her emotions, yearning for the motivation to rekindle her soul's passion. Then, one fateful day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she caught sight of her reflection in its orange glow. The once-confident radiance now waned, replaced by moonlit uncertainty. Drifting into slumber, she pondered the elusive words, refusing to materialize on the page. As she awakened, her eyes were drawn to a key resting on her nightstand—an ancient toy, a gift from her wise and wrinkled former teacher, Mr. Sombers. Attached to the key was a gleaming golden envelope, shimmering with promises of hope. Eagerly, she opened it, which read, "Come to Somber's Store, a bookstore on the outskirts of town. Writing is what your spirit tells you." Memories flooded back, recalling the impact Mr. Sombers had on her as one of her first teachers, igniting her passion for writing. He was a firm advocate of breaking down barriers, believing that everyone, regardless of income or status, deserved the power of the written word. Despite facing dismissal for his radical methods, he bestowed upon Barbara a key and a note, reassuring her that weariness was a shared human experience, and trust in one's journey was paramount. With newfound determination, Barbara embarked on a quest, scouring every store in Highink. The town chuckled at the sight of a struggling writer in despair, unaware of the strength and courage that fueled her search for Mr. Somber's Bookstore. Finally, she stumbled upon the hidden gem, with its marble roofs, wobbly walls, and steadfast lighting. As she stepped inside, an elderly gentleman emerged from his post behind the counter. Glistening rows of manuscripts loomed over her like a tower, evoking a sense of awe and wonder. "Hello, Barbara, it's a pleasure to see you again," he bellowed warmly. Perplexed, Barbara asked, "Can you help me? I can't write anymore. I need to be able to tell stories to the townspeople again. I need them to respect me again." He nodded, his demeanor calm and wise. "Why do you believe you are struggling?" She asked tentatively, "I don't know. I can't speak anymore. My arm won't move, and my thoughts race like wild currents. My ideas escape me; my desk feels like a prison. I used to be talented, but now I've lost my magic." "Do you ever get writer's block?" she inquired, sharing her struggle. "It is as common as the moon rising. The question is how you face it. That's why I taught my students to write freely. Inspiration comes from all sources." Barbara interrupted, "Then, how do you overcome it?" Mr. Sombers closed his notebook and turned to her with a wise smile. "Writing comes from your own experiences: it could be your loss, immersed in darkness, or your proudest achievement sharing stories with the masses. It could be children's laughter, nature's mysteries, or the kindness of people." He paused for a moment, smiling. "You may think you are alone, but thousands experience what you have, and such is life. In this pursuit of creativity, we forget to breathe. We forget to live. We focus too much on one color, instead of seeing a rainbow. We do not experience life in its fullest splendor." "So, what's the secret ingredient to writing?" Barbara inquired. "There is no secret ingredient. You just have to embrace life's highs and lows. You have to break free from your cage; you cannot truly write unless you set yourself free." "Why are you here then? Why are you trapped here? You could be famous!" "I do not need to be famous, Barbara. So many people are trapped in this cycle of moving up; I guess that is why I got fired from your school. I did not follow what society considered acceptable teaching. I just lived a peaceful life, not warped by fantasy." "How does that help me?" "Use my life as a guide, Barbara. Writers find their greatest inspiration by persistence. Embracing your fears can lead you on a grand journey. This experience is necessary. You must find beauty in the ordinary." "Why did you get fired? You could have appealed, right?" "What would that do? The administrators and I had creative differences, but I stood up for what I believed was right," he said confidently. He paused, "That is what your writing must be. Hearing criticisms from others is fine, but sometimes listen to your own heart to see what you believe is right. We have our own beliefs, and we can all pen them. That's what makes writing so magical." "Thank you." She walked out, knowing she had new knowledge. Barbara realized this essential truth: writing is more magical than ever imagined. Experiencing writer's block helps one develop perseverance and accept creative inspiration's natural ups and downs. Growing a flower necessitates dedication, patience, and meticulous care. However, the end outcome is an awe-inspiring spectacle that justifies all the hard work. Writing resembles that hard work. Each moment was a precious step on her artistic odyssey, whether prolific or stagnant.