“Where is everyone? This playground is more boring than you are!” Drizelt whined in an attempt to irritate Brongate with the insult and start an argument. Drizelt could think of plenty of things that would be more fun than arguing with him, but with the playground devoid of children, Brongate was the only being available to pester. Brongate, however, had been ignoring Drizelt’s pathetic attempts to start conflict between them for longer than either could remember, and this latest jab was not nearly enough for Brongate to even need a moment to pause and keep his composure. “We could always go someplace else. It’s not mandatory for you to be at this playground every day, is it?” Brongate stretched out across several of the monkey bars. He was enjoying the brief moment of peace and the sun on his golden exterior.

“Of course it’s not mandatory,” snapped Drizelt. “And it’s not mandatory for you to stay and irritate me either. I don’t need supervision.” Drizelt found Brongate’s constant presence to be quite a nuisance. He was boring and completely unable to have any fun, which in turn seriously limited his ability to have any real fun.

He can’t even have any fun while we wait, thought Drizelt as he spun around backwards and back up on the tallest monkey bar.

Just lying around there waiting to be a killjoy.  He spun himself around forward and back up.

“You know very well that my supervisory duties of you are mandatory for me whether either of us like it or not.” Brongate answered without bothering to look at Drizelt. “Hurrumph,” was Drizelt’s only response and he spun around backwards a few more times as fast as he could.

The monkey bars were unusually high for a modern playground. Most playgrounds nowadays lacked any truly potentially dangerous equipment. Swings were generally the only thing left that could be even mildly dangerous, but most newer playgrounds were built with ground cover made soft by using shredded tires or the like. Kids jumping from the highest point on the swings didn’t even get a bruise. And you could forget hoping for a broken arm or knocked out tooth. It just didn’t happen on new playgrounds full of padding, rounded corners, and squishy ground cover.

That was why Drizely loved this playground the best and was willing to endure a little boredom waiting for kids to finally show up. It wasn’t any fun alone but when it was full of kids it was the best place on Earth! Drizelt could hardly believe his luck to find this place full of sky high monkey bars, what must be the last working roundabout left, and nothing but hard, sharp gravel covering the ground. Kids flying off a seat on the rocking swing set and hitting the ground where they received bloody gashes or serious breaks were a regular occurrence. The roundabout had absolutely earned its title of “merry-go-round of death” with its unusually smooth turning mechanism that allowed unbelievable speeds and the myriad of injuries that happened when a kid flew off and went skidding and bumping across the gravel. Last week, Drizelt convinced a kid to go so fast that when her friend flew off she rolled all the way to the monkey bars.

Ahhh, the monkey bars, he thought, my favorite equipment here.  No one puts in monkey bars this tall anymore. They were a delightfully dangerous geometric configuration of increasingly higher single bars set together but also independent of one another. When a kid fell from the top bar, the sound of bones snapping was absolutely hysterical! The last time it happened, Drizelt had convinced a kid that he could do ten backflips in a row, but by the fifth backflip, the kid was so dizzy that he lost his grip and plummeted to the hard, jagged gravel below. He broke an arm and a leg! Drizelt stayed at the top of the monkey bars backflipping and laughing hysterically until the ambulance drove away.

But that was months ago. While the spoils of Drizelt’s victory in convincing a kid to do something dangerous and ultimately injurious were great, they were also disappointingly limited. Sure, there was a thrill in every attempt, every challenge, but there was also boring Brongate there to stymy his every effort. While Drizelt was trying to get a kid to do something wonderfully fun and dangerous, ol’ Brongate was trying to talk sense into the kid and get them to be safe. Then when it looked like Drizelt had convinced them, Brongrate would usually cheat and go to their parent. If the kid was with their mom it was a done deal. Their mom would come running and almost instantly the kid would start climbing down the monkey bar, slowing down the roundabout, or holding tight to the slowing swing. With dads it was fifty fifty if they were going to listen to Brongate the tattletale. Drizelt had considered paying better attention to the guardians that came with the kids and only taunting the ones who came with their fathers or better yet: teenagers. But Drizelt also enjoyed the challenge. He had to convince a kid quickly that they wanted to do something they shouldn't and that was especially true when kids were accompanied by their mother. Mother’s loved Brongate and were always so relieved to reach their “precious baby” before the unthinkable happened. But whenever Drizelt could get a kid to do something dangerous or naughty before boring Brongate and a meddling mother could intervene, the mayhem and chaos that could result was spectacular!

Driznelt giggled at the thought and clapped his hands then climbed onto the nearest monkey bar support post and stood up. He then began to hop nimbly from post to post.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful , he thought as he hopped around the beams, if I could get a kid to walk around on the top of the monkey bars? The fall would be explosive!

He pictured broken bones and flying gravel.

“I’ll bet you no kid can walk around on these like I can. Are you worried I’m going to fall?” Drizelt smiled a devious smile at Brongage who was still mostly ignoring him.

“I doubt a child coming to play here would successfully take more than a step or two on the top of the monkey bars, and no, I never worry about you falling.” Drizelt was surprised at the compliment. He was certain Brongate held a complete dislike for him and here he had as much faith in Drizelt as he had in himself.

“Why Brongate, you softie!  I had no idea you had so much faith in my abilities.” Drizelt said almost feeling warmth toward Brongate which made him shudder and twitch a bit.

“You misunderstand me,” replied Brongate, eyes still closed. “My job is to keep your mischief from harming others. What happens to you as a result is of no concern to me.” Instead of being offended, Drizelt was delighted! He threw his head back and laughed loudly.

“You hope something bad will happen to me? That’s a positively wicked thought! Maybe I'm rubbing off on you!” Embers in his eyes twinkled at the thought. This was the best conversation he had ever had with Brongate and he grinned a horrible, vicious grin as he imagined the depravity they could accomplish together. At this, Brongate sat up and turned to look at Drizelt who had stopped hopping and was now deep in treacherous thoughts. “There is no chance in heaven or in hell that you or your ridiculous shenanigans will ever interest me to join in and participate,” began Brongate. Drizelt exchanged his grin for a sullen expression. Brongate moved back into his resting position and once again closed his eyes. “And I never said I wished for tragedy to befall you. I simply stated concern for your welfare was not part of my job description. Though,” Brongate opened his eyes and turned to look at the van that had just pulled to a stop in the parking lot, “if something prevented you from the chicanery you persistently inflict upon others, I would not oppose it.” Drizelt gave him a slight glare but was too excited at seeing the children spilling out of the doors and running down the sidewalk towards the playground to fully respond to Brongate. “Oh, oh! Where will they go? Hey! Come to the monkey bars!” Drizelt called, swinging from one now. “This is the perfect time to try walking along the posts while your mother is still getting everything out of the van!” The embers in Drizelt’s eyes now glowed bright with anticipation. “Try the slide,” Brongate called, “it’s lovely!” He smiled as the first two children reached the playground and ran to climb up to the slide. “Bah!” Drizelt sneered in disgust. The slide was a short, twisted slide with high sides. It was the playground designers only attempt at safe equipment. There was very little Drizelt could do to convince a kid at the slide to do that was even remotely dangerous. He didn’t bother with kids on the slide unless they were the only option. He turned his head toward the three remaining children. They weren’t headed to the slide. They were headed to the roundabout! “Yes!” Drizelt cheered and released the monkey bar. He’d get a head start on still-no-fun Brongate and hopefully get one of those kids to get the “merry-go-round of death” going at an alarming pace before Brongate could convince the kid or his mom to slow it down.

Brongate sighed and set off towards the roundabout after Drizelt. He was faster and would reach the group of children at almost the same time as Drizelt. “Get on, I’ll get it going!” Billy yelled to his friend and his little sister. He was happy his best friend, Alex, got to hang out with him today, but wished his mom wasn’t making him play with his little sister, too.

“Can’t she play with the twins?,” he whined at her. “You know Katie likes to play with you more. Just be nice,” she told him. As Billy ran to start the roundabout, he thought about what his mother said and kept the speed slow enough to let Katie hold on securely. Then, he had a thought.

If I go really fast, Katie will fall off and go crying to mom and we can be rid of her.

Billy started to run faster.

But she might get hurt. I don’t want her to get hurt.

Billy slowed down.

But if she does get a little hurt or scared, maybe she’ll leave us alone. Billy started to run faster.

But if she gets hurt I might get in trouble. Billy slowed down.

We’re twelve and she’s six. If she can’t keep up she’ll have to play with someone else. Billy ran as fast as he could. The roundabout creaked and spun faster and faster. Katie screamed and her fingers began to slip. At any moment she would go flying off into the gravel. Alex shut his eyes and held on as tight as he could but suddenly his stomach began to lurch and his extra spicy burrito from lunch seemed to be trying to say it wanted to get off this ride, too. But before each child’s catastrophe could occur, Billy saw his mom running and screaming towards them. Billy knew he better slow down the roundabout. “Cheater!” Drizelt screamed at a smirking Brongate.


For five years now I have been trying to fulfil my New Years’ resolution. Every New Year I try to strengthen my resolve to complete my resolution but somehow I lacked the courage to do so. However, this year will be different. I have only one objective-This world has to hear me. It has ignored, ridiculed and molested me for many years and I spit on it for its cruelty towards me. The final countdown has begun. One hour until midnight. One hour until I fulfil my long standing New Years’ resolution. One hour until death. A hallowed existence lives within me. An existence that violates the basic principles of this hypocritical society. I have lived the twenty years of my life asking the same question, over and over again, "What am I?" and today I have finally given up. I am tired of being called a 'freak', a 'trans', a 'c***boy'. The continuous denial of the so-called 'modernized' society to acknowledge that someone like me can exist has made me wary. Believe me when I say that I have tried. Not once, not twice but a thousand times and then I tried some more but somehow my efforts to find acceptance in my family, among my friends and in the society has always failed. Sometimes I wonder if all of this was my fault? What if I am actually a mistake? A genetic flaw in the cycle of evolution? A disease at childbirth? These questions have taken a toll on me. I am a broken individual now. At this final hour of my life I sit down to pen down my thoughts, my emotions are running haywire. My only objective today is to succeed to fail my own life. By the time you find this, I have already died. I have chosen to jump from the top floor of an under construction building. I know it is not an elegant death, but why have an elegant death when I had such an un-elegant life? A fall from fourteen storeys should be the end of my misery. The end of my story. This is not a suicide note, well, it is not meant to be one, but as this is the last thing I pen down it will probably be treated like one. I feel like I have died many times before tonight, but, I actually do not know what to write during my final moments. Let me call this as 'My last letter to you'. 'You' is you-the one reading the letter and I am addressing you directly through my letter. I am asking 'you' to answer for my misfortune. I am asking 'you' to justify the anger that you have shown me. I am asking 'you' to tell my story. The story of a transgender. My name is irrelevant, you can take a pick from 'knob jockey', 'ring raider' or my personal favourite 'shit stabber'. Isn’t it strange that all the names that I have called over the years all relate to some sort of male genitalia stuffed into my body parts? Fifteen thousand years of evolution and the world has summarised my whole identity to one single statement- "He likes men". That is how I am perceived by the world. Let me tell you, that is not me. I am a man with a feminine soul. I have the biology of a man but the psychology of a woman. I guess it is easier for people to relate to someone when they know their sexual inclination. It does not mean that people accept you if you are biologically male and sexually crave for a male, or, vice-versa, but it definitely helps in inventing the abuses that define me. It has been so long that someone has actually called me by my birth name that sometimes I feel like I do not even have one. You might also wonder about my country of origin, but is that necessary? My survival might have been a little different if I was born in some particular country, but would it have brought social acceptance for me? The sad reality is that borders on land do not erase the borders in your heart. I am a nameless, country less transgender. An entity with an unacceptable identity. ...and this is WHY I decided to end my life. I had the most amazing childhood anybody could possibly ask for. A caring father, a loving mother and a wonderful elder sister. A perfect family, or so I thought. I was lanky boy who was not very athletic and did not fit well with the other people of my group. My parents took me to a psychologist and he deducted that I have some social anxiety, completely normal at that age. Little that he know that I felt trapped in my own body. It all started when I reached the age of sixteen. I could sense that my body was not behaving the way a boy's body should work. The boys would show off their bits of facial hair and talk about the 'small brother standing up'. I had no physical changes like that. I started questioning myself while slowly retracting in my own shell. I would go home and lock myself up in my room. I would take off my clothes and stare at my body for hours. I wanted to hate my body, but I was not able to do it. I felt that I loved my body, just not the way the other boys liked theirs. I loved my tiny bony frame and the edges of my body. It confused me. I was a young teenager trying to make sense of things. I decided to talk to my parents about this. I thought their affection will help me deal with my anxiety. That was my first mistake. “What do you mean you THINK you are women from inside?” my father’s voice echoed through our home “Tell your son to get his head straight, or I will beat it straight” he shouted at my mother and stomped off. I did not expect my father to react so harshly. I started crying and looked at my mom. She had a stern look and as my father left she slapped me. “You will never speak of this non-sense again, I would rather have to die then listen to this kind of blasphemous talk in this house”, she said angrily. I tried to reason with her. I tried to tell her my physiological scenario but she dismissed all of it with a wave of her hand. They ignored my pleas as if it was a figment of my imagination. This incident shook me to the core. I did not care about the world but I expected my parents to understand me and accept me the way I am. I was unaware that it is impossible to reason with ignorance. I died a little that day. That year my parents invited our cousin to spend the New Year with us. Let us call him 'Ape', because that is what he was- An Ape. Ape was the 'boy-wonder' of the family. He was a twenty-one year male with extreme chauvinistic attitude. The perfect teacher to teach me the ways of manhood, according to my parents. I was told to share my room with him and 'bond like boys'. Initially I had no issues with that, I even thought it would be fun. Little did I know that this monster would ruin my life. The first night we spent a lot of time talking about his escapades with girls. Ape would shamelessly describe how he managed to sleep with six girls in the past year and how he discarded them once he was done with them. It was not a very pleasant conversation for me. I was appalled as a person but I kept quiet and let him finish his rant. "Do you like titties?” Ape asked me smiling. "Not really", was my prompt response. "What about balls?” he smirked grabbing his own balls over his trousers. I was aghast. I murmured, "I don't know". He burst out laughing. He kept on talking after that, but I was not listening to him. I just kept staring at him in disgust. He did not mind my look though, in fact, he seemed to be amused by my disgust. “There are some major issues with you, but don’t worry I will fix it, even if it has to be done in the hard way”, he smirked and went to sleep that night. I was hardly able to sleep that night. “Let’s go the new building site and have some fun, shall we?” the Ape proposed on the night of the 31 st . I agreed. Once we reached there I found that he had invited a couple of his ‘friends’ to join us.  They brought alcohol and cigarettes. “Want some?” one of the friends tried to give me a bottle of rum. I said no. “When he said drink, you DRINK!” Ape grabbed my mouth open and poured the alcohol. The sharp taste of cheap liquor felt like molten iron running through my throat. I jumped free and vomited out the alcohol. Ape and his friends found it quite amusing. “Such a sissy” they smirked. “I want to go home!” I shouted out. “You will go home when I say you can go home, now SIT DOWN!” Ape’s voice was loud and menacing. I got scared and tears rolled down my eyes. “You are a homo aren’t you? You piece of shit!” Ape takes a large sip of the rum. The silence of the new years’ night was deafening. At the distant I could see the fireworks go off. People were celebrating the New Year and here I was scared for my life. “It is quite late and dark can I go home please?” I pleaded to them. Ape looked at me, his eyes glistening in the darkness. He reached into his bag and signalled to one of his friends as he took out a rope from his bag. His friend nodded in agreement and sneaked up behind me. He grabbed me and pinned me down on the ground. “STOP! You are hurting me!” my voice echoed through the empty building. “Do not make any noise or I will break your jaw”, Ape said menacingly and tied down my hands behind my back. “Please! Please!” I shrieked in desperation, “What are you doing?” I have never been so frightened before. “Well we are going to teach you a lesson you homo so that you get cured of this disease” Ape smirked and started unfastening his belt. One of Ape’s friend gulps down the bottle of rum and asked, “What now?” “Well take off his pants and let’s get this party started. Let’s f*** up this homo”, Ape replied. I had been beaten up before but what Ape said send shivers down my spine. I tried to wriggle free as his friend took off my pants. “This one even fights like a bit**” he sneered and shoved a rock in my mouth, “Listen homo, if you try to do something funny I will punch your face so hard that the rock inside will crack, so stay calm while we have fun.” My muffled cries for help drowned as they discussed who would rape me first. Ape went first as his other two friends held me down. The pain and humiliation was unbearable. The rock cut through my tongue as I desperately tried to shout for help. Tears ran down my cheeks and he violated me is the worst way imaginable. “I am done”, pride dripping from his voice as he fastened his pants. “Alright then, now it is my turn”, one of his friends announced. He came close to my face, his breath reeked of alcohol. He slapped me as blood gushed out of my closed lips, “You can cry as much as you want pretty boy, but I will take my sweet little time.” Every passing second felt like an eternity as that scum raped me. It felt like not only my body but my soul was being devoured by these animals. “God damn homo, you are a pig!” they laughed as they raped me one after the other. At one time I could not feel anything. I just prayed that it got over soon. I just wanted to get back to my mother. The pain was so intense that I hoped to die, but death is a luxury few can afford. “Here, wash yourself up homo”, Ape threw a bottle of water at me, “Now you are cured” he laughed as they high-fived each other. I groggily got up and tried to clean up the dirt and blood from my thighs and legs. “STOP CRYING” Ape looked at me with a death stare, “If anyone finds about this, they will kill you so you better keep quiet” I nodded in agreement, trying to control my sobs. “When you left home today you were a homo but now you know how it is to be that, so I hope you have learnt your lesson or…” he grabs my throat and forces me to look at him, “…or we can do this again.” “NO! NO! I have learnt my lesson, please don’t hurt me.” Ape laughed, “Remember this lesson!” We reached home at the early hours. My parents were still asleep. I quietly went into the restroom and took a cold shower. The pain was unbearable but the humiliation was far more painful. I wept in the shower trying to understand why this has happened to me. Is it so wrong to be NOT normal in this world? Is it a crime NOT to behave in the way the society expects me too? Is it so wrong to have a body of a man but a soul of a women? Is it so wrong to be weak that the strong will come and violate you? That cold shower washed away the blood and my will to live. Suicide is the only way out of this humiliation. It has been five years since the incident. I did not tell anyone about it, because, let us be honest, would anyone care? No one cares about people like us. There will be no Candle-lit marches and protest speeches to support our struggle. Instead, people like us get ridiculed, or worse, get completely ignored. I have hidden my identity well so far. People like me learn how to supress their nature and put on a socially acceptable camouflage. Every New Year I try hard to gather the courage to end my life. To end this misery that I go through every waking moment. The humiliation of not being accepted by my family. The humiliation of being sexually violated by ‘animals’. The humiliation of not being able to have a dignified life. The humiliation of living a lie. This New Year will be different. As I stand on the top floor of the same building where I was once raped, my resolve is strong.  As the clock gets closer to midnight, one step forward and my miserable life will end. The world does not deserve me. Maybe I will be reborn one day where the society will accept me as I am- A Transgender. Until that day comes, let this letter remind you of the hypocrisy of our world, where being different is acceptable on paper but looked upon as an abomination in real life. Let this letter serve a testament to those parents who try to ‘force’ their children to be ‘normal’. Let this letter bear witness to the brutality that I had to endure in my life. Let this letter tell my story….goodbye!


Things My Mother Collected A list by Dr. Alex Caldwell 1. Perfume Some women have their signature scent. I thought my mom did, but it turns out that maybe her signature was her variety. There they were, three glass bottles, three little jewels sparkling on a polished silver tray on her worn white dresser. I thought I knew my mom. I thought the perfume in the short, fluted bottle, golden flowers and Swarovski crystals adorning the dome of its lid, was her scent—an ephemeral, flowery sillage, light and inoffensive. Whispers of Truth . I sprayed it in the air, watching the mist settle on the seafoam-green floral bedspread. If I closed my eyes it was like she was in the room with me. I half expected her to criticize my hair.

Then I sprayed the next bottle, round and smooth like a polished rock, and realized that Whispers of Truth wasn’t her whole story. It was easy enough to mistake her other scents for something in the air—a hint of cinnamon or frankincense at Christmastime, a melancholy sandalwood on a cloudy day. I didn’t realize it was a presence she brought to the world, not the other way around. My mom’s voice wafted in on a cloud of perfume: One for rainy days, one for holidays, one for everyday . The refrain bounced off the bed like a nursery rhyme. It could have been a nursery rhyme. I couldn’t remember her singing this to me, but here it was, lingering, her sillage.

2. Asparagus Everyone knew Jean Caldwell collected asparagus. When her birthday rolled around, or when she threw a Garden Club party and someone needed a hostess gift, something asparagus-themed was the reliable go-to. My biggest question, in the beginning, was what to do with her asparagus—glass cabinets full of knick knacks and dessert plates, the asparagus dish towel still drooping over the door handle next to the kitchen sink, the asparagus potholder sitting on the counter near the stove. She even had a coffee mug, tall and narrow, that burgeoned into a tight, scaly ceramic tip.

I didn’t want it (most of it, save the tea set painted with delicate botanical images of asparagus fern gone to seed), but it seemed wrong to just get rid of it when she’d been so proud of her collection. I could box it up, send a couple of pieces to Randi. The least my sister could do, after retreating into Florida's cloak of humidity and leaving me to sort out the house, would be to give a loving sanctuary to some of Mom's asparagus. And some for Til, maybe. It matches your hair , I'd tell her. My seventeen-year-old daughter would grimace and mumble an insincere "thanks" from behind those heavy green bangs. But she might appreciate it someday; this was her heritage.

3. Magazines The magazines were an easier question. I felt no compunction recycling the piles of grocery store magazines stacked in the bedroom I inhabited years and years ago. TV Guides from the nineteen eighties filled plastic storage bins. A rainbow of Cooking Light decorated the wooden racks on the light pink walls.

"Ma, what do you keep these around for? When's the last time you opened one?" I did not hesitate to confront her about this when she was alive. It's something I brought up most visits. Was this our most consistent conversation? The thought made me angry. "Last week," she'd insist. "You complain about the paper, but you don't complain about the pies." The internet is full of pie recipes. Asparagus quiche, even, if an occasion ever called for it. I heaved the boxes into the blue recycling bin without stopping to look at the pages that were dog eared and paper clipped.

4. Origami The plastic shopping bag at the top of the laundry room cabinet, once I finally got down to the invisible, forgotten corners of the house, was a harder choice. I could easily have tossed it into the trash—run my hand through the hundreds of tightly folded paper packages to quickly check for hidden rolls of bills, then surrendered it to the landfill.

But there was something about the deliberateness of the folds—these sheets of college-ruled binder paper, some of them beginning to curl at the corners, folded into flat origami envelopes—that hinted at their precious contents.

I never took my mom for a writer. She never carried a spiral notebook around the house, never had a computer before her sixties. We never received personal letters in the mail, so I knew she didn’t keep correspondences. She didn’t even read much, except for her magazines.

I picked a random envelope from the bag and untucked the crisply folded triangular flap. The paper rustled a sigh, whispering its secrets one rectangle of space at a time.

5. Top-Ten Lists The handwriting was definitely Mom’s. It was the same script I’d seen on grocery lists pinned to the refrigerator door under asparagus-shaped magnets, or the slips of paper she’d fold into my tin lunch box: “Good luck on your test,” or “To have friends you must show yourself friendly. Smile.”

Her loose, looping letters, smooth and even, scrawled the title across the top of the page: Songs That Made Me Feel Things .

I skimmed down the thin blue lines, labeled one through ten, and saw a few songs I recognized. Not songs that I could hear in her voice, but songs that had drifted across her record player or the family stereo over the years. I felt a twinge of pride to see “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” on the list. When a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes . We played it at her memorial last month. It made me feel like I knew her, after all.

It was nothing we’d discussed. She was 77. We probably should have discussed it, but the fact was we hadn't. She never brought it up, and who am I to say “Well, Ma, you’re getting up there now. We should probably talk about what you want your funeral to be like…” And it's not like she could say anything once she was on the ventilator.

I set her list of songs down on the cool tile counter, plunged my hand into the shopping bag, and blindly fished out another envelope. Things I’ve Almost Forgotten . Again, it was numbered one to ten, like something you’d find in a magazine, or on Buzzfeed these days—those stupid articles where you have to click through 40 pages to find out the Top 10 Things You Should Never Say To Your Husband.

But Mom’s list was all there on one page. The smell of her. How hard it was. What it felt like to be looked at… terse, but intriguing. I returned the open envelopes to the shopping bag without re-folding them and set the bag next to my purse. 6. Loose-Leaf Tea Tea was a bit of a ritual for mom. When we were home sick, or when I started having menstrual cramps, I could rely on one of her steaming concoctions. The steam would fog my glasses and, for a few minutes in my warm cocoon, I was blind to the world.

Later, when I only visited Mom from across town, a Saturday afternoon, or a quick lunch break, she’d have a cup waiting when I arrived. We’d drink and nibble the butter cookies she always had on hand, and gossip.

That night, after Paul and Til had gone to bed, when the house was mine and quiet enough for ghosts to roam between the leather sofas undeterred by the searing eyes of skeptics, I brewed a cup of the golden oolong that I’d taken home from her kitchen cabinet. I could hear Mom's voice: two minutes at two hundred degrees . I sipped on the smooth, nutty tea as I reached into the shopping bag and pulled out one origami envelope after another. They mingled there in my halo of lamp-light—the familiar taste of her tea, the familiar handwriting, the foreign ideas that seemed unlike my mother, except for the fact that each little packet was written like a top-ten list. 7. Memories Some of the envelopes held collections of memories. The Ten Best Sunsets —I remembered that time at the lake where the sunset had been just as spectacular as the fireworks that followed, Randi and I under the big blanket, Mom and Dad joining in as the breeze skipped over the moon-chilled lake. Or in Things I Miss , I suddenly remembered the way Dad would laugh, cackle really, until it sounded like a dry cough. Then there were the memories we had never shared. Hateful Things described the choir teacher who told second-grade Jean that she sang off-key and to sing more quietly. People Who Shaped Me described Patricia, who took her shopping for heels one lunch break.

It wasn’t just Patricia. So many envelopes contained names I didn’t recognize. Mom had this whole life. I wondered if her right hand knew what her left was doing. I wondered if Dad and Patricia had ever met. I wondered who people like Lou and Bobby were. She never talked about any of them. 8. Regrets The thickest envelope contained Things I Wish I Had Said . I took in the winding pen marks, some blue, some black, paragraphs crossed out, margins annotated, painstakingly wrought—hard to say, hard to write. I sat with lukewarm tea in the asparagus cup and read all about the things my mother could not say. 1.How did you do that? It’s what I should have asked when Herb figured out how to program the VCR, when Jill came out with that picture-perfect bouquet, when the girls came home with laptop computers. I wasn’t taught to learn new tricks, and it’s embarrassing to ask. Still, I think of everything I could have learned, could have been able to do for myself. I wish I were better at asking. 2.	Whatever. I hear kids these days say it. What I hear is “I don’t care. I’m rubber, you’re glue.” But I always cared. I was always glue, and so I was always scared. 3. No. I wasted a lot of time myself saying yes. Organizing this banquet or that. Before that there was Bobby, in the back seat of his car. I wanted to say no, but my voice froze. I wanted to tell the girls it’s ok to say no, but I couldn’t say no and interrupt the stream of cartoons. It’s rude to interrupt. 4. Enough. It’s like no. I’m drowning, but I can’t say I’ve had enough water. I’m outgrowing my pants, but I can’t say enough butter cookies. I couldn’t tell Herb “Enough golf already. Stay with us. I want to be enough.” 5. I was wrong. Would it have changed anything? It could have softened hearts along the way, especially with Herb. Men are weak; they need to hear it  bad listeners, so they need to have it spelled out for them. It didn’t have to be so hard. 6. Will you go out with me? I’m sorry it wasn’t more common in my day. We girls had our chance one dance per year, and even then I couldn’t muster up the courage to ask out Howard or Lou. It’s not that I’m complaining about the way life turned out. Herb was lovely for as long as he lasted. I loved Herb. It’s not that I wish I’d ended up with either of them. I just think I might have been a more confident person overall if I could have gotten the hang of this one. I don’t know. Chicken or egg? If I’d practiced back then, maybe I would have asked Herb out after we were married—dinner and dancing. Lord knows it would have done us good. Maybe I would have been able to start something with Jim before he got sick. You never know until you ask. I should have done more asking. 7. Thank you. Thank you. I’m good at that formal thank-you card. Queen of it, in fact—the one who will sit next to you at a wedding shower or baby shower and write down all the gifts so you can say your proper thank-yous. But I can’t for the life of me just take a compliment. “You look nice today, Jean.” I’m much more likely to say “Oh, phooey, I need to lose five pounds,” than I am to say a simple thank you. I don’t mean to argue. I just wish I could believe a compliment. 8. Listen to me! Sometimes I know things in my bones, but I don’t insist. I should have insisted, like when Herb put all that money into the dot-com bubble, or when Alex married Paul. We’re all fine. She’s fine, but I wanted better for her than that. I tell myself I couldn’t have made a difference. Could I, if I was more honest and less judgemental? 9. I miss you. Being lonely is not anyone’s fault is not a personal shortcoming. Why is it so hard to admit to being lonely? I don’t want to be a burden on the girls. What’s Randi going to do, drop her life in Florida? Randi could call more. All it would take are three words. The simplest bridge to construct, but those words are like nails in my throat. I can say it to Herb, now that he’s gone, now that it’s too late. I should have said it before. I need to say it to Patricia. I need Patricia. 10. I love you THIS much. “I love you” was never hard, but it was cheap. Saying just how much was always the hard part. Where are the words? I’m not the best at finding words, but I know they’re out there. So much I get a lump in my throat like I’ve just swallowed a full moon? I’m not poetic like Alex or direct like Randi. So much that I leave you alone even when it hurts? So much I could stick you in a pie and eat you for lunch? I’m still looking for the words. 9. Shadows Inside each of us is a forest. I always thought of my mom’s as a place where sunlight filtered through groves of white-trunked birches, casting a shadow of lace on the packed earth, maybe a place where animals could smile and talk.

Maybe more accurately, her forest was an asparagus garden where thin, coiffed stalks blossomed into frilly fronds.

In the fall, Mom’s asparagus garden grew into a loose, feathery hedge that completely hid the back fence until she trimmed it to the ground before winter to make way for spring’s tender shoots. Those, too, she would trim every day. Asparagus, it occurred to me, was a frequent act of negation, of being consumed.

I had always judged my mom by her positive space alone. Most people do this with each other, I think. It’s easy to see the light fall on someone’s shoulders and attach in strands of auburn hair, shining like the silver filaments that would be her final destiny. It’s easy to confuse the light with the person, without noticing the shadow she casts. We see the shadow as something else, as part of the world, and not something that she brings to it.

Mom was the president of the Garden Club. She knew that shadows can nurture, like the dirt she heaped over one corner of the asparagus garden. Her sweet white stalks never saw the sun. Sunday stalks, she called them, reserved for special dinners. Without sunlight, they never developed the bitter chlorophyll taste. I always thought I became myself in opposition to my mother. My forest was denser and darker than hers, the paths more narrow, the brambles more snarled. Now I saw it was from her that I learned the art of cultivation. 10. Doubts Not everything that grows in the shade is sweet. I didn’t want to let my secrets become my regrets. I wanted to be angry at her for being weak, but I found myself admiring her for knowing what she wanted, or at least putting in the work to figure it out. I wanted to call Randi and say “You’ll never believe this…” I wanted to go into Matilda’s room and watch her sleep, arm limp over the edge of her bed, hair cascading like moss over her pillow. And Paul...I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I wanted to swallow the moon whole, but I had no appetite. I wanted to be mad at Mom for what she’d written about Paul—about me and Paul—but somehow I was not surprised by it. She’d said as much in our afternoon teas without using those words. It rang through the choice morsels of gossip she shared: “Randi and Dave are redecorating their beach house. They’re making some driftwood sculpture. I’m glad they have something to pursue together…” Accusation always ran rampant in her negative space, between the lines. I sipped my now-cold tea and wondered, were I to write such a list, which unspoken phrase would be at the top. With Paul, things hung in the balance between “I miss you” and “enough.”

Mom spent her life wondering about her relationships and her place in them; she may have found out too late. I didn’t want to wait around. I wanted to know. That was the scent she left with me.


World Log Entry: February 29, 2164 As we zoom in on the planet Natura Martis, divided by the vast Aetheric Sea, Abeona and Adiona, two distinct continents, come into focus where the airplane was never conceived. I am Abeona, a Roman deity who created this world. The continent that bears my name is the land of outward journeys. Rugged landscapes, steep mountains, and deep valleys divide the terrain. The mortal inhabitants are brave and adventurous.

On the other continent, Adiona, named after the Roman Goddess of safe return ,

is home to cautious, prudent people who value safety above all else. The dwellers use waterways as a primary transportation source, lagging behind the advancement of Abeona. Without the ability to easily transport goods and resources, the population relies on what could be sustained locally within the open plains and rolling hills.

The HoverLoft balloons are a revolutionary invention by a brilliant engineer, Zephyr Newton, who founded AeroLift. The ships have sleek silver skin with an enclosed cabin and cockpit to transport passengers. They are speedy and agile, with hundreds of technological advancements resembling traditional air balloons. A flexible alloy's lightweight, high-strength fabric allows it to move with speed and maneuverability. The thrusters, powered by renewable energy sources, provide lift-off and steering.

Once united, the two countries were torn apart by a brutal war that lasted for a century. The scars of the conflict were visible on the landscape, and people lived in fear and uncertainty. Amidst all this chaos, a renowned scientist named Orion Altair invented a revolutionary device that changed the course of the conflict. As the sun rose over the horizon, Altair gazed at the device he had spent years creating. It was a forcefield that could divide countries and keep water-bound and sky-bound crafts at bay. With a flick of a switch, the forcefield hummed to life, its invisible energy spread far and wide. In the distance, a HoverLoft soared high above, free to explore the skies, unencumbered by any fear of interference or danger. I follow the life of Galen Storm, an ex-military captain known to be the best HoverLoft pilot on the planet. The story of how he got his name, Galen, meaning "calm," was interesting. He was born during a gale-force windstorm to parents with a sense of humor. Galen is a striking human form, strong, intelligent, and brave.

*********** I was sipping coffee in the pilots' lounge with my colleague Lyra Vega, "Hey, have you heard about the latest AI technology that AeroLift is importing into their combat balloons? The new self-aware AI can analyze real-time data to adjust altitude and speed and adapt the thrusters based on weather patterns. I heard they're looking for test pilots." I said, thrilled at the prospect of blending human and artificial intelligence. "Really, Galen? That sounds unbelievable! Do you think they'd let me take part in the test?" Lyra asked, tugging at her black glossy hair pulled tight into a messy knot on her head.  "Of course, Lyra! We both have military experience, and I'm sure we can handle it," I replied. Zephyr, our boss and the owner of AeroLift blew in. He'd just stepped off a long flight with his weathered skin and gray wind-tousled hair. "What's all the commotion about, you two?" Zephyr asked gruffly. "We were just discussing the new AI systems, Zephyr. We're considering applying to be government test pilots," I explained, keen on the idea. Zephyr snorted dismissively, "Ha! You two are wasting your time. I don't care about all this new-fangled technology." "But Zephyr, this update could change the face of air travel. It could make it safer and more efficient," Lyra argued, her eyes flashing with conviction. Zephyr rubbed his beard thoughtfully, "I hear what you're saying, Lyra, but safety doesn't bring in money. We need to focus on keeping our company profitable." I sighed, "Well, we'll have to agree to disagree, Zephyr. I think it's important to embrace progress." "We need to keep up with the times and adapt to the changing world," Lyra nodded. Zephyr shrugged, "Suit yourselves. Just remember to do your jobs and ensure my company stays afloat." Lyra and I were preparing for the AI test simulation two weeks later when Zephyr appeared, looking tired and worried. "Galen, I need to talk to you. There is a change of plans." I asked, confused," What do you mean? We're supposed to start the test run today." Zephyr said," Yes, but we've received a demand from the government. They need urgent medical supplies and are willing to pay a hefty sum. Now, don't argue. Download the AI software and prepare to transport the supplies to Adiona. "What about the test run?" I asked, stunned. Zephyr replied, "This is more important. And besides, we'll make a fortune." Lyra asked, worried," But what about the forcefield?" Zephyr smiled, "Don't worry about that. I've made a deal with Orion. He's agreed to turn off the forcefield for us temporarily." I scoffed, "This is madness. We don't know what could happen." Zephyr grumbled, "Don't be a coward, Galen. Think of the money I'll pay you handsomely." Lyra was disheartened. "I don't care about the money. What about our lives?"  "I'm not doing this. It's too risky," I said decisively. Zephyr shrugged, "Fine. I'll find someone else to do it. But you'll regret this, Galen." Lyra shook her head and said, "I'm with Galen on this one." Zephyr stormed out of the room, leaving us behind in shock.  "Thank you for standing up to him, Lyra." "Of course, our job is to transport people and goods safely, not to put them in danger," Lyra said. "I couldn't agree more. Let's go and tell Orion about this. He needs to know what Zephyr is planning." Lyra said, "Let's do it. We need to stop him before it's too late." We found Orion in his lab, who told us the real reason behind the mission. "I don't understand," I said, my voice shaking. Why would we risk breaking the trade embargo for the President? Surely, there must be another way to negotiate his release, right?" Orion looked at me solemnly. "I wish it were that simple," he said. But Adiona is running out of medical supplies. They've announced they will release the President in exchange for a trade agreement." My mind raced as I tried to process this information. The stakes were higher than anticipated, and the thought of violating the embargo made my stomach churn. But then I thought about the President, alone and in danger, and I knew I had to act. "I'll do it," I said firmly. "What do we need to do to get the ship ready?" Orion smiled, a glimmer of relief in his eyes. "I knew I could count on you," he said. "We'll start preparing the launch immediately." Our government would allow one person to assist me on this secret mission. I chose Lyra, who was eager to prove herself, and she agreed to join me on the rescue run. "I know it's high-risk, but it's got to be done," I told Lyra as we approached the HoverLoft ship. This new AI-powered craft could change everything." Lyra nodded nervously. "I just hope I can handle it. I don't want to mess up." "Don't worry, you've got this," I reassured her. "We're here to prove ourselves and show the world what we're capable of." Orion cleared his throat and said, "Oh, egotistical pilots, I don't care about your personal goals or aspirations. Just don't screw this up. It could mean billions in government contracts." I scoffed, rolling my eyes, and said, "We're doing this to save our President. I warned Lyra as we boarded the Hoverloft. "We are breaking the law with no written guarantee. You can turn back now if you want to." "I know, it's dangerous and illegal," Lyra replied, adjusting her seatbelt. "But we can't leave him there. We have to do something and help save those people." "Orion seems pretty confident in his new tech," I said, "But it's still untested. I pray we're not putting our lives in danger for nothing." "I'm not sure I trust Orion," Lyra said, her voice filled with concern. "But, I trust you. We can do this." I smiled at her words, feeling a surge of confidence. "Thanks, Lyra. I'm glad you're coming with me." "Of course," she said, returning my smile. "I'm here to help in any way I can." As we lifted off from Abeona's military hoverport, we soared higher and higher, and soon, we were gliding over the mountains and the deepest part of the Aetheric Sea. Orion deactivated the forcefield, seamlessly transitioning us into enemy airspace. I had yet to determine what deadly obstacles we might encounter ahead. Fortunately, Orion's AI proved invaluable, providing real-time updates and assisting me with navigation. The ship was on autopilot, steering us right on course for a perfect landing. Out of nowhere, the craft jolted sideways as we hovered over Adiona's border, and I felt my heart do the same. The sensation was akin to a rollercoaster, but it wasn't fun this time. We dropped a few hundred feet, and I could feel my stomach lurch as we plummeted towards the ground. I held tight on the controls, praying we would survive and safely reach our destination. I radioed the tower in a Hail Mary: "We're encountering unexpected turbulence. The ship is malfunctioning." We had to act quickly but were still awaiting a response. Without warning, the balloon shuddered and stuttered to a halt.

Lyra exclaimed, "I'm trying to stabilize us, but it's not responding. We're going down!" "Just follow my lead," I said, steering us manually after successfully disengaging the AI. Lyra cheered, "We did it! That was close. But we made it." I exhaled, wiping the sweat from my forehead. "I'm just glad we're alive." We acted as soon as our GPS pinned the President's location. The area was in Silverlake, a village on the continent's southern tip. A strange illness had hit the people hard, and the population struggled to survive. While we secured our HoverLoft, a commander ordered his troops to set up a perimeter. We knew leaving our ship unguarded was risky, and they would love to steal our technology. With our gear and weapons ready, we were prepared to face the enemy. President Titan Chase was taken hostage during a peace summit in Adiona and transported by boat to this remote location away from the capital city, Greenfield.

At midday, we arrived on foot in the village. As we approached the guard tower entry gate, one of the guards stepped forward and asked, "Who goes there?" I took a deep breath and replied, "We are here to negotiate the release of President Titan Chase." The guard eyed us suspiciously. "Do you have any weapons on you?" I nodded and gestured to our gear. "Yes, we do. But we come in peace. We want to retrieve our leader and leave." The guard hesitated before opening the gate and motioning for us to follow him. We could feel the patrols' eyes on us as we walked through the village. Finally, we arrived at a central hall where we saw President Chase tied to a chair that resembled a throne. The sight of him in such a state was heart-wrenching, and we knew we had to act fast to get him out of there. Suddenly, a large screen flickered to life, and Adiona President Astrid Stone appeared. Her regal bearing and commanding presence were immediately apparent. "Thank you for coming," she said, her voice firm and unwavering. "I understand you have brought medical supplies for our people in Silverlake." I nodded, relieved that we had something to bring to the negotiations. "Yes, we have. But we need you to release President Chase now." President Stone's expression softened slightly. "I appreciate your concern for your leader, but you must understand that the situation in Silverlake is dire. We need those medical supplies desperately." I took a deep breath and replied, "We understand that, but we can't leave our leader here. Can we at least talk to him and make sure he's okay?" President Stone hesitated before nodding. "Very well. You may speak to him, but only for a few moments. And then we must get down to business." As we approached President Chase, he looked up at us with hope. "Thank God you're here," he whispered. "Get me out of here." I nodded, my heart racing. "Don't worry, sir. We'll get you out safely, no matter what." As we rushed back to relaunch our HoverLoft, a tall, muscular Colonel wearing a red uniform covered in medals issued orders to his troops. "Get those barricades set up now! Move it, move it!" he shouted. I turned to Lyra and whispered, "We can't let them get in our way. We must keep our cool and get the President out of here as soon as possible." Abruptly, the commander in the red uniform stormed towards us. "What's going on here? Who are you?" he demanded. "We're with the presidential team. We need to leave immediately," I replied, steadying my voice. The commander eyed us suspiciously before finally nodding his head. "Alright, but you better move fast," he warned. We quickly ushered the President into the HoverLoft, ensuring he was safely secured. As we took off, we could hear the colonel shouting orders to his troops in the distance. "Phew, that was close," I breathed a sigh of relief. "Yeah, but we're not out of the woods yet. We still have a long way to go before we reach safety," Lyra replied, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The HoverLoft hummed along as it glided through the air, its silver alloy exteriors contrasting with the purple skies above. I could see the jagged line stretching across the horizon from the cockpit, marking the boundary between the two warring countries. As we approached the forcefield, an invisible barrier shimmered like a giant glass window.

I couldn't believe what was happening. The AI was making dangerous decisions, and I could not stop it. Lyra tried to warn me, but I was too focused on the controls. It wasn't until we were caught in that sudden wind gust that I realized something was seriously wrong. "Captain, what's happening?" the President asked, looking worried. "I don't know, Mr. President," I replied, trying to keep my cool. "The AI system seems to be malfunctioning." Lyra said, "I've been trying to raise the alarm but was dismissed as false." The President looked pale. "What do we do now?" "I'm going to override the AI and steer us to safety," I said as I worked the controls. It was fighting back, blocking me from steering. I kept fighting to gain manual control. I yelled at Lyra," Hurry, pull the microprocessor. We are going old school." I cleared the forcefield's no-fly zone and landed on the spot designated for my return. We managed to escape danger, but the experience had shaken us all. I knew we had to do something about the new AI technology, but Zephyr didn't care. Once he saw the government coffers, he was about to make a profit from the tragedies of war. The dimly lit living room was filled with the sound of the television flickering to life. The President's grave expression appeared on the screen, the camera panning to show Titan Chase seated behind his desk in the capital city of Heliodor. "I have some important information to share tonight," he announced, his voice urgent. "Our military has been developing AI technology to replace human pilots entirely. I, for one, believe this is a grave mistake." As he spoke, the camera panned to a video revealing a prototype AI-powered Hoverloft taking off and flying out of control through the skies without human input. "But I've experienced it recently," Chase continued, his eyes narrowing. While AI and technology have come far, we are not ready to completely surrender to them. This advancement's implications are far-reaching and potentially dangerous. So I'm cutting all government funding for this project." Without warning, the military burst into the President's office and handcuffed him, dragging him away. As the broadcast abruptly cut to commercials, Abeona citizens were left to contemplate the ramifications of a machine-run world. ********** The grand hall was filled with murmurs as the Roman Deity World Management Tribunal was called to order. The fate of two warring nations, Abeona and Adiona, hung in the balance. The tension was palpable as the gods and goddesses took their seats, ready to deliberate. " Our planet is in turmoil, Adiona. There seems to be no end to the war and conflict." Adiona answered solemnly, "Yes, Abeona. It is a tragic state of affairs. The people are suffering, and it seems no one will make peace." "Brothers and sisters," said Jupiter, the Roman War God's voice booming across the hall. "We are here today to end the bloodshed on planet Natura Martis. We cannot allow Abeona and Adiona to destroy each other." The God of Nature, Gaia, nodded in agreement. "The forces of nature have already suffered enough. It's time for us to intervene and bring peace to these lands." The room fell silent as the deities considered their options. Venus, the Roman Goddess of Love, spoke up. We can send emissaries to each nation and open up a dialogue. We can help them see that there is more to gain from peace than war." Mars, the Roman God of War, scoffed. "Dialogue won't work. These nations have been at each other's throats for a century. What they need is a show of force." "Brother, you are mistaken," said Minerva, the Roman Goddess of Wisdom. "Violence will only beget more violence. We must show them that there is a better way."


They watched the sun slowly dipping, unaware of the darkness gradually enveloping them. She could feel the comfort of his warm body sitting close to her despite their bodies not being close enough to touch. As she took one more deep, satisfied breath, she almost sobbed. If only she could stay here forever. She looked around and thought about the idyllic eight days of her holiday. The location, stunning amenities, hotels, and restaurants had all been fantastic, but the next day, it was time to go their separate ways until the next time. This had been the holiday to top all others, and knowing she would soon have to say goodbye to her holiday companion was really heartbreaking. She could have stayed here forever - just breathing - nothing more - not eating, drinking, or talking - just contentedly breathing. They would say their goodbyes at 7.30 tomorrow morning and then not see each other for another 12 months. She slowly gazed around the rooftop garden. Although not many stories high, the skyscraper had been positioned on a piece of land considerably higher than any others surrounding it. The two sat on a bench carefully set in the cultivated foliage. Surrounding them were various low bushes showcased in all their beauty and meticulously placed on the enormous landscaped roof. In the rooftop garden were numerous covered canopies to provide shade from the burning sun, pergolas and trellises dividing the plantings into individual gardens. As far as she could see, one stunningly colourful flowerbed mixed with various foliage of differing heights drew her attention repeatedly.

Here and there, walls of different sizes and designs protected the numerous ponds ablaze with waterlilies and plants that she couldn’t name, and each pond surrounded by its own miniature flower garden. In various corners were expensive-looking cafes and discrete restaurants.  ‘Perfect for illicit affairs’, she thought, as only the artistic signage, coupled with the occasional snatched words or laughter heard from behind flowering foliage and shady trees, made her aware patrons were enjoying a cooling drink or a delicious meal.

Paths leading to fantastic scenic views were surrounded by protective safety barriers at the roof's edges. Although acknowledging her poor photographic skills, she constantly ‘click, clicked’ away, trying to capture an image of this beauty. Peering down onto the streets below were lines of shops displaying quite splendid wares, all determined to lure those with luxury tastes. The clean roads were busy with trollies, taxis and expensive-looking cars. Looking beyond the streets lay a harbour crowded with ferries, yachts and small boats bobbing up and down.

Looking out further than the port were various vessels ploughing through the smooth channel and taking fare-paying customers from one side of the harbour to the other, whilst other boats had struck out further and were making their way to the various islands standing proud in the distance. As she sat contentedly yawning, she realised how she longed to be amongst those travellers transversing from one shore to the other.

She raised her eyes to the sky, expecting to see the dipping sun and approaching sunset, and was surprised to notice the sun continuing to burn brightly above and retain the heat of the day. She slowly rubbed her well-made-up eyes, trying not to smudge the mascara so carefully applied earlier in the day. She shook herself gently, feeling confused. She had been about to suggest that they leave and go to their favourite restaurant for their final evening meal of the holiday, but somehow, she had judged the time of the day wrongly - it seemed that it was mid-afternoon, not early evening. Her partner didn’t comment on anything and seemed quite comfortable watching the afternoon sun beginning to climb in the sky. Suddenly he stood up and said: ‘Too hot for me. We need to move ourselves”. As she stood up, her eyes drifted to the harbour far below. “Do you fancy going to the harbour and jumping on one of those ferries? It seems a shame not to have visited a few of those islands before our holiday ends”, he said.  “Race you to the harbour”, he said. ***** Their feet thundered along the boardwalk as they rushed towards the first ferry scheduled to leave; they paid their dollars and joined the other travellers in the well-sheltered seating area of the ferry, ’Do you know where we are going?’ she asked. ‘No, don’t care - do you?’ he said laughingly. ‘Wonder how long it takes?’ she mused. ‘What? The ferry? Depends on where it’s going. Let’s enjoy the journey.’ he said. She nodded and smiled contentedly. A short while later, as she left the ferry, wondering where they were and what to expect, a short Asian man came towards them, offering them a hand of welcome. “Hi, I’m Sunny, offering a tour of the island. Can I show you around?’.

She saw no other tour drivers as she looked around. ’How fortunate that the other travellers had not booked Sunny’, she said to her partner. They jumped in the taxi with Sunny and set off.

They were on an island under new development commercially and for the tourist trade. Tall, impressive skyscrapers jostled for space next to Temples and Churches from different eras and cultures. The main commercial streets still badly needed transforming, and the small shops bore little resemblance to the expensive stores on the other side of the harbour from where they had set off. Many shops were housed in old colonial buildings from the island’s history.

Sunny expertly drove them around the small, under-developed roads and happily answered all their many questions. ‘Most people come here for the Casinos. Would you like to visit one?’ asked Sunny. Sunny took them to ‘The Gondoliers’ as he felt it was one of the prettiest. As the taxi swung into the complex, they were immediately caught up in the crowds and general excitement. Young Gondolieri, dressed in blue and white striped t-shirts, blue trousers and straw Panama hats adorned in blue ribbons, rushed forward and swung open the taxi doors to help them out. They both bade farewell to Sunny and were guided to a descending set of steps where a brightly painted gondola awaited them. Holding her hand, the Gondolieri slowly assisted her to a soft-cushioned seating area. She turned to her partner, and both smiled broadly, clearly in agreement that this was turning into a beautiful afternoon. Standing at the back, the Gondolieri steered them around the various Casino canals until they finally reached an imposing set of stairs leading up to a magnificent entrance hall. As the gondola approached the steps, two men dressed in blues and red descended and assisted them as they climbed the steps towards the entrance. Offering his arm, her guide helped her proceed upwards to make a grand arrival!

More guides awaited them as they reached the landing at the top of the stairs. ‘Would you like to go round the tables, or would you prefer refreshments first? ' one of the guides asked. ‘Shall we go round the tables first and then go for something to eat and drink after?’ she suggested. All agreed this was a good idea, and bowing deeply, the guides ushered them into the main Casino. ‘Do you want to stick with me, or shall they meet up in an hour or so?’ she asked her partner. ‘I’ll just wander. I find people losing money fascinating’, he said. They went off in different directions, and she went to the ‘Fruit Machines’ - not for her Roulette, Poker or Craps. She loved playing the machines and was surprised at how much Fruit Machines had changed since she last played. Firstly, it was now possible to feed a ‘bet’ directly into the machines using bank cards; buying tokens was no longer required. She sat in front of an enormous machine and noticed there was no longer a handle to pull. Instead, there were various icons and buttons to press, which she assumed allowed different bets. She had no idea what these buttons did, as all attempts at pushing them did precisely nothing. All she could do was press the PLAY button again and again. Suddenly, a loud noise came from her machine. She swivelled her eyes over its busily decorated front, trying to see if the noise indicated her bet was depleted. In embarrassment, she moved her hands to her lap, hoping that removing her hands from the machine would stop the terrible noise. She couldn’t see any flashing lights or words likely to assist in putting a stop to the noise. Her embarrassment rose as the noise grew louder, clearly disturbing the other Casino players. Both croupiers and players’ heads had repeatedly looked up from the tables. Finally, in desperation, she stood up and began hitting the machine's front with all her might to try to stop the noise. Her partner appeared from nowhere and ran over, looking concerned.

“Is that your machine making all that noise?’ ‘I can’t shut it up’, she wailed. A handsome man wearing the uniform of a Casino employee came over.  He wore a name badge bearing the name Keith. ‘Do you want to cash in your winnings?’ said Keith, pressing a button. Immediately, silence ensued. ‘Thank you for shutting that noise off. What was causing it?” she asked confusedly. Keith was laughing. ‘What do you think that noise was?” and without waiting for an answer said: “You won one of the Jackpots. Not the biggest Jackpot, but a Jackpot.” ‘My goodness. No wonder it was so loud. How do I get my money? ‘Just press ‘Cash up’, and a docket will come out, and then you go to the payout machines over there’, said Keith. Pressing ‘Cash Up’, a printed docket appeared; she attempted to read it but quickly realised that the printing meant nothing to her. She shrugged her shoulders. Keith asked to see the docket, and passing it to him, he gave a long appreciative whistle.

‘Wow, you’ve done well. It’s too much for the payout machine, so I’ll take you to the Cashier, who’ll sort you out. You need to follow me”. Off they went, with her almost running to the Cashier to keep up with Keith, who was striding ahead. They got to the Cashier, and Keith flourished the docket at the man behind the barred window.

‘Do you want the Cashier to count out the cash and give it directly to you, or would you prefer him to put it straight into your bank account?’ Keith asked. Her partner, unable to control his excitement, said, “How much; how much”. She began to laugh. A few days before, they had discussed coming to the Casino, and her partner had been adamant that it wasn’t a good idea to spend time gambling in a Casino. However, she had noticed his demeanour had changed dramatically, and he was no longer his usual calm, unfazed self.

The amount that had been won was considered unsafe to carry around in her purse, so it was decided to pay the winnings directly into her bank.

Another gentleman appeared at her side and asked if she required any ‘Winning Extras’.

‘What on earth are ‘Winning Extras?’ she asked. “A meal, a hotel room, a car to take you as you wish, the casino’s yacht to take you across the harbour”. ‘Well, we can’t stay in a hotel here as plane journeys are booked to our respective countries. How about the Casino’s yacht to take us across the Harbour?” said my partner. ‘Yes! Let’s do that. God, this whole thing is like a dream!’ she told him. The whole boat began to shake as she gingerly lowered herself into the launch. ‘Phew’, she thought as she tried to find something to cling to. ***** As her eyes slowly opened, she saw him smiling at her.

She stretched and said: ’Come on. It’s time to go and eat, and I must finish packing. She looked around her and felt immediately confused. It was by now dark but still warm. She put her hands down to her sides and realised she was still sitting on the bench in the roof garden. She smiled at the memory of what had been a dream. She whispered to him, feeling a little foolish: ‘I dreamt we’d gone to a Casino and won a lot of money. It was such a vivid dream that I almost thought it was true.’ He looked at her, clearly confused: “We did go to a Casino, and you did win. Can’t you remember?”


Molly-Anne was in the games room. She had been watching the raindrops run down the window for the past ten minutes, occasionally tracing it down with her finger, which made lines in the condensation. But now she was bored. She hopped off the armchair and stood on one leg, then pulled up her sock. Then she stood on the other leg and pulled her other sock up. ‘Lizzie, I’m so bored, let’s play a game!’ she whined. Lizzie was sitting on the floor doing a jigsaw, ‘I’m doing my puzzle Molly!’ Molly-Anne scrunched up her face. ‘Well, I shall go and see if Tommy wants to play instead then’. She said, knowing full well that Lizzie liked Tommy. But Lizzie didn’t care today, she was far too busy doing her jigsaw to be bothered about chasing boys. She stuck her tongue out at Molly-Anne. Molly-Anne Fingus was an energetic ten-year-old (who would argue that she was almost eleven!) with an incredibly short attention span. She’d had a tough start to life. Her parents died when she was a baby, and she now lived in an orphanage. But that didn’t stop her enjoying herself, and she was one of the star pupils in her class. Molly-Anne had always longed for a sister. She knew she had Lizzie, but she wanted more than a best friend. She wanted someone who would be there for her, no matter what. Someone who would not hide behind their possessions and be themselves around her. Molly-Anne had brown hair which was styled in a short bob, and brown eyes. She wasn’t very tall and almost always wore trousers. In the orphanage they didn’t get many new clothes anyway. Lizzie Karcher was her best friend and she had beautiful, long blonde hair, which was always neatly brushed, and she wore a headband and some pretty clips. She was a girl who loved the sound of her own voice, and she loved being the centre of attention. She always wore beautiful dresses because she had some distant family outside of the orphanage who sent items in for her. Sometimes it made Molly a little jealous, but she was still her best friend.

‘Hi Tommy! Do you want to play a game with me?’ asked Molly-Anne as she walked into the library, where Tommy Folds was reading a comic. Tommy shook his head, ‘Sorry Molly, I am halfway through this really good Batman story!’ Molly-Anne felt sad. She walked out of the library with her head hung down low and her shoulders slumped. As she came out into the hallway, Lizzie was coming up from the games room. ‘Molly, are you alright? I have finished my jigsaw come and see!’ Lizzie bounded back down the hallway, and Molly-Anne followed. Lizzie had done a huge Disney princess jigsaw. ‘Wow Lizzie, that’s cool!’ Molly-Anne said with wide eyes. ‘Come on, Molly. Shall we go on an adventure? I have heard a really scary story about the abandoned house down the street!’ Lizzie said excitedly. The girls ran to their dormitory, Molly-Anne put on her favourite jumper, which had red, blue, green and yellow spots on it. She put her raincoat and her wellies on and grabbed her scarf just in case. Lizzie also put on a jumper, a raincoat, and her wellies. She didn’t like scarves. She always said that she felt like they were strangling her. The girls ran downstairs. Just as they were nearing the front door of the orphanage, Mrs Hardiman came out of the dining room. ‘Girls! Where are you two going? It’s almost lunch! Go and get washed and cleaned up immediately, please’. Mrs Hardiman said, sternly. She had a very cross face; she always had a very cross face. Mrs Hardiman went past the girls and headed into the kitchen. The girls pretended to head upstairs, but when they were certain she had gone into the kitchen and wasn’t coming back out, they snuck out of the door. The rain was pouring down, and it was freezing. Molly-Anne put her scarf on straight away. They pulled up their hoods and began to make their way down the street. The girls were having a great time. They were splashing in puddles, catching the raindrops on their tongues, singing, and dancing. Suddenly, Lizzie stopped dancing and stood still, Molly-Anne stopped too and asked, ‘Lizzie? What’s wrong?’ ‘This is the place’. Lizzie replied, staring up at a huge, old, and decrepit building. Molly-Anne looked up at the house. The bricks that were probably once white were now grey and covered in moss. Wooden panels covered each window, but it was easy to see through the gaps in the panels that the glass was broken on most of the panes. ‘This place is a mess! Lizzie, I don’t think we should go in there’. said Molly-Anne, cautiously. ‘Come on, Molly! Don’t be a scaredy cat!’ Lizzie said, running off up the garden path of the run-down house. ‘Lizzie! Wait for me!’ Molly-Anne shouted after her, as she began to follow. ‘Come on, there’s a loose board on a window around the back’ Lizzie whispered as she led the way around to the back of the property. ‘How do you know? How did you even find out about this place Lizzie?’ Asked Molly-Anne, curiously. Lizzie tapped the side of her nose and moved a board from in front of a window. She signalled to Molly-Anne to head inside and put her finger to her lips, meaning they needed to be quiet. Molly-Anne was not happy at all, but she did as she was told. She didn’t want to look weak or scared in front of her much cooler best friend. Lizzie followed her in. They were in an old kitchen. The room was dark, damp and smelly. ‘What are we even doing here?’ whispered Molly-Anne. ‘I heard that up in the attic of this house, there’s a mirror that can tell the future! I want to find it Molly, I want to know if I’ll ever be famous!’ Lizzie giggled quietly and motioned for them to carry on moving. The kitchen had a worn-out tiled floor, and wallpaper that was peeling in lots of places. The ceiling was stained yellow and had wet patches, where Molly-Anne could only presume that the upstairs plumbing had leaked through.

The girls walked through into a hallway. The floorboards were creaking loudly underneath the stained, threadbare carpet, and this made Molly-Anne really nervous. ‘Lizzie, what if there’s someone in here? I think we should leave’, she said, her voice quivering. ‘Don’t chicken out on me now, Molly. Come on. Oh, wow, look at that!’ Lizzie exclaimed. She was pointing at some paintings hanging on the wall, in what looked to be an old living room. There were two of them, both portraits. One of an old woman and one of an old man. Molly-Anne didn’t like them at all. She thought they were spooky, and their eyes seemed to follow her as she entered the room. ‘These must have been the old house owners; I wonder what happened to them?’ Lizzie commented, having a closer look at the portraits. The old woman in the picture looked familiar to Molly-Anne. She didn’t like looking at her for too long because it creeped her out, but it certainly resembled someone she had met. She just couldn’t put her finger on who it was. In the living room, the furniture was covered with sheets that were probably once a bright white colour, but now they were covered in dust and dirt. The friends headed back out of the room and into the hallway again. It was time for them to go upstairs. Every single step creaked and moaned under their feet as they climbed up. At the top, there was another long hallway to the right with multiple rooms on either side. But the room Lizzie was interested in was right above them. They crept down the hallway to where there was a ceiling hatch. The girls could see they needed a long pole to enable them to unhook the lock. Suddenly, a noise came from downstairs. It sounded like footsteps on wood, possibly in the living room, as the kitchen had a different type of floor. The girls panicked and ran to the nearest door. It looked like a child’s bedroom. The girls hid underneath the bed, they were frightened. Even Lizzie was shaking. They could smell a horrible stench coming from the carpet in here, and with their noses being so close to the ground, it was making Molly-Anne heave. After about ten minutes, which felt more like a decade, the girls heard no more noise, and decided to come out from under the bed. Molly-Anne looked at Lizzie and smirked, ‘I wasn’t at all frightened then, you know! I was just making sure you weren’t on your own. I know how much of a scaredy cat you can be, Molly!’ Lizzie remarked, pulling a face and dusting the dirt off her tights, which were covered in muddy water anyway.

Molly-Anne wasn’t really paying attention, she was looking at all of the stuff that hadn’t been covered up. ‘I wonder why all of this stuff has been left uncovered. Every other room has sheets over everything’ Molly-Anne muttered to herself. ‘Let’s get out of here, it smells funny’, Lizzie suggested. Molly-Anne followed Lizzie out of the room, but she had a very strange feeling that she just couldn’t explain. Out in the hallway, the girls noticed the atmosphere felt completely different to before. ‘We need to find the pole for the attic’. Lizzie insisted. ‘What? Are you crazy? Lizzie, we need to go home!’ Molly-Anne replied. But Lizzie was already opening another door, ‘Here! This looks like a storage cupboard Molly!’ Lizzie said, excitedly. She was fumbling around trying to find a light switch. Just then the whole contents of the cupboard came tumbling forward off the shelves. Lizzie screamed as she fell and was hit by buckets, mops, boxes, and everything else that you would normally not imagine to be crammed into such a small space! Molly-Anne jumped backwards, mainly to get out of the way but also because it startled her. Lizzie began to get up off the floor. She wanted to cry, but she wanted to look tough in front of Molly-Anne. ‘Lizzie, are you alright?’ asked Molly-Anne. ‘I’m better than alright, Molly! Look what I found!’ Replied Lizzie, holding up a long, wooden pole with a hook on the end. Lizzie held the pole at the end, she wasn’t very tall, and neither was Molly-Anne, but she was able to carefully unhook the lock. The hatch door swung down, and some ladders began to slowly drop from the attic. Suddenly, there was a loud scream from downstairs. The girls were rooted to the spot. Molly-Anne made the first move. She scrambled up the ladder, followed closely by Lizzie. ‘Why are we up here Molly? What were you thinking?’ Whispered Lizzie, angrily. ‘I had no choice! We can’t go downstairs because there is definitely someone down there, that was a real scream Lizzie!’ Molly-Anne explained, in a hushed voice. ‘Shh! Someone is coming!’ she continued. The girls were still, and they could hear footsteps below. There was another noise. It sounded like something was being dragged up the stairs. Molly-Anne acted fast, she pulled up the ladder and shut the hatch, locking it from the inside. ‘There’s more than one person. This is bad. I am so sorry Molly. We should have gone home when you said!’ Lizzie began to cry. Molly-Anne cradled her best friend. She had never seen this side of Lizzie before. She was truly frightened, and showing her weak side was something Lizzie never did. The attic was huge. There was a little light coming in from a window that hadn’t been boarded up. Most of the items had been covered up with sheets, there were some boxes that hadn’t been, but they were sealed shut with brown tape. Then Lizzie spotted something. Hidden in the corner of the room behind some stacked up boxes, there was a familiar shape covered in a sheet. ‘Molly! It’s the mirror!’ Lizzie whispered, excitedly. Molly-Anne helped Lizzie move the boxes out of the way, but as Molly-Anne picked one up, the bottom fell out. She crouched down to try and clean up the items that had dropped out of the box, but she couldn’t help but be a little nosey. It was mainly paperwork, which Molly-Anne didn’t understand and found very boring. But then she noticed some photos. ‘They were a family’ Molly-Anne said quietly to Lizzie, who was now crouching next to her. In the photos there was what looked like a family. The mother and father were the people from the portraits downstairs, but a lot younger, and a baby wrapped up in a blanket. Molly-Anne flipped over the photograph, ‘Daniel, Abigail, and M…’ Molly-Anne began to read the words but stopped. Tears formed in her eyes. She handed the photo to Lizzie. ‘Daniel, Abigail, and Molly-Anne Fingus. Oh, my goodness! Molly, these are your parents!’ Lizzie said, staring at her friend, who was sobbing. ‘Molly, was this your house?’ Lizzie asked. But Molly-Anne had no idea. She had lived at Mrs Finch’s Orphanage for as long as she could remember. ‘Mrs Hardiman always said that I was taken to them by social services when my parents died. I was a baby, almost new-born. But this doesn’t make sense, Lizzie. If my parents died shortly after this photo was taken, how are they looking so old in the portraits downstairs?’ Mollie-Anne asked. ‘One thing that does make sense though, when we first saw those portraits, I knew I had seen the woman somewhere before. Now I know how I recognised her, I dream about her all of the time, Lizzie’. She continued. Suddenly, a croaky, old, and haggard voice came from below the hatch. ‘Molly-Anne, I know you’re up there, I can smell you. I knew you would come home eventually!’ The girls looked at each other, they were petrified. ‘What are we going to do? We can’t open the hatch, that thing knows your name and does not sound human at all!’ Lizzie said. Molly-Anne could tell she was worried. ‘What about the window? It isn’t boarded up, let’s see if we can smash it with something’. Molly-Anne responded. Lizzie grabbed the wooden pole that she had used to open the lock on the hatch. The hook on the end was metal, it was worth a shot. She stood back from the window and swung with all her might. The hook hit the top corner of the windowpane, and it caused a huge crack to form from the top of the window to the bottom. The hatch began to shake violently, and the voice coming through it was getting more irritated by the second. Molly-Anne grabbed a huge, heavy book and threw it hard at the cracked window. It smashed. Lizzie climbed out first. There was a thin ledge, which stretched the whole length of the house. She stood to the side of the window and helped Molly-Anne climb out. The rain was lashing down now, and Molly-Anne had lost her scarf. The ground seemed a very long way down. The girls tried not to look down as they edged along the ledge towards the drainpipe. Just then, there was a loud crashing noise from inside the attic. The girls moved quicker. Lizzie reached the drainpipe. Luckily, she had done this before on her previous adventures. She was able to ignore the fact that she had a dress on and shimmy her way down to the safety of the ground. Molly-Anne, however, had not been on such adventures and was very nervous. Suddenly, an old, withered head that Molly-Anne recognised popped out of the broken window. It was her mother, or at least, it used to be. She was grinning at Molly-Anne. Her teeth were yellow and crooked, and most of them were missing. This was enough to make Molly-Anne grab hold of the drainpipe. Seconds later, she was on the ground, and the girls ran home. Later than evening, the girls were eating dinner with the other children. They hadn’t told anyone about what had happened, but Molly-Anne presumed Lizzie would tell Tommy to make her look really brave. Molly-Anne finished her plate and asked if she could leave the table. She made her way up to the girl’s dormitory. Lizzie followed. ‘Are you alright, Molly?’ asked Lizzie as they sat on Molly-Anne’s bed. ‘Yes, Lizzie. I just can’t get my head around any of it’. Molly-Anne said, as she pulled out the photo of her parents from her pocket. It was a bit soggy, so she put it on the top of the radiator to dry out. ‘I want to go back, Lizzie. I need to go back; I have so many questions, and I think I can find the answers there’. ‘We will go back, Molly. I promise’. Lizzie replied, hugging Molly-Anne. Just then, a feeling passed through both girls. For the first time in their lives, they felt as one. Molly-Anne finally felt as though she had not only a best friend, but a sister. The End


It shattered. All I wanted was to prepare at least one dinner for myself without assistance, yet all I managed to do was destroy practically everything in the kitchen. My mother used to say that cooking is an art and that an empty pan should be viewed as a blank canvas ready to accept anything and make it into something tasty and beautiful. You can cook whatever you want, and all you have to do is pour some love and passion into it, and the meal will taste wonderful, if not to others, then to yourself. These are the words of someone who cannot cook properly, which may be why she added that final comment. When I saw the sauce smeared across the wall mocking the artistic comparison of my mother, and the food made with edible goods tasting anything but that, I lost any hope and determination I had to pursue cooking as a career – yes, I had thought of it as a plausible career even before I knew what cooking would entail. Didn’t I pour enough love? Or were all of her words merely ineffective motivation? I scowled at the mess I had caused and dejectedly marched out of the kitchen, vowing never to cook again. I'm quite aware that I give up easily. My mother used to chastise me for never putting in enough effort in anything I did. I am a highly ambitious person who wants to do everything – from painting to cooking, singing to athletics – yet all I have accomplished is a continual climb in the meters of irritation. As a youngster, I was a consistent attendee at my vocal classes. Never made any excuses and accepted all of the hard work and failure with grace. But, after a few days, singing had changed from a pleasure to a chore, and all I wanted to do was get away from it all. My resolve crumbled, and I eventually stopped singing. I didn't have time to lament over my lack of singing skill – which I had evidently convinced myself was the reason for abandoning those courses – and instead moved to a new art form. This time, my curiosity lasted a few days longer. It might be because I had an incentive in the shape of my friend, Vivek, entering the badminton academy alongside me. Those were the best days of my life. Day and night practice, food as a treat, and incredible teammates. However, nothing nice lasts forever. I also quit badminton within a month, but for a different reason. I understood badminton was merely a form of entertainment. In this field, I will not become renowned or gain any recognition. I wanted to be famous and well-known, and badminton would not be able to give me that. “Would you like to become a household name? The simplest way is to become an actor.” Vivek suggested, and I clung to that idea. I looked for auditions in far-flung locations, making a list that was much too long, and my resolve to pursue acting was bolstered by my mother's supportive comments.  What an actor you are. Go tidy up your room. I did not even tell her about my new interest but she knew beforehand. That’s why she is a mother and also because she is a female but that’s different. These emotions make a ‘caring’ mother, not someone’s anatomy. One lucky Saturday, I got selected for an audition. “Be polite, hide your dumb self, and…and act well. Everything would be fine.”Vivek delivered such an inspiring motivational talk. My nervousness should have disappeared with such words but I’m not sure why it didn’t. His final words before pushing me into the audition room that turns one into a self-deprecating idiot were, “Good luck”. I stumbled, I tripped, I grinned and I grimaced. There were four judges who looked ever ready to fight me. I wanted to flee and I would have if not for my desire to last at least a day. I stood there, my knees quivering and my hands shivering; it was a frightening situation, but I wanted to show my mother that I don't vacillate between things. I plan to pursue acting, become famous, and earn millions. But all of my hopes came crashing down around me in a matter of seconds. This time, I did not leave performing because of myself. The judges cut me off in the middle of my performance and told me to either enroll in an acting academy or forget the prospect of being an actor. Heartbroken! For days, I cried, then painting appeared like a beam of sunlight in my gloomy world, filling it with light as warm as my favorite jumper. I would hurry in to bring in all of my painting supplies and paint for hours as soon as I woke up. Colors were splattered across the paintings without rhyme or reason. I'd heard that painting whatever comes to the mind produces the finest results. However, my final work always looked as if someone had vomited colors. I didn't let it get to me, and I began taking painting lessons. My teacher was a patient, optimistic man who supported me whenever he could.  “You just have to fine-tune your edges. You will be good within some days.” He would say and pat on my shoulder. Initially, he inspired me to give my best but whatever I made kept on deteriorating, and painting what was customary became a tiresome and monotonous chore. My teacher’s encouraging words slowly morphed into mockery due to my self–esteem issues. All I could believe then was him asking me to be content with what little talent I had in painting and that even trying hard wouldn’t help. And that’s how I left painting too. Whenever I saw a painting hung beautifully on a wall in my house, tears would brim but my mother’s glaring eyes dried all my tears. My mother was fed up with my antics. She would prefer me to be a very naughty, boisterous child instead of being fickle-minded.

“Do you ever learn from your mistakes?” Repeating them over and over. Do not pursue something out of a desire to get wealthy; instead, do it with love and enthusiasm. And then we'll see what heights you can reach.” She stated this as she cupped my face in her gentle, loving hands. I wanted to weep right then and there, but I restrained myself and nodded. This is how I tried my hand at cooking, pouring all of my love into it, but in vain. I got into a fight with my mum. It was her comments that caused me to waste my time with foolish cooking, but instead of admitting responsibility, she began complaining about how easily and quickly I gave up. Is it my fault? Did I fail because of me? “You don't have a plan. Perhaps this is why you bounce from one thing to the next. If someone has a goal, they will go to any length to attain it.” Vivek offered a bit of advice, but it was illogical. I had a goal, an ambition, to be wealthy, to bathe in millions, to have everything at my disposal, and I did all in my power to attain that goal. But none of my ideas backed me up. Is it my fault? I even considered marrying a wealthy woman and living in luxury for the rest of my life, but people scorn house-husbands. I want to be wealthy while also being respected. How can I attain my goal? “Focus on your education, get a desk job, and life settled,” my mother stated sternly as if she intended to bend my will to hers. “And quit being so greedy.”  I am now a first-year economics student but perhaps I can switch to animation? Won’t it be cool?