It is often said that “behind every great man stands an even greater woman.” Although this is a true statement, it is rarely discussed that many times, every fantastic woman has an incredible man for backup. That lucky guy is me. I’m the backup. Or sidekick, if you will. I never planned on being a superhero or even one’s second in command; the entire situation fell into my lap one day. I was going to be a psychiatrist, stockbroker, or something important that makes a butt load of money. But it seemed that there was another plan awaiting me. One that doesn’t pay nearly as much as one would think. Not that I’m complaining. Oh, the times we used to have. In the 90s, The Mrs. and I ruled the Metro. Not only were we at every hot party, but we were also usually the best dressed. Everyone either loved or hated us. Or loved to hate us. We were the “it couple.” All of the populace wanted to be in our day planner. Not only were we saving the world, but we were on top of it. We were at a party full of burgeoning superheroes the night we met. I knew who she was, as you couldn’t miss her posters all over town, but I tried to keep it cool, chatting with the other guest while sneaking glances at her across the room. After becoming bored with talking to the girl with the mohawk about how many piercings she had, I announced, “Who wants to drink whiskey with me?” I felt like an embarrassed child who had accidentally passed gas in class as I watched the room fall silent, and everyone just stared in my direction as if I’d asked them to attend the next NKOTB concert. I swore that I heard crickets chirping in the distance. Finally, a voice spoke up to save my embarrassment. It was her! She had an impish grin on her face as she confidently stated, “I’ll accept that challenge.” This was it. I was going to drink with the one and only “The Mrs.” Little old Bartholomew James, rubbing shoulders with Metro royalty. After that, it all just happened. We were inseparable. Going in, I had no idea what being known as a superhero would entail. But within days, my face was on the cover of every tabloid in town as The Mrs.’s new partner. Wherever we would go, flash bulbs and inane questions about our sex life followed. Save a baby in an ape’s habitat at the zoo; the cameras were there. Pick up some street meat after a long night at the club, and they were there too. It got to the point where I was checking my shower for hidden cameras before unrobing. We were THAT kind of famous. Well, at least she was, which in proximity, made me quite popular as well. As I said, The Mrs. was a household name before we crossed paths, so she was used to this life. And It’s not that she did anything mind-blowing, or anything, not like the superheroes that we were used to in the press. She couldn’t make herself invisible or blow things up. Nothing awesome like that; she was just there to help. A tired woman looked in a seemingly empty pantry, worried about what to feed her kids because she didn’t have the energy to go to the store; there she was, whipping up a casserole to feed them all while the mom took a well-deserved nap. A bride is hysterical because none of her plans for her dream wedding are working out; she’d appear right next to them feverously on the phone, fixing the problems one by one. A little boy falls off his bike; there she is with disinfectant and a bandage. It was all really just mother-type stuff, you know? That’s where she excelled. All those homemaker things you don’t think too much about until it’s so bad you are having a breakdown. Before you could say, “Let’s order pizza,” she handled your problem with a smile and a kind word of encouragement. Except for dirty dishes. Boy, does The Mrs. hate doing dishes. I have seen her set homes on fire and then quickly rebuild them better than they were previously. Then she would go to her shed and hand-make a new set of china for the family to use daily. All to avoid washing a single dish. You know those rooms where you can pay to break dishes and whatnot without cleaning up or buying new dishware? Yeah, The Mrs. invented that when her collection of saved dirty dishes from the past started to grow bigger than our lair. I guess all this domestic stuff was how she earned the name “The Mrs.” She spent her days flitting around helping people with household catastrophes. In the thick of it, posters were all over the Metro of her looking gorgeous with a caption that read, “The Mrs: She’ll save your life, kiss your boo-boos, and still have dinner prepared.” That still makes me chuckle every time I pass it, framed in our living room. I hope she gave her publicist a raise for that one. And I was there for all of it. Well, most of it. A man can only be involved in so many sewing circles, you know? I’d fix the bike while she handled the scrape, baste the chicken while she worked on the sides, or kill the spider that had everyone up on the furniture. We were a team. The calls for help kept coming, and we were there to answer. In an effort to keep our clients calm while she went about her business, I would try to talk to them to distract them. “Tell me, what is it that you do?” I’d ask. Usually, they would reply with whatever they did to pay the bills. To which I would reply, “No, I asked what you DO?” Before they even had a chance to answer, The Mrs. was done, and with a poof, we were gone. Leaving them problem free, but with a lot to think about. At first, I loved all the attention. In the limelight, I was truly in my element. I’d be right next to The Mrs. in every photo, smiling from ear to ear. After too many times of hearing me being referred to as Bartholomew or BJ, the press even gave me my own name. They called me “Blew Jay” because to hear the stories, I seemed to ask difficult questions and then blow away as if on the wings of a bird. Headlines would read, “Who is our happy homemaker's new beau?” Or “The Domestic Duo are at it again, saving a broken heirloom from incineration.” One even said, “The Mrs. pregnant with BJ’s love child!” They all assumed that we were a couple because we were always together. I guess it didn’t help that most quotes they would get from me were something to the effect of “I’m just here to help The Mrs.” We would laugh at the end of the day as we read of our speculated antics over dinner and a movie on the couch. And though I admit that we had our share of dalliances, we realized quickly that we were much better off as friends. Our relationship was so much more than you could put a label on. It was almost as if the universe had put us together for a specific purpose. Saving the world, one household at a time. A few years went by, and suddenly the headlines were not so glowing when it came to me. Instead of discussing all the good things I had helped with, they would be filled with veiled remarks that I was more of a villain than a hero. Things like “Blew Jay: The Master of Distraction; where is he trying to mislead YOU?” Or “His disappearing smoke gave my child asthma.” Even some as simple as “I hate him because he made me think.” It really hurt my feelings. I was just trying to help if and where I could. But they wanted to paint me to be something malicious and evil. And how is making people think a bad thing, anyway? The Mrs. kept on as if nothing was wrong, repeatedly assuring me that it would all blow over; and then laughing at her own joke. During our adventures, people would scream and throw things at me until I almost completely stopped joining her on her excursions, be it at home or the newest club in town. I think she felt kind of abandoned. But so did I. I couldn’t believe she would let people talk about me like that after all I had done for her. This led to quite a rift between us for the first time. Tensions were so high that we began getting into huge screaming matches the few times we actually ever ventured out of the lair together. Photographers no longer wanted pictures of me with her, and if they did, I would hide my face in fear of what lies the next morning’s headline would proclaim. Finally, fed up, I gave The Mrs. an ultimatum. It was either them or me. As I solemnly moved into a one-bedroom apartment across town, the headlines announced, “The Mrs. to Finally Divorce BJ the Beast.” Years went by before we even spoke again. She was still in the spotlight, so I knew which areas to avoid an accidental run-in. She continued being her. I continued being me. Just this time, we did it separately. She was right; all the hoopla against me did finally die down. Eventually, I just became known as “BJ, a cool guy to have a conversation with.” And I was fine with that. I still helped out when I could; the Metro has an incredible insect problem. But nothing like things were in our heyday. Mostly, I just kept to myself, only cursing the fact that I now had to make my own meals occasionally. Then Harry Cane invaded our beloved city. And he was strong, as strong of a villain as I had ever gone up against. Everyone was helping. Superheroes were flying in from all over to help us slay this giant. I looked over after picking up a bystander that had been knocked down by the gale-force winds caused by the evil-doer's big entrance, and there she was, cleaning a blood stain out of a gentleman's suit. We stared at each other for a minute, not knowing what to say. “Look, I went to high school with this guy. If we are going to defeat him, we will have to do it together. As a team, like we used to,” I started. “Okay,” she agreed, shaking my outstretched hand. “But to be honest, I’m at a loss. And kind of scared,” she admitted, still holding onto my hand. We held hands in silence for what felt like an eternity, trying to devise a plan while the chaos swirled around us. Finally, I had an idea. I explained that I remembered that Harry Cane was deathly allergic to sesame seeds because we’d had the same lunch period in 10th grade. In no time, Mrs. Them whipped up a batch of her famous red pepper hummus. “But how will we get him to eat it?” She asked a valid question. I thought for a second and replied, “You let me worry about that.” I tried to be reassuring while grabbing the bowl of mushed chickpea goodness. “Hey, Cane!” I yelled, turning towards my tormenter. “Well, if it isn’t little BJ?” Harry taunted me from above. “Remember all those times you gave me wedgies in chemistry class?” I dangled the bait as Harry Cane began to laugh to the point of guffaw. While his mouth was open, I thought of every time he’d even stuffed me in a locker or done something equally as humiliating and chucked that bowl right into the enemy's mouth. He was so busy laughing that he barely noticed as it slipped down his throat. Seconds later, he stopped laughing and began to choke. He stumbled around, gasping for air and taking down buildings. Then he began to swell up like a balloon. He kept getting bigger and bigger. And wreaking havoc in his wake. Shielding The Mrs. with my body, I was beginning to think that we had made a huge mistake. Until...BOOM, he popped. Just like that, he would hurt no one ever again. “Well, we did it,” she said sheepishly as the dust settled in our hair. “We sure did,” I replied, unsure of what was next. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” I said, unsure if that was the right thing to do. “Yeah. See ya,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment while we went our separate ways. The next few years were nice. Not like they were in the past, but enjoyable nonetheless. We were no longer avoiding each other, so we would run into each other at all kinds of fancy shindigs around town. We even did jobs together on occasion for old times' sake. Or she’d give me a referral if she ran across a problem she couldn’t fix, and vice versa. We had a pleasant, although not nearly as intimate, relationship. Then her mentor passed away. Big G. The man practically raised her. It was all over the news, and my heart broke her. I knew she was sitting in the lair, bawling her eyes out, surrounded by her minions, tripping all over themselves with how they could help her. She didn’t need me. But I wanted to be there. I wanted to be there for her. She was my best friend, and she was hurting. My prediction was correct, mostly. She was in the lair with all the minions and such. They brought her cocktails, rubbed her back, and vacuumed her floor. Anything they could do to make her feel better. But nothing worked. She just sat there, staring at the wall in silence. When she could muster up the energy to speak, all she said was, “Call BJ.” “I just walked in,” I replied, overhearing what she had said. Shooing away her entourage, I sat beside her with my hand on her leg. We didn’t have to talk, I knew what she was thinking. I always did. So we just sat there for a while in silence while her head swirled with all the thoughts of things that she should have told the big man. “He knew,” I whispered, turning in for a hug. As she cried into my shoulder, I held her reassuringly. At that point, we both knew that we were back together as a team. We were partners in life again. BJ and The Mrs forever. “I’m still not doing all your jobs with you, though. That sidekick thing is way behind me.” I was only half joking. Eventually, she got sick of all the glitz and glamor of celebrity, so she retired as well. We settled down in the suburbs with her ACTUAL husband. She continued to make dinner. I continued to cause trouble in a somewhat helpful way. And the husband, well, he would just sit back and laugh at our antics. The peace we’d helped so many others attempt to achieve was finally ours as a family. There is not much left of the glory that was once Blew Jay. Every once in a while, I will go into a bar for a few. As I know that I am finishing my last beer, I will start a very loud discussion with the guy next to me about whatever happens to be controversial at the time. As I watch everyone start to loudly scream their differing opinions at each other, I smile, remembering the good old days. Then I leave money on the bar and quietly slip out before anyone notices. I then head home to the dinner that I am sure The Mrs. has prepared, content with the fact that I’ve still got it. “I’m sorry,” Blew Jay shook his head slowly, coming out of the fog of memories. “What was your question?” “What was it really like to work with The Mrs? And are you sad that there are no chances for a reunion now that she has passed away?” the reporter repeated. “No need for a reunion, I was with her until her dying day, and she will always be with me in my heart,” the sadness broke him quickly out of his nostalgia-induced contentment. “How was it? It was incredible. It was the time of our lives,” BJ whispered, wiping a tear before it could fall. “Get that stupid thing out of my face, I told you, no pictures.” And with a poof, he was gone.


The clatter the accident caused was a magnificent noise, the shattering of the window reverberating throughout the neighborhood. Every child playing stickball in the street groaned, except for Hal. Hal’s mouth hung open in stupefied horror, watching the last few pieces of shattered glass hold onto the window frame that sat in the Becksworth mansion. The home would only be called a mansion by children, three stories tall and bristling with peaked roofs and dormers. But standing behind its wrought iron fence and neglected brown lawn of scrub and weeds, mansion was the best word the children could use around adults and know that it also meant haunted. Using this coded language the children had established rules around the house. The first and most important was that anyone willing to sneak into it at midnight would automatically be a hero and would go down in legend. No one had done this. The second rule, was the person who kicked, hit, or otherwise waled any variety of ball into the scrub-infested yard was the one who had to retrieve it. Bat in hand, Hal watched with growing dread as he realized he was the first to have the dubious honor of crashing through one of the mansion’s windows. It was not the first time that a ball in the children’s play had broken any window in the neighborhood, though. So a silence descended on the group as they hoped that, despite the mansion’s seemingly abandoned exterior, that the customary adult would emerge from the home. The angry yelling or plaintive requests for honesty would surely be preferable to the unassuageable silence that emanated from the mansion. No one emerged from the Becksworth home. That sealed Hal’s fate. Normally, the other children would have jeered as the offending bat-wielder approached the victim home, but now only a cloud of silence descended on the group. This was replaced by a sharp intake of collective breath as Hal strode to the house’s fence. Laying hands on the gate and opening it to enter the yard would have been enough to gain the respect of his peers, but Hal breathed deep and strode down the walk to the front door. A knock on it produced nothing – no muffled voices or telltale footsteps came from within. This only made Hal more afraid. The rumor was that the Becksworth family had died in a car crash and now their spirits haunted the mansion. While adults told the children that it was silly to think the home was haunted, no one ever denied that death had occurred. And in all of the hours of their street games, no one saw anyone enter or leave the residence. Which left Hal with the one option of the window. The ball had taken out a window on the first floor and Hal approached it as if it might grow teeth. Careful of the broken glass, he stood on the tips of his toes to look inside. In the center of the room’s wooden floor sat the ball, in between a fireplace, couch, coffee table and grandfather clock. A breeze through the window caused the ball to roll a bit, but nothing else stirred. Hal let out a tentative, “Hello?” before reaching up to stand on the sill so he could step through the window. Despite the summer heat, he found himself cold. The yellow rays of the sun that filled the house didn’t touch his skin. Once his foot hit the floor, he was freed from hesitation, moving to snatch the ball and escape. Only the voices stopped him, drifting from another room, familiar like an old television show. As with all youths, Hal was attuned to the possibilities of the future, and the voices spoke to that, until he uttered another hesitant, “Hello?” and followed the trail of the spectral voices. Peeking around the door of the adjacent room, Hal first thought he had found an old man watching his shows. A tall-backed leather chair sat in the room with a blanketed figure in it, across from it a glowing image. The details his brain quickly gathered, though, told Hal there was more going on. The blanket lay across legs that left skeletal impressions in it, the light from the glowing picture didn’t emanate from a box of any kind, but leapt back and forth between two metal rods, positioned in a V like some old antenna. Uncertain and afraid to say anything, Hal’s eyes focused on the moving pictures being rendered in the air, and saw a family going about the business of being a family. Sometimes they were happy, sometimes angry, sometimes stricken, but a family nonetheless, the father often wearing a pair of dock shoes that resembled those on the legs sticking out from the chair’s blanket. Hal felt his eyes widen as he watched, the children in the floating images rapidly cycling through different ages, the parents newly weds and then grandparents, all hinging on a moment when a car trip was decided against. As Hal watched, though, these faded moments, were replaced with scenes of Hal – he saw himself growing up, doing well in school, doing poorly, his father living to see him graduate, of dying in a cancer ward. There was college, a war, prison, one special girl or many women. All of these dazzled out between the antenna, swirling before him like a kaleidoscope. Only when Hal dropped the ball he had strived so valiantly to retrieve did the figure in the chair stir. It might have said something, but Hal would never be sure. He ran, he ran faster than he ever had around a baseball’s diamond or through the streets of his town. He ran from the shimmering possibilities that hovered in the Becksworth house. He wasn’t certain who sat in that chair, but after a second of seeing what he beheld, Hal knew what held him there. And Hal wanted none of it. One future would be enough for him.


WHO IS THAT It has been a long day.  I have been thinking all day.  Thinking about  my life and all the things I've done.  All the events of my life.--All the people in my life.  My parents -my sisters.  It's been many years. The memories  come back and dwell in my mind.--My sisters and I have gotten older.--Our lives have moved in different directions.  Today I think about all the fun we had.  I was the youngest -the only boy --My sisters were older and I was the baby of the family.  That was good---Where's Terry -He's been gone a long time--My Mother tells my sisters -You better go look for him--And so they do--I had went down the road  from our house --it was winter --the snow was deep.  A pond was close-the bank was high-it was by the road -down below laid a snow bank  and it was very deep.  I decided I would stand on the pond and jump into the snow. That would be fun--And so I did----I hit the snow and went  in deep--above my shoulders -only my head showing--I was stuck and I was scared . I worked and I squirmed but I could not get out.--I was only 6 years old.  But I knew my sisters would come to help me.-I cried out -Help me -I'm stuck in the snow and I can't get out.--Then I see them -it's getting dark  and I am so afraid.-My sisters--Deanne-Bonnie and Cheryl --their coming to save me.  They dig me out -They put me on a sled they have brought . They take me home and warm me up.  I thought then--it is so good to have someone who will come looking for you -if you've been gone too long . Today  I think about  that day-when I was only 6 --I walk by a mirror and what do I see--I see myself -when I was 6 -I look -wet-I look cold .  And then I know -the reflection I see is from the day I was stuck in the snow.  It is good -I don't want to move -I want to remember that day and who I was--I wish it was then  -but it is now -so many years gone by --I stand there and I look -a reflection of years ago. I cannot let go.--My parents- my sisters  and myself in a house.  A family that stays the same -no one grows older--Life goes on and we cannot stop it --I hear my sister say --Terry -It's time for Church--You better get ready-I'll help.  you.  We all get in the car--3 in the front 3 in the back.  We get close to Church--The bell is ringing -We are going to be late. We run up to the Church-we go up the stairs  and we open the door.-we go in -the Church is full .  But our pew is empty -the Church is full.  But our pew  is empty --it is our seat -everyone has a special place. Do not sit   in someone else's pew.-And so we sit down.  A song is being sung.  I sit between  between Deanne and Bonnie -I liked sitting  between them. I feel safe.  I know they will tell me what to do. They will open the hymnal and point out the words.  They  will find the number of the hymn and point it out to me.  Then we will sing .  My Mother has told me we must go to Church  every Sunday---Jesus is here  and He wants to talk to us.-He want's to tell us what He has done for us.  We cannot miss-We never do.  --I stand up--I put my arms on the pew in front-and I look all around-I see all the people . I know their names -Families sitting together --The Women in their hats and their dresses and their high heeled shoes. Some of them wear scarfs and they have them tied below their chins. The men are in their suits and ties. And their long sleeved shirts--Their skin is tanned from the sun and the wind.  Their hands are rough from  the shovels they have held. They are all farmers --My Dad is a farmer from Nebraska -who moved to Idaho with his wife Marie. He is a Sharecropper -We never had much money --but we were okay-we never went hungry. We were always happy and content with what we had.-I was happy--How could I not be?-My sisters loved me and I had toys and a dog named Spotty.  Our Church was out in the Country--A tall -very tall tree stood close. It did not move -it did not fall.  Rooted deep in God's great earth.  The steeple stood high-on top was a cross-that was lit.--Surrounded by fields of Clover.-So it was called The Clover Lutheran Church.  A School across the road and that is where my sisters and I went to School.  We rode a bus -it picked us up at our  house every morning--I was 6 -it was my first day of school. I was scared-I did not want to go-My sisters were older-they had already been going. They said it would be fun-I might learn something--there  would be other kids to play with--We had recess. -My sisters got me ready--Bonnie said I had to look good for my first day of school.  It was a Christian School--Clover Lutheran school. My teacher was nice.  Her name was Miss Leader-I liked her--I was not afraid. My sisters were in another class . I wish I could see them. Deanne had told me -do not be afraid -I'll be close by. And she was.-We learned about Jesus -We sang songs and we prayed.  At Christmas we would have a Christmas program  in the Church.  We practiced a lot.--It was on Christmas Eve-And it was a night.-Only lit by the Christmas trees and lights on the altar. The Church would be full of people-all the parents, We had lines to remember. Each class would take their turn. We would stand on the altar and look out to the congregation.. We would tell the story of Christmas  and we would sing songs about Jesus.. The people listened--I hope I did okay?--When we were done another class would come up. We sat on the sides -all in in classes -there were Christmas Trees on both sides of the altar.--They were tall -very tall-lights from top to bottom -Ornaments covered the trees -Tinsel on the branches.  A Manger with the Baby Jesus sat below one tree --His Mother Mary-His Father Joseph -Jesus was in the crib. Sheep and cows looked in. When the program was over we walked out. We were given a sack of candy and peanuts.  And a orange.  We drove home -my sisters and I were excited.  Santa had come while we were at Church.  He had brought us presents. So we opened our presents.  We were all happy-it was the best night of the year.--And now I look in the mirror that has suddenly appeared. I see myself on Christmas Eve.  With my train set.-I move for a better look.  I see myself stuck in a snow bank--I see my sisters coming to help me.  I holler-I'm stuck in the snow and I need help. I hear my sister Deanne--We're coming to help you.-How good it is to look in to look in a mirror and see a reflection of my life.


Quiet nights like this were pretty rare in this part of town. No sirens, no parties, no loud neighbors. For once Mike’s apartment was as tranquil as a Buddhist temple. He couldn’t wait to fall asleep, The bed, under all its blankets looked warm, and comfy in contrast to the icy chill of his bedroom. Perfect. But the peaceful night was interrupted with a bang. Complete terror overtook Mike. He had locked his bedroom door, and stood so quiet that the only sound he made was the uncontrollable thump of his heart beating. Somehow through the ruckus he tried to decipher what was happening in his small apartment. From what he could hear the front door had opened, and frantic footsteps traveled toward what seemed to be his bathroom. What followed next was pained retching, dry heaving, and a toilet flushing. If this was someone coming to steal from him, they were having a rough go at it. Besides, this “stranger” knew exactly where Mike’s bathroom was. It had to be someone he knew. Slowly Mike creaked open the bedroom door, and called out. “Hello?” There was no reply, only the sounds of echoed retching, and heavy breathing. Unsure of what to expect. Still unsure of who was in his home Mike prepared himself for whatever would come next. Cautiously, Mike creaked open the door to peer into the hallway. The bathroom light was on, and someone was definitely in there. At first Mike wondered if a stranger just really needed to use the bathroom, but unless he had forgotten to lock the front door it would have to be one of the three people who had a key. Mike had thought of the first person to come to mind who would be bold enough to invade his bathroom the way that they had. “Dill Pickle?” And as if saying the pet name willed him into existence, there he was. Mike’s Boyfriend Dylan. On his knees hovering around a toilet as if it had secret knowledge to give him. “Hey.” Dylan could only muster up those words, and in a soft tone as his energy was spent on spilling his guts. “What's going on?” Mike had knelt down near Dylan, and rubbed his back for comfort, but it didn’t seem to do much for the sick man. He must’ve just gotten off work. He was still clad in his paramedic uniform. “I think I’ll need a stronger dose.” Dylan spoke as if Mike knew what he was talking about, but Mike didn’t know that vomiting was a normal occurrence in his lover’s life. “Dose of what? Do you need me to run to Rite-aid?” Mike continued rubbing Dylan's back. “No, I have to talk to my doctor again. My stomach ulcers seem like they’re getting 	worse. I used to have them when I was young, but they weren’t like this.” Mike finally had a chance to speak after being forced to pray to the porcelain gods for the past few minutes. “You don’t think work stress is causing it?” Mike was finally able to look into Dylan’s eyes and only see shame as if he had failed himself. “I’ll be fine. I just have a few more shifts this week, and I’ll get my day off.” Dylan tried to assure Mike that he was okay, but Mike wasn’t buying it. The man’s eyes were heavy, and the fatigue that Dylan was feeling was palpable in the air. “Dill, you can’t keep on going like this, there’s no reason to.” Mike tried his best to console Dylan, but the man nudged him away and went back to puking into the toilet. Once Dylan was finished he took a breath, and spoke as if he just ran a sprint. “I won’t get better if I don’t improve. And I don’t want to mess up like that again.” Mike had felt that the worst of his episode was over so he allowed himself to sit on the floor with his back on the wall. “Mistakes happen Dill, and that was literally your first day.” Mike went to grab him a towel. The night after Dylan's first day was still fresh in his mind. It was the first time since being together that he had seen the rock in his life shed tears. But against the crashing waves of the sea all rocks can crack, and erode against its strength. “Mistakes happen?” Dylan shook his head “That guy died because of my mistakes. And on top of that I almost killed Mia.” Mike had remembered talking to Dylan’s coworker Mia on more than one occasion about how self critical Dylan could be while at work, and Mike had done all he could to try and ease his mind when mistakes like that happen. But when someone’s life is on the line, it's hard to dismiss the value of mistakes. Every second mattered when it was someone's life was in your hands, and mistakes shortened that time. “And when’s the last time you took a risk like that when you’re driving?” Dylan was quiet for a moment before looking back at Mike, and shaking his head. “That’s right, you don’t do that shit anymore. And in a funny way because that guy died, he ended up saving just as many people as you have.” Dylan just shook his head. “But how long will it be before my Ulcers makes me fuck up? If they find out how bad it gets, they’ll think I’m too weak to work, and they mi-“ and like a surge of inspiration Dylan went from sitting to back on his knees, over the toilet, dry heaving, and in pain. “You need water Dill!” Mike darted quickly into the kitchen and came back with a cup of water. Mike set it beside Dylan while he finished leaning on the toilet bowl, and took a sip afterward. “I’ll be better after this week I swear.” Dylan tried to reassure him, but Mike only	shook his head. “You’ll never be content this way… There’s nothing you can do about it now except learn from it.” Dylan’s vomiting had finally subsided enough to where he could think about what Mike was saying to him. He took a sip of the water Mike had brought, and spoke. “People need me. And I just can’t let them down.” “And I need you too, but for different reasons. I just want you to be okay, and get home safe and healthy. You aren’t weak or less of a man because you need the day off sometimes. Your body is telling you to take it easy, and you’re ignoring it.” The two were silent for a while, partially to wait out and see if Dylan’s stomach had anything else left to say, and partially for Dylan to contemplate his lover’s words. Finally Dylan spoke. “Sorry for barging in and ruining your night Mikey…” Dylan’s eyes held dark circles over them. But Mike just scoffed at his apology. “One of the best people in my life came over, had a deep chat with me, and’ll cuddle me tonight. I’m actually kinda happy you got sick.” The two men chuckled and a wave of ease fell over the both of them. Dylan was still a bit weak, but luckily Mike had some medicine hidden away that would settle his stomach down for the night, and after a while the night found its peace once more, and Dylan with Mike’s help was ushered to bed with a bucket in his free hand just in case.


He had endured a lengthy career. In recent years he had also become aware that his end date in the workplace loomed ever nearer. The signs were everywhere. Interaction with his coworkers had become non-existent. There was a time when all he seemed to do was attend meetings. He had shaken his head and complained to his wife often, explaining that he worked long hours because he could not complete his work because of all the meetings he had to attend. Everyone wanted to hear his opinion. Now he was invisible. He received invitations to only the most general meetings, the kind that was directed at everyone on the team. Yesterday he had overheard his frenemy John refer to him as a dinosaur.

The company had initially been a small mom-and-pop type. Bill started working for the company in accounting when he was twenty-eight. The owner was eccentric but devoted to the company and had a strong work ethic.  Bill found the owner's behavior more amusing than irritating, and they developed a solid working relationship over the years. The accounting team consisted of the owner's wife and Bill. Twelve years after Bill signed on, the owner's wife, who headed up accounting, retired. Ten years later, the owner retired and turned the business over to his son. To Bill's chagrin, the owner's son was far less ambitious and smug. Bill knew he needed to get on the son's right side once he had taken over operations. So, being an opportunist, he seized the opportunity to expand his territory. Bill offered to become the go-to guy for the third-party IT company that managed the company's network. He had laid it on thick about how the son must be overwhelmed taking on so much responsibility. His delivery was convincing, and he was rewarded with more work but no more pay. Nevertheless, the son managed to keep the company profitable despite his lack of interest and engagement for five years.

Then unexpectedly, a large firm looking to expand into the area offered to buy the company. For months it was like watching a tennis match as the offers and refusals went back and forth. Then, finally, a deal was struck, and the unambitious, smug son who had inherited the business became a multi-millionaire. Bill knew he was the reason for the son's continued success. Yet the son did not offer even a small parting gift to Bill for all those years of shouldering the lion's share of the work.

On the other hand, the new owner recognized Bill's abilities and offered Bill an increase in salary and a significant retention bonus. Bill accepted the offer without hesitation. There were multiple reasons for Bill's decision to remain. First, he did not want to look for a new job.  He liked the new owner well enough and especially liked the independence the new owner allowed him. Secondly, his two children would soon be of college age with a college fund that was sorely lacking.

They had been forced to borrow from the college fund years ago when one of the cars stopped running. The car had over two hundred thirty thousand miles on it, and the mechanic said there was just no fixing it. The intent was always to repay the college funds. Then came the leaky roof that had to be replaced, closely followed by a replacement for the twenty-four-year-old HVAC. Then, one by one, the other appliances died and had to be replaced.

He was grateful that his wife had chosen to leave the workplace and stay at home while the children were young. His workdays were long, and weekend work was necessary at least once a month. The bulk of the responsibilities of parenting rested squarely on her shoulders. This had been an ongoing point of contention between them throughout the years. And while it was true that he was often not there, what alternative was there? He was the sole provider for their little family of four. As the children got older, he became less grateful for his stay-at-home wife. It would have been a welcome change to have the extra income if she worked part-time.  Although they had this discussion regularly, his wife was decidedly against it. She argued that the teenage years are critical to keeping children on the right path. He agreed wholeheartedly with the premise. He did not understand precisely what she did for seven hours a day while the children were in school. Not that it mattered. She had no intention of returning to work, and he knew that. The college funds had never been replenished, and the repayment of college loans rested squarely on him as usual.

Over the next fifteen years, there were three more mergers and acquisitions. Bill survived each of them, and John thrived. John was promoted to Manager of Information Technology in the latest buyout. The new owner had explained to Bill that John's education and experience were best aligned with the IT role. He went on to say how much he appreciated all the years Bill had invested and all the demanding work he had managed. It is time for you to take a breath and return to your roots in accounting. Bill was not an idiot, he knew it was only because John was younger, and he was what they would have called a bootlicker in days gone by. It was so unfair and made Bill feel salty. He swallowed the contempt and congratulated John each time he received another unearned accolade.

Those years in accounting had served him well. Bill was a planner. He had begun work on a parachute plan years ago. Being the go-to guy in IT had advantages too. He learned so many new things, such as how to design a worm and all about spoofing. The worm he had designed lay dormant, but on January 1, it would come to life.  January 1st and 2nd are companywide holidays. It was also when the system backup for the year was generated to set the stage for closing the books on the last year and setting up the new year. The worm's payload would remove operating files and overload the web server, which would cripple the system. There would be no alerts or alarms because they had been disabled. John, the new IT manager, would know something was wrong on January 2 when he set up the script to open a new year.

It would take an external systems expert to assess the damage and develop a restoration plan. Then, when the audit was complete, all signs would point to his best frenemy, John.  He had not even had to spoof John's IP address. He covered for John when he was on vacation. John had left his laptop behind because he was receiving a new one, and the old one was needed to transfer files and duplicate network settings.  It was a cinch to plant the worm on his old computer, which was then transferred to the new computer. In addition, the old computer was wiped clean, so no evidence was left behind.

Bill was eavesdropping yesterday evening, as was his habit when he worked late. He learned the current owner is looking to go public with an IPO at the first of the new year. That may not be a bad idea, thought Bill, thinking of the stock awarded to him in place of the richly deserved bonuses. If he retired and sold the stock at year-end, he may come out ahead of the game for once. The owner then said, "pump-and-dump," a vaguely familiar term. He almost held his breath as he listened closely to the rest of the conversation and quietly exited. It was true after all that good things come to those who wait.

Bill had hardly slept last night. He had made the decision to postpone his retirement and go another round. He had options now. Option one, ride it out a little longer and time his retirement and the selling of his stock with the pump-and-dump scheme. But, of course, no one would ever believe that bumbling, old Bill was savvy enough to be part of such a slick scheme even if he reaped the benefits. Option two, choose to be a whistleblower, and receive a significant reward along with the title of hero. He typed notification of retirement in the search box on his computer. The file popped up, and he removed it. He then emptied his trash file. Suddenly he realized the icing on the cake was that he would be there watching the year-end debacle up close, and Bill smiled the first genuine smile in a long time.


Warning: This story contains an instance of strong language. The castle at Elvia sat on a small rise on the east edge of the city, with a good view over the approaching road from Teraditha. It guarded the east gate into the city, joining the high walls seamlessly by the work of master stonemasons. To the south, the clear sea glittered in the sunlight, giving the impression of summer despite the chill air. The road became busier as farmer’s drove animals to market, and tradesmen of the surrounding towns and villages headed for the city to stock up on supplies for the winter months. Luthar breathed in the salty air as they left the main road to the city and approached the castle gate to their right. The horses’ hooves banged against the wooden drawbridge as they crossed the moat, it was low for the time of year owing to the hot summer they’d had with little rain. As they reached the parched grass on the other side, a guard clad in chainmail and bearing an oak on a field of argent approached them. ‘Good morning sirs, what brings you to my gate?’ He was well presented and spoke politely with a ready smile, more than Luthar had come to expect from professional soldiers addressing a man of the guild. ‘We’ve come to seek out Lord Wedderburn’s court mage. We have something that he should see.’ Flint replied with his best manners on show. ‘Our Lord and his staff are very busy this morning, perhaps I could take a look instead?’ Flint glanced at Luthar before dismounting and pulling the bundle free from the back of his horse. He carefully unwrapped it before holding it out for the guard to see. He peered at it for a moment, marvelling at the sheer length of the blade. ‘Who could’ve been strong enough to wield this I wonder?’ He mused, scratching his chin. ‘I’ve seen plenty of black steel in my life, but this is far beyond that.’ He reached out and touched the blade with his finger, evidently trying to see how sharp it was. In an instant, he pulled away yelling and clutching his arm. Luthar could see Flint grappling with the bundle, desperately trying to tie it back up. Luthar dismounted to give him a hand, but by the time he reached the ground, all was still. ‘He touched it and the blade turned into a fucking snake!’ Flint panted at him, the colour slowly returning to his face. Luthar knelt by the guard who was now whimpering, and clutching his bleeding hand. Two small marks blemished his skin where the fangs had penetrated, they oozed blood, mixed with some strange black liquid that reeked of death. ‘I guess we both need to see the court mage now.’ Luthar said as he offered him a hand up. ‘What’s your name friend?’ ‘Patrick, and you?’ ‘I’m Luthar, this is Flint. The two lads are Lucas and Ed.’ He pointed at each to identify them, they each returned a nod before Patrick turned and led them through the gate. They passed through the barbican and into the outer ward which basked in the autumn sun. It seemed every square foot of land was covered with either canvas tents, or carts containing shields, pikes, and all manner of other supplies. Patrick led them down a makeshift road through the camp’s centre towards an array of larger, more comfortable tents that were heavily guarded. ‘You can stable the horses over there lads.’ He pointed to a stable in the shade of the high castle wall, a few hundred yards where they were staying. ‘Ask for Nolan and tell him Patrick sent you.’ Lucas and Ed took two horses each and their bags and set off for the stables. Luthar could see Lucas chattering to Ed, who simply stared off into space as if he didn’t exist. As they followed Patrick through the camp, Luthar could see the swelling begin to rise on his right arm as it hung limp at his side. He stopped outside the second largest tent and addressed the guard on duty as he struggled to regain his breath. ‘Two men here to see Mage Edryg sir.’ No sooner had he spoken, he collapsed on the ground in front of the officer. He twitched violently as black bile sprayed violently from his lips. Luthar and Flint starred at the fallen man in stunned silence. Even their will to help him could not for their bodies into action. ‘What happened to him?’ Roared an assertive voice from the tent opening. Out stepped a man, impossibly old, yet still moved with the purpose and strength of a mighty warrior in his prime. He wore simple, pale green woollen robes, tied about his waist with a brown leather belt. Plain leather riding boots protruded from the muddy hem of his robes. The only adornment about his person was a golden star stitched into his robe over his heart. ‘He just collapsed, Your Munificence.’ The officer cried, trying to hold Patrick down and prevent him hurting himself further. The old man pushed the officer aside with his left hand, whilst his right settled on Patrick’s chest, pushing him into the ground. One of his hands was evidently stronger than the officer’s two. After a few seconds, he closed his eyes and muttered indistinguishable words as Patrick continued to writhe. More seconds passed and Patrick began to settle, until the only movement was the steady rise and fall of his chest. ‘You two! Get a stretcher and take him to the healer’s tent. Tell them he needs plenty of water and whatever poison antidotes they can find.’ He barked orders at the officer and a second soldier who had rushed to help him up. Without a moment’s hesitation they sprinted to another large tent in search of the stretcher. The old man turned to Luthar and Flint, pale blue eyes scouring every inch of them both, until Luthar felt he could see right through them. ‘You’re not Peccothian soldiers. My guess is Warrior’s Guild?’ ‘Aye sir, we came to see the court mage. Am I right in assuming that would be yourself?’ Flint replied, assuming his best manners once more. ‘Indeed, you are. With that being said, I’m not a sir. Your Munificence is the correct form of address for the mage of a noble court.’ ‘Forgive me, Your Munificence, you’re the first court mage I’ve ever met.’ ‘Let’s not stand about out here. I’ll take a guess that what you have to tell me is better kept private. Follow me.’ Without waiting to see if they’d followed his instruction, he strode back into the tent without a moment’s pause. Luthar followed on behind Flint, always keen to observe the rules of seniority in front of strangers. Inside the tent there was a small entrance hall made from pieces of canvas hanging from the roof, boots stood by the flaps and cloaks hung on a wooden stand in one corner. The mage held open a parting in the wall and stared at them both even more fiercely as they ducked through it and into what looked like a makeshift study. A small wooden desk faced them, with a padded leather chair behind it. Papers held down with rocks and all manner of instruments Luthar couldn’t name covered the desk’s surface. A bookshelf and chest stood along one wall, giving it the look of a typical mage’s quarters. In the far corner, behind the desk stood an armour stand, however it only held another pale green robe, woven from much finer material. Luthar and Flint stood in the middle of the room, waiting to be offered a seat. The old mage lowered himself into his seat gracefully and waved a casual hand at Luthar and Flint. Luthar sat whilst Flint removed the bundle he’d slung over his shoulder and place it carefully across his knees. ‘So, what is it that is so important you sought the opinion of Edryg, court mage to Lord Wedderburn of Elvia?’ He asked them, placing his elbows on the desk, and touching his fingertips together. ‘We were making our way down the coast road a few nights back, two days ride west of Stormhaven. We’d camped in the trees a few hundred yards off the road to avoid any unnecessary meetings whilst we slept. All of a sudden, our fire goes out and it gets cold real quick, so cold the grass froze solid before our eyes. Luthar here tries to wake up our squires, but they were as good as dead.’ As Flint recounted the tale, Edryg kept his gaze firmly upon him without uttering a sound, taking in every detail. ‘We knew something was up, so we get in a defensive position, back-to-back to cover the treeline around us. I thought I saw something and went for it, but I slashed only air. Then Luthar sees the same thing and we both go for it at once, he attacked low, I went high. Whatever the thing was, it just swatted us away like flies.’ ‘It was shaped like a man, but enormous. I’d say near on eight feet tall, and it wore armour as black as night with spikes on. Anyways, we had a bit of a dust up, and I think I managed to wound it as it staggered off back into the trees and left its sword behind.’ Luthar finished for Flint and gestured to the bundle. Edryg stood silently and held his hand out across the desk in an imperious command to Flint, who duly obliged and placed the bundle in his hand. Edryg frowned as he unwrapped the leather cords around it and laid it down on top of his papers. Flint edged his chair back as the black sword was revealed with no snake in sight. ‘What happened to our guard?’ Edryg asked, eyes still firmly fixed on the blade. His left hand rested on his hip as his right stroked his long white beard. ‘He touched the blade and it turned into a snake that bit him.’ As soon as Flint answered Luthar began to realise how ridiculous it sounded. However, Edryg remained solemn. ‘A snake? Hmmm, of course it must be.’ ‘Do you know what this sword could be, Your Munificence?’ Luthar ventured, eager to know what they’d got themselves into. ‘I have a theory at least. Is there anything else you feel I should know?’ ‘The thing that attacked us. It spoke to me.’ Luthar said. The memory of that hissing voice was burned into his mind forever. Thinking about it now sent chills down his spine. Edryg’s head snapped upwards, and his eyes narrowed. His gaze assaulted Luthar like a battering ram on a castle gate. ‘He spoke to you? What did it say? Speak quick boy, this is important.’ ‘Tell your masters the seed of Lazmurol lives again. That was when I got my blade into his neck, and he ran.’ ‘The seed of Lazmurol?’ The colour drained from Edryg’s face, and he sounded frightened as he spoke. His right hand was still firmly tangled in his beard as his eyes twitched. ‘Lazmurol was the King who united Averleon in the early second age. To my knowledge he never sired children as the crown there has never passed to kin, the next King must always be decided after a meeting of the chiefs.’ ‘Do you know what this could mean?’ Flint asked, his face a picture of bewilderment. ‘History is not my area unfortunately so I will need assistance with that. However, my skills are best suited to the here and now. Excuse me for a moment.’ He walked to the entrance to study and called into the tent. ‘Oliver! Fetch Scholar Hamed at once. If Lord Wedderburn is available, ask him to attend aswell.’ He made his way back to his desk and picked up the sword by its handle, turning it this way and that. ‘You may wish to stand back.’ Luthar and Flint both stood and took a couple of steps backwards, away from whatever Edryg was planning. An uneasy feeling creeped up into Luthar’s stomach, making him grab for his sword which had been left at the gatehouse. Instead, he grabbed the back of his chair with both hands, his knuckles turning white. Edryg had his hand no more than a couple of inches from the blade when the canvas ruffled behind them, and two men entered. The first strode in with the kind of confidence only Lords and Kings possessed. He stood straight-backed with his shoulders square and peered around the room, taking in Edryg holding the sword, and Luthar and Flint stood well back looking edgy. ‘You wanted to see me Edryg?’ The newcomer asked, his deep voice like thunder rumbling on the horizon. ‘I did my Lord, please take a seat, I have something you need to see.’ The second man entered came into view as Lord Wedderburn sat. He could not have contrasted more with him; he was stooped and frail and leaned heavily on a stick as he walked. His wispy white hair stuck out in all directions, reminding Luthar of pale straw. ‘Scholar Hamed.’ Said Edryg curtly, waving his hand at the second unoccupied seat. ‘My Lord, this is Luthar and Flint of the Warrior’s Guild. Gentlemen, you are now in the presence of Lord Clifton Wedderburn of Elvia.’ ‘My lord.’ Luthar and Flint said in unison, inclining their heads to show deference. ‘Now that we’ve all been introduced’ Edryg shot a nasty look at Hamed. ‘I will begin.’ He picked up the giant sword once more and held it out for them all to see. ‘This is a sword that was retrieved by Flint and Luthar a few nights ago on the road between Stormhaven and Elvia. It was wielded by some giant, armed man who claimed to be the seed of Lazmurol. I was hoping you may shed some light on who this might be, Scholar Hamed, this is your area of expertise after all.’ The tension between the two man was palpable. Scholar Hamed stared at Edryg before getting to his feet and turning to the room and clearing his throat. ‘Lazmurol was King of Averleon in the second age and bore no true born sons. However, during one of his ill-fated attacks on the city of Shavan, it is said he kidnapped the daughter of High Chancellor L’Cris and forced himself upon her. She escaped, but not without a child in her belly. Nine moons later, she gave birth to an ungodly large baby, nearly 10 pounds some say. The effort killed the poor girl and so, the babe was given to the temple of the sun. Not five days later, A’Kel, the self-styled prophet of reckoning was found dead in his rooms. Some jealous priest spread word that the child had brought shame on the temple, and that the moon god had slain the prophet in revenge. The poor child was cursed and left to die in the desert, never to be seen again.’ The old scholar sat himself back down, apparently worn out with the effort. Edryg turned his attention back to Lord Clifton and carried on. ‘My Lord, Luthar claimed to have wounded this thing that attacked him, causing it to flee and leave its sword behind. They saw fit to bring it to me, and now I see fit to destroy it before it can hurt anyone else. One of my guards has been grievously hurt by it and I have no appetite for any more bloodshed.’ ‘Hurt? Who swung it?’ Lord Wedderburn rumbled in reply. ‘Not swung My Lord.’ Edryg touched the blade with his bare hand as Patrick had done earlier. The blade turned back into the snake in the blink of any eye and lunged for Edryg. The man responded before Luthar knew what was happening and grabbed the snake around its neck mid-strike. It fought violently, but the old mage held firm, seemingly not breaking a sweat. Lord Wedderburn looked as surprised as Flint had done earlier. He scratched his close-cut black beard with his hand before making his decision. ‘No. Study it, and learn its secrets, we need to know how to act if there are more of these swords about, or that thing Luthar fought comes back to claim it.’ He stood and turned to Luthar and Flint, eyeing them closely, but not unkindly. ‘You two will feast with me tonight and tell me all you know of this thing and its sword. By the way, that’s not a request.’ He gave them both a generous smile before taking his leave. ‘You two best make yourselves look presentable; his lordship doesn’t appreciate scruffiness at his table.’ Edryg said to them before looking back at the sword, engrossed in his new task. Luthar held open the flap for Flint as they made their way outside into the camp. A cool breeze shot through them as they started down the path to the stables. ‘I thought you told me nobility was a sign of being a bollock brain?’ Said Luthar, unable to keep the grin from his face. ‘We don’t know him that well, he still might be!’ Replied Flint, clearly stifling a laugh.


Carrie Thompson was meticulous in everything she did. When she woke in the morning, she let the buzzer on her alarm ring for exactly five seconds before shutting it off. She would then get out of the bed from the left side and have a shower that lasted precisely eight minutes.            Carrie allowed her bread to toast for exactly two-minutes-thirty-five-seconds and poured her coffee two-thirds full to allow for her one tablespoon of non-fat cream and one sweetener.            She would leave the house methodically at 6:35 AM, to arrive at work by 7:15 AM allowing her fifteen minutes to use the restroom and freshen up before her shift began at precisely 7:30 AM.            Carrie worked as an event planner, so her perfectionist qualities reflected on the reactions of her clients faces on the day of their events. She made sure that every detail was overseen personally, giving her inspections a white-gloved approval or disapproval.            If there was one thing that Carrie could not handle, it was a nonchalant attitude from anyone she hired. One such person, was a contractor named Lance. He was the epitome of apathetic behaviour.            Lance owned a party supply warehouse that rented out tables, chairs, and other party accessories. Carrie was used to dealing with the previous owner, Jake, but had yet to collaborate with Lance since he bought the company a month earlier.            It was two days before New Year’s Eve and Carrie was organizing a spectacular gala for some of the city’s hierarchy. The mayor was expected to attend, along with the police commissioner, a few celebrities, and some of the wealthiest benefactors the city had to offer.            The main event would take place in the ballroom of the Whitmore Hotel, an elegant twelve story building with ornate moldings along the exterior and interior walls. Lance was to provide circular tables and padded chairs for the majority of the guests, but with the dignitaries being placed at the front of the room at rectangular tables.            Lance and Carrie had been squabbling over the cost since Lance had yet to give Carrie his final quote. His reply each time she asked, was, “Don’t worry about it. I will get it to you soon.” He had been saying that for the past two months.            She called him on the phone to reminded him again of what all she required for the event and what time he needed to be there to set up. She was growing nervous about using his company, but there was nobody else that she could get on such short notice, so she had no choice.            The day of the event, December 31 st , Carrie arrived at the hotel ahead of schedule. She had hired the hotel’s catering staff to cook and serve for the event, and they began preparations early that morning.            The florist had arrived by 10:00 AM and scattered larger bouquets around the room. The smaller arrangements were supposed to be set on each table, but Lance had not yet arrived. Soon after, the master of ceremonies, a prominent doctor in town, poked his head in the door to check that everything was going as planned and Carrie assured him that everything would be ready on time.            Carrie tried to call Lance at the office, but there was no answer. She waited until after noon for the truck to arrive, but he was still a no-show. Carrie became frustrated and tried to call Lance again, but still no answer. She couldn’t have a dinner with no tables, and the hotel only had enough to support half of the guest expected to attend.            At 3:45 PM, Carrie was notified that a delivery truck just pulled into the loading dock. “Finally,” Carrie said under her breath. Lance and his crew began bringing racks of tables in by 4:00 PM. First came the rectangular tables. There were six on the cart, but Carrie only required three.            Then came another rack, again they were rectangular tables. Carrie shouted out, “Stop right there!” to the workers. “Why are you bringing in more rectangular tables? Where are the circular ones?”            Lance came over and introduced himself. He was dressed in a grubby, worn, winter jacket, and wore a grey winter hat with a pom-pom on top. “Is there a problem here?” he asked Carrie.            “Damn right there’s a problem!” she yelled back. “Where are the tables I ordered?”            Lance pulled out the work order and read down to the third paragraph where it listed the items required and read, “It says right here that you need three round tables and fifteen rectangular tables, so that’s what I brought.”            “You idiot!” she responded forcefully. “You got it backwards. It was supposed to be three rectangular tables and fifteen circular tables!”            “What’s the difference?” Lance retorted. “You still have room for everyone to sit, right?”            Carrie threw the work order back at Lance and it fell to the floor. “You have exactly one hour to return here with the proper tables and chairs, or you are fired.”            “Oh, you needed chairs too?” Lance asked. “I guess I missed that. No worries. We can have them back here in a jiffy. How many folding chairs did you need?”            “Are you serious?” Carrie exclaimed. “I asked for padded chairs, not folding chairs!” Her frustration grew stronger as her blood pressure raised higher. Carrie was almost at her wits end with Lance.            “Yeah, I got it. No problem. How many do you need?”            “I need a total of one-hundred chairs. Can you handle that?”            “No problem. I got it covered,” he said before heading back to his truck. “See you in a couple hours.”            “ONE HOUR! ONE HOUR, OR YOU ARE FIRED!” Carrie screamed as she stomped off aggravated.            She kept looking at her watch. Finally, at 4:58 PM, Lance and his crew returned with the proper tables and chairs. She rushed to get them set up. The caterers then began covering them with white linen and champagne glasses. The centerpieces were set in place on the tables, followed by the silk napkins and silverware.            It wasn’t until nearly 5:30 PM, that she noticed Lance still loitering with his workers at the back of the venue. One of them let out a loud belch that echoed throughout the nearly empty ballroom. Carrie went over to enquire why they were still there.            “I thought we could settle up the bill for the rental,” Lance said as he handed the updated work order to Carrie.            “This is much higher than your original estimation,” she exclaimed.            “Well, with the one-hundred chairs, the cost went up. Besides, I took off the double delivery fee.”            “Took off the delivery fee? It was your fault the order was wrong in the first place!”            Carrie wrote Lance a check and slapped it into his hands. “What time will you be back to pick these up?” She asked. We should be finished by 2:00 AM. Can you be back by then?”            “Are you crazy lady? This is New Year’s Eve! You’re lucky I am open today at all. I will be back around noon tomorrow. I need to give my boys a chance to recover from their hangovers. You know what I mean?” he said as he laughed.            “But the hotel needs this room back in the morning. Can I convince you to come back sooner?”            “I’ll tell you what,” Lance replied. “Do you plan to use these tables after you eat?”            “Not necessarily,” she replied.            “Okay, so why don’t you fold up the tables after you eat, and I will swing by around 11:00 PM with one or two of my boys to load them up? I might need to pay my boys extra cash though. They won’t be happy if I pull them away from their parties for too long.”            “Fine, I will pay you for your time. Just promise me you will be back tonight.”            “Yeah, sure. I’ll be here.”            The event went off without a hitch and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. The mayor was so pleased with how things turned out, that he arranged to hire her for another gala event in the Spring.            As dinner had finished and the dishes had been removed, Carrie began folding up the tables and standing them along the wall near the rear exit. She stacked some chairs and left the remainder out for guests to sit on.            With the majority of the floor now cleared, it was time for dancing. The DJ started the night off with a crowd favorite, “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang. In minutes, the city’s dignified elite were shaking their behinds on the dance floor.            At 11:15 PM, Lance arrived, but he was alone. He was no longer wearing his grubby clothes. Instead, he was dressed in a sport coat with casual pants. His face was clean shaven, and he smelled of cologne. Even his hair was neatly combed, unlike his earlier appearance. Carrie almost didn’t recognize him. In fact, she suddenly found him quite attractive.            “Where is your crew?” she asked as she approached him.            “I couldn’t convince any of them to come back tonight. They all had plans, so I will load it all myself.”            “You look so different,” Carrie stated.            “Yeah, well, I knew this was a big deal for you tonight, so I didn’t want to look like some bum that wandered in off the street.”            “I appreciate that. Are you in a hurry, or did you want to stick around for a while? I can help you load some of the tables up later maybe.”            “Thanks, I guess I can stick around for a bit, but you don’t need to help; I can manage on my own. I wouldn’t want you ruining that pretty dress of yours anyway.”            Carrie took him by the hand and led him to the bar next to the stage. “What’ll you have?” she asked.            “Just water is fine. I’m not much of a drinker,” he said.            “Well, how about one glass of champagne to bring in the new year. I mean, midnight is only twenty minutes away.”            “Okay, one glass, but that’s all. I don’t want to be driving that big truck of mine after a few drinks.”            Carrie asked the bartender for two glasses of champagne and handed one to Lance. She took a sip, but Lance refrained. She noticed him swaying to the music and asked him if he wanted to dance.            Pointing to the glasses, he asked, “What about these?”            She took his glass and set them on the bar saying, “We can get a fresh glass later,” then led him to the dance floor.            Just as they started into a fast dance, the DJ spun a slow track for them. Carrie smiled, and Lance smiled back and held out his arms. Grasping her right hand in his left hand, and wrapping his right arm around her waist, they began to sway side-to-side in rhythm with the music.            Carrie found the scent of his cologne to be intoxicating. She found it hard to believe that this was the same man she was shouting at mere hours earlier. Instead, she laid her cheek against his chest and listened to his heart beating in time with the song.            When the song ended and a faster song came on, Carrie still held him tightly. Lance did not resist. While everyone around them was spinning and jumping in time with the beat, Carrie and Lance became lost in one another.            At 11:55 PM, the DJ announced that it was nearly midnight, and asked everybody to grab a glass of champagne. Carrie and Lance returned to the bar and ordered two more glasses.            At ten seconds before the new year, the countdown began: “TEN…NINE…EIGHT…SEVEN…SIX…FIVE…FOUR…THREE…TWO…ONE…HAPPY NEW YEAR!” everyone shouted as the DJ played “Auld Lang Syne.            Before Carrie had a chance to react, Lance’s lips were upon hers. She was surprised but didn’t resist. Instead, she pulled him closer.            “What about the tables and chairs?” Lance asked.            “They can wait.”


    She turned the corner and there it was. ‘The white, weatherboard house at the end of the street’, was how her mother had always described it. But the street was in fact an avenue. An avenue of remembrance, lined with tall, sturdy, horse-chestnut trees. Their highest branches meeting to form a triumphal arch, that gave the avenue a church-like aspect. The trees had been planted with great ceremony and reverence, after the Great War, by those left behind, grieving and seeking solace in nature. A tree planted for every fallen soldier of the town, never to return home. And each spring, the trees would repay their planting, by bursting into jubilant displays of pink and white blossoms and then by shedding shiny-brown conkers in the autumn, to the delight of the local children. One of these ‘trees of remembrance’, was situated at a corner of their garden. And it was at this tree, that a young and troubled Florrie would often sit, finding consolation with the long-deceased soldier, who she had come to regard as her own special friend and confidante. That afternoon, was the first time Florrie had returned to her old family home in many years. And apart from a few clumsy pigeons, that crash-landed noisily onto the broad-leaves of the trees, there was only a slight breeze to disturb the quiet garden. She had been tempted to return many times before, but had never felt quite ready. So as she stood outside her childhood home, it occurred to her that all that remained, to tell her early childhood story, stood decaying before her. A black, and rusting, wrought-iron gate, formed of two inter-twined hearts, a house with peeling paintwork, slipped roof tiles, cracked windows and an overgrown garden, where rampant weeds ruled supreme. They ran riot through hedges, flowerbeds and shrubs, while rose bushes, once the stars of the show, and her mother’s pride and joy, cried out for rescue. Their thin stems, barely supporting overblown flowers, that nodded in sadness towards an unkempt lawn. She could just picture her mother, drifting around the garden, her wide-brimmed straw hat shielding her delicate ivory complexion, maxi-skirt skimming the neat grass, as she gathered only the best blooms. A younger Florrie trailing behind, desperate to help, but unsure how to please her remote and beautiful mother. And she recalled the day when she had been taken away. Watching out of the rear window as Alfie, and the perfect white weatherboard house, disappeared from view. An old biscuit tin, beside her on the back seat, where she had squirreled away bits of treasure. Amongst her finds were scraps of ribbons from under the sewing table, a broken brooch glittering with paste diamonds and faux emeralds, that had been discarded in the bin, her world-beating conker and a handful of acorns. But just at that moment, a patter of rain, signaling the arrival of a sudden downpour, interrupted Florrie’s thoughts causing her to run for cover. Instinctively, she ran to a nearby tree. From past experiences she knew that this particular leafy canopy would offer protection against any harsh elements, both natural and those of human design. She ducked under straggling branches, that reached out to her in welcome, and embraced her old friend with a wide, and honest, hug. Then, on her knees searched the ground for something she hoped could still be found.                   Alfred. G. Wright 1897-1917                He died for Freedom and Honour ‘Hello again Alfie.’ She said, pulling at weeds and garden debris that had buried the tarnished, pitted, brass plate. Then sat back, and considered with fondness her old friend, who seemed to have grown even taller, and broader, during her long absence. ‘Long time no see.’

      * * * * * ‘Go outside and play.’ Florrie’s mother said firmly, as she sat at her sewing machine. ‘But I want to help mummy.’ ‘I won’t tell you again. Go outside. I’m busy.’ ‘But why can’t I stay with you?’ Florrie’s stubborn reply met with a warning glance, and she bit her lip, as her hated tears threatened to make an appearance. And mummy despised her tears. ‘No time for this Florence. Go out and play!’ ‘The day of the dress’, was how Florrie had always remembered that day. Her mother had been making her sister, Sylvia, a new summer dress. She had ached to caress the smooth, satin finish of the fabric and the scent of the flower-sprigged cotton, still lingered in her memory. She had known that it would come to her eventually. Just like the one she had been wearing that day, and the ones before that. But by the time she inherited this dress, it would be careworn and mended. She would be tugged and pulled into it, with only the faded hemline, and the awkward fit, to betray its pre-owned life.  Because it was unfortunate for Florrie, that although five years younger than her older sister, she was a few inches taller, and wider too. In fact, the two sisters were unalike in every way that counted. Sylvia had waist-length, ironed-straight hair, the colour of harvested corn. By way of a contrast, Florrie’s unbrushed, shoulder-length, mouse-blonde hair, was forever tied back in an impossible, rubber-band tangle. And where Sylvia had inherited her mother’s cornflower-blue eyes, Florrie had inherited her paternal grandmother’s gold-flecked hazel eyes. Through which her troubled young soul frequently communicated, but behind which she could never hide. And that had been the real source of the problem. And it would only be in later years that Florrie came to understand why her appearance, and nature, so enraged her mother. As a child she had been too young to understand the subtleties of inter-family dynamics, or maternal psychiatric conditions. She had been named after her grandmother, her father’s mother and couldn't have realised that everything about her, from her name and paternal family similarities, to her personality and aching vulnerability, reminded her depressed mother of an intensely disliked relative. But the older Florrie had been counselled to understand these complex things, and been advised that in order to move on with her life, she would need to forgive and reconcile with her young past.     But forgiving hadn’t meant forgetting. And the sharp slap she had received, on ‘the day of the dress’, always stood out as a watershed moment in her young life. It had stung so fiercely, that her well-guarded tears eventually betrayed her, rolling unchecked down her cheeks.     ‘Don’t start crying now, for goodness sake!’      And Florrie knew she only had moments before a second, sharper slap, would sting her summer-bare legs. But on that day, and on the many others that followed, Florrie had chosen to withdraw. Because she knew, that Alfie would always be waiting for her in the garden.                                     * * * * * The sudden cloudburst petered out as quickly as it had begun and Florrie ventured out from her safe haven. It seemed the house was magnetically drawing her towards it. And with a sense of anticipation, she followed the familiar path that led to the back of the house. Here tendrils of blossoming honeysuckle enjoyed unbridled freedom. They had seductively draped themselves over the roof of the old wooden veranda, a waterfall of flowers that scented the damp air with their bee-seeking, honeyed fragrance. And as she climbed the steps to the dining-room doors, it brought to mind happier times. Summer days when her mother would make jugs of freshly-made lemonade, that tinkled musically with ice. She would carry hers to a swinging bench in the garden and sip the sweet, lemony drink, as she rocked herself to-and-fro, make-believing she was in her own enchanted paradise. Florrie peered through the dusty windows into the familiar, but now sombre interior of her family home. Thinking that even now it still retained traces of twinkling candlelight, vases of fresh flowers, and her parents slow-dancing to their favourite music. She tried the handle. Locked of course. A flash of memory, led her to a loose brick in the wall. Florrie smiled in triumph. The spare key. * * * * *    ‘Hello! Hello over there!’     Florrie turned. An elderly gentleman was struggling through the overgrowth and waving his hand at her.    ‘Neighbourhood Watch. I live next door.’    ‘Hello,’ Florrie replied, slipping the key into her pocket, and extending her hand in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m…’    ‘Is that your ‘ Florrie and Alfie ’ van parked on the drive?’ The neighbour interrupted, his punctuated speech reminding her of a retired colonel.    ‘Yes it is I…’    ‘Well I hope you are here to finally clear up the garden? Bringing down the neighbourhood it is.’ He looked with distaste over a wilderness of plants. ‘Scrape it back I say. Turn it all to grass.’ He stopped to draw breath. ‘Strange name for a gardening company? Didn’t they win first prize at the Chelsea Flower Show this year?’     ‘Yes that’s right, I…’     ‘Got an award from the Queen for the palace gardens too, I heard. Sorry! Here’s me rambling on again…I didn’t quite catch your name…?’     ‘Florence…but everyone calls me Florrie. Pleased to meet you.’     He looked puzzled. ‘Now that is a coincidence! Fancy having the same name as the company. I’ve always wondered who Alfie was ...?’      Florrie giggled softly, before replying with an amused smile. ‘No…you misunderstand. I’m Florrie…the Florrie on the van and Alfie …well Alfie lives just over there.’ Florrie gestured to a magnificent horse-chestnut tree, taking up a large portion of the front garden.      The neighbour, who had never met a celebrity before, let alone one who had also met the Queen, didn’t quite know what to say to this charming woman, casually introducing him to a tree.      Florrie felt she owed the elderly gentleman, a better explanation, so continued. ‘I grew up here you see. But I went to live with my aunt, my father’s sister, when I was quite young. When it came up for sale recently I had to buy it. So now here I am. Back home again.’     With an expert eye, she glanced over what remained of her once enchanted paradise, then quietly added, ‘and this is going to be Florrie and Alfie’s  best project yet!’  * * * * *


DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! As the last toll faded, I shifted in my oversized lounge chair, rested my head back, and raised my eyes from my book to look outside. The snow-covered street sat dark and silent compared to the havoc inside the town hall across the street. Since the town’s founding, New Year's Eve was a massive event where everyone gathered together to welcome the new year. Even now, I could see the shadows of the volunteers hurrying back and forth past the windows as they prepared for the celebration.

I laid the book on the windowsill and pulled my blanket to my chin as I snuggled back into the chair with a sigh and listened to the fire crackle in the fireplace. This is the life.

My eyes wandered to the large illuminated clock on the town hall. “Crap! Six?” I threw my blanket off and clambered to my feet as I cast a glare toward my cat, who curled in front of the fire. “Pepper, why did you let me sit here and read all day?!” He blinked his sleepy eyes at me with a soft mew.

I rolled my eyes at him and tried to ignore the anxiety that filled me. I used to love this event until eight years ago when my best friend and I had a falling out. I avoided it as often as I could now, but mom made me promise I would be there this year. The problem was, he would be there, too.

I bit my lip. “Six. Um.” I ran a hand through my hair and scanned the living room. My least favorite part of the event had always been when we shared if we completed our resolutions from the year before. I was the only one in town who consistently failed. I had every intention of completing them, but I always ended up reading or at my desk, writing. I’d sworn to myself last year that I would finally do it. That THIS would be the year. “Where did I put that list? Only six hours. Shoot.” I hurried to my desk and yanked open the drawers. My eyes darted back and forth as I shuffled through the contents. I slammed each drawer shut after my inspection, then searched on top of the desk. My hand bumped something and knocked it to the floor.

“Oh. That’s where my phone went.” I grabbed the phone, unlocked it, and found my mom’s number. I turned in a circle as I waited for her to answer. Where did I put that? “Amy? Is everything okay?” “Mom. Yeah, everything is fine. Did I give you my paper from last year?” Silence. “Mom?” “Your paper from last year? That’s not very descriptive. What paper?” “You know, the one I wrote things down on that I wanted to accomplish this year?” My mother’s laugh tinkled through the phone. I dropped my head back and stared at the ceiling. “Mom, it’s not funny.” “I’m sorry,” she said, laughter still in her voice. “I don’t know why you bother.” “Mom.” I drew the word out, but grinned. I really wanted to shock everyone by completing my list this year. My accidental procrastination and forgetfulness was a constant amusement for everyone. “I told you to hang it up somewhere, so you’d see it every day to remind you.” “You did…” I ran to the kitchen, stumbling over the upturned carpet on the way, and eyed the papers on the fridge. “It’s not on the fridge.” “Is it under the fridge?” “Under? Why would it be… Hm. Let me check.” “Good luck. Love you, hon. I’ll see you tonight. Try not to be late. You promised.” “Ha. Thanks. I’ll try. Love you, Mom.” “And don’t forget. You promised to talk to Freddie.” “Mom, you know we didn’t part on good terms.” “Amy, it’s been how many years now? You’ve both changed. And you promised.” “I know, but-” “See you soon, hon.” My mom disconnected the call. “Ugh!” I tossed my phone onto the kitchen table as I got on my knees to check under the fridge. No paper.

I let out a sigh as I pictured the gangly but adventurous teen Freddie had been the last time I saw him. His family had moved away because of his dad’s military job, but when his father retired, his parents had moved back. Freddie had had his own life by then. He served a four-year enlistment in the military and had even traveled to serve in orphanages with a missionary group.

Everyone who knew him and still communicated with him praised his character to no end; but I didn’t need them to tell me. I followed his social media and knew he stood by his values and took after his parents with his integrity. I’d never admit it to anyone; I barely acknowledged it myself, but I envied his courage and drive to impact the world.

The last thing he’d said to me was, “You’re too involved in your fiction worlds. You gotta get out and actually live some!” “Get out and live some,” I grumbled. “Humph. I’m quite content with my fictional worlds, thank you.” I did hope to make an impact, and I prayed that my writing would do that for me because it was something I felt called to do, and I loved it. My first book, When the Clock Strikes Twelve , was selling better than I expected, and the publisher had offered me a contract for the sequel. But there was still a part of me that I tried to ignore that wanted more from life. The only thing was, I was comfortable with what I had and didn’t want to rock the boat. I shook off thoughts of Freddie and my avoidance and crawled to the side of the fridge to check the space between it and the wall. A handful of bent papers sat leaning against the wall. “Ah!” I grabbed them, then sat back on my heels to flip through them.

Old card. Grocery list. “Doodles? Why did I keep these?” I tossed each aside as I read it. Finally, at the bottom of the pile. “Ah-HA! Get ‘er done list.” Hang up photos Paint the bathroom

Change the porch lightbulb Glue the coffee mug back together Straighten the picture above the fireplace Tack down the carpet so you don’t keep tripping Make it to the ball drop on time “Okay, that’s easy enough. Just no getting distracted.” Pepper sidled up next to me and rubbed against my hip. I scratched his back. “What should I start with?” Pepper mewed, and I pursed my lips. “Gluing the handle back on the mug? Alright.”

I pushed myself up and rummaged through my junk drawer until I found the tube of superglue, then headed to the small room I’d converted to a library. My broken mug sat on the bookshelf, covered in dust. I’d placed it there to remind myself to fix it over a year ago. I scanned the books on the shelf. So many books, so little time. I fingered them, then pulled one off the shelf. I flipped the book open to chapter one and read it. As I turned the page, I shook my head and slapped it shut. “No. Focus.”

I shoved the book back into its place and took the mug and broken handle to the kitchen. After I reattached the handle, I got a pen from the drawer and crossed that off the list. “One down, six to go. With…” I glanced at the clock and winced. “Five and a half hours.”

After another look at the list, I decided to do the thing that would take the longest. Paint the bathroom. I skipped steps as I hurried to the basement to get the paint and supplies I’d purchased a few months ago. Once I had everything balanced in my arms, I clambered up the stairs and into the bathroom, trying not to let the tarp slip from where I’d wedged it between my side and elbow.

I dumped everything in the bathroom and carefully avoided the upturned carpet as I ran to the living room to turn music on. I found the T.V. remote wedged between the couch cushions and selected the mix of my favorite songs, then turned the volume all the way up. Pepper ran from the room as the music blared through the house. I set a timer on my phone for eleven and propped it on the shelf before I changed into basketball shorts and an old t-shirt and laid the tarp out. Then I frowned at my supplies. I forgot to buy tape. Oh well. I’ll have to do without. And… I left the ladder in the basement.

After I retrieved the ladder, I set it up, grabbed the cutting brush and set to work, meticulously cutting in against the ceiling. I lost myself in the process of edging and alternately singing along with the music and letting my mind wander back to my current writing project. As I started on the last side of the bathroom, a light caught my attention in my peripheral vision. I glanced at my phone to see my mom’s face on the screen. “Oh.” I tilted the paint cup a little too far as I climbed down from the ladder and paint dripped over the back of my hand. “Aw, man.” I grimaced as I answered with the speakerphone.

“Hello?” “Amy? What’s that noise? I can barely hear you.” “Oh, my music. Hang on.” I turned the speakerphone off and shoved the phone between my shoulder and ear, bumping the paintbrush against my forehead in the process. “Dang it.” I balanced the paint cup on the sink and the paintbrush over the top of it, then ran to the living room. “Oof!” I dropped my phone as I stumbled over the carpet and reached for the remote. I jabbed the mute button, then recovered my phone.

“Hello?” “What are you doing?” my mom asked. “Painting the bathroom.” “You’re… you found your list, I take it?” “I did.” “We started eating already.” Her roundabout way of telling me I was late. Again. “Um, I’ll be on time for the countdown.” “Amy.” The disappointment in her voice cut. “I’ll be there.”

“Fine. Do you want some help?” “I can go,” a man offered.

I couldn’t place the voice, but shook my head. “No. No, that’s fine. I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.” She drew the word out with doubt. “For real.” “Alright, I’ll let you get back to it.” “Okay, bye.” I hung up and dropped my phone on the coffee table, unmuted the music, then started back to the bathroom, but paused and scowled at the rug. “I’ll take care of you first.”

I headed back to my junk drawer, found a few nails and a hammer, and bopped my head to the music as I hammered the carpet down. When I returned the hammer to the drawer, I checked on the mug handle, which stuck very nicely, and headed back to the bathroom.

It took about a half hour to finish edging the bathroom, then I used the roller on the walls. When I finished, I looked it over critically. It’ll need a second coat. I’ll give it an hour or so to dry, then I’ll come back. I jogged back down the steps to check my list again. It took no time at all to straighten the picture above the fireplace. Why did it take me till tonight to get this done?

“Three and a half jobs done. Two and a half to go.” I glanced at the microwave clock that read seven fifteen. That doesn’t seem right, but I guess I got the first coat on faster than I thought. Now, for the photos.

I retrieved the hammer again and more nails, then went in search of the picture frames. I found them on my closet floor with the photos already inserted. I wandered through most of the house before I decided on the stairway wall and hung them up.

After that, I got a new light bulb and carried the ladder onto the porch. “Gah! It’s cold out here.” Pepper stepped onto the porch like he was going to follow me, but when his paw touched the dusting of snow, he scrambled back inside. I chuckled through a shiver as I quickly changed the lightbulb. I flicked the light on as I shoved the ladder back through the door, then nodded in satisfaction when a bright glow lit my porch and front steps.

I carried the ladder back upstairs and my stomach rumbled as I checked the paint. A quick snack first, then I’ll finish up here. As I grabbed Oreos and peanut butter, I glanced at the clock again. Nine thirty. Plenty of time. I sank onto a stool with a sigh and enjoyed my snack. When the clock read nine forty-five, I went back upstairs to finish the second coat of paint.

When I finished the last section of the wall, I opened the window. Across the street, everyone in the town hall was gathered around the T.V. with drinks in their hands. “Oh, no.” I searched the bathroom and patted my hips. Phone. Where’s my phone? “Living room.”

I practically flew down the stairs. When I unlocked my phone, I had five missed calls and realized my loud music had drowned out my alarm. The time on my phone read eleven fifty-eight. It was only then that I remembered I had never changed the time on my microwave when we turned the clocks back in the fall. I slapped my hand to my forehead. “No! No. No. No.”

I tossed my phone onto the couch, jammed my feet into my boots, and bolted from the house, slamming the door behind me. I was only crossing the street, but I grit my teeth against the cold and crossed my arms over my chest as I ran. When I barged into the town hall, everyone turned to stare at me. I bit my cheek and gently pushed the door shut.

My long-time friend came over and shoved a glass at me. “You made it, but what in the world are you wearing?”

I looked down to see I was covered in my paint-splattered basketball shorts and oversized t-shirt. “Oh. Busy night.” I laughed. “I thought I had more time than I did.” I scanned the room again and met the amused looks of my friends and neighbors who were mostly dressed for church, if not an elegant party.

My friend shook her head as my mother approached. “Well, you made it,” Mom said with a smirk. “I didn’t think you would.” I shrugged. “I promised.” “Ten! Nine!” The people at the front of the crowd started. We all joined in the countdown. “Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!” We all raised our glasses and drank together. I hugged my mom and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Happy New Year, Amy.” A man’s voice. I turned to see Freddie, a hesitant smile on his bearded and very handsome face. My eyes widened as I looked him up and down. I’d seen him on video and knew he had grown up, but seeing him here before me was quite a different matter. My stomach twisted in knots and heat crept up my cheeks.

“You’ve got a little something…” He pointed to my cheek, then chuckled and gestured at me. “Well, everywhere.” “What?” I looked down again and noticed the paint splatters on my legs and arms. I wished I could sink into the ground. As I looked back up, my eyes caught on a book he held under his arm. My book. My fiction book. I raised my eyes and met his gaze. He took the book out and held it up. “I’ve followed your writing. You’re really good. You do a great job sharing meaning and purpose through the characters’ journeys.” I blinked at him. Words. What are they? Do I know any?

“Look, I wanted to apologize to you. I know what I said before we moved hurt you. I didn’t mean it that way, but it… I just meant,” he hesitated and shifted his feet. “Honestly, I was jealous of how much time you spent with your books.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It sounds ridiculous, but you were my best friend, and it seemed like all you ever wanted to talk about was books. I’ve wanted to contact you for years, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. With the way you stormed off, I thought it would be better to apologize in person. I’m only sorry it took me so long. Do you think you could forgive me?” Forgive him? I nodded slowly. If he keeps this up, I just might kiss him. Sweat broke out on my forehead and I pressed a hand to my cheek. I can’t believe I just thought that! And about Freddie!

He released a deep breath. “Thank you.” He smiled and my heart melted. He tilted his head toward the crowd, who had separated into groups of dancers and talkers. “Dance with me?” He had to remember that I couldn’t dance. Words finally returned to me. “But, I don’t-” “I don’t care.” He set my book on a table and held out his hand. I raised an eyebrow at him and he raised one right back at me, a playful challenge in his eyes. I squinted at him and he bowed.

“Okay, then.” I grinned and, with exaggerated grace and dignity, placed my hand in his. A dance with Freddie hadn’t been on my list, but I wasn’t about to argue. He didn’t know it, but he’d just rocked my boat… and I didn’t mind one bit.