Deep within the lush green forest, yet untamed by mankind and ruled over only by the sun and the rain, there was a meadow of golden grass stalks. And in that meadow, a miracle of life was unfolding. Two stray seeds, a birch seed and an acorn, brought on the dancing winds not that long ago, were beginning to sprout in the pristine soil. Encouraged by water and warmth, they cracked their shells and dug their way through the earth, until their soft, gentle leaves touched daylight.

The meadow grew larger by two. With life bustling all around them, the two tiny seedlings were eager to grow, joining nature’s show, playing their part diligently. The first days, months and years were the hardest. But also the most fun. They were small and fragile, but they grew quickly and each day learned more of the world. They learned that there was refreshing water to be found in the ground, as well as stability for their up-reaching bodies. With that water came nutrients, food so delicious it could make you smile. From up above the warmth and light of the sun seemed like an endless blessing, completely free and loving. The wind tickled their leaves and they danced along to its song. Life was full of love. As the birch and the oak grew, they noticed how close they were to each other. They began talking and became instant friends; they were both so different and interesting to one another! Their bark seemed different, one smoother that the other, and their leaves were different shapes. And though they sprouted in the same year, one was clearly growing faster and taller than the other. As they grew tall enough to see over the grass stalks, their worldview expanded dramatically. No longer was there only grass and small insects, but a whole ocean of plants, with tall trees in the background and a whole sky of flying things.

Their excitement grew bigger. They wanted to stretch high up towards those white puffy things in the sky, and peek what lies beyond the thicket of trees. So they spread their roots deeper and farther and extended their leaves to the warming sun. Before long, as they grew a bit taller and older, the tips of their branches began to touch. They tickled each other with their leaves, constantly. And they laughed heartily about it! Below ground, their roots searched for more water and nutrients and just like the branches up above, they met.

And they tickled some more. They grew to like each other’s company more and more. And eventually, something shifted in them. Their playful, innocent touches began to feel shy, making them blush for some reason. As they grew high above the grass, their trunks got thicker, stronger. The birch colored her body in fresh white color, with a relatively smooth bark, whereas the oak kept his color brown and his bark became more rugged, more firm. They soon discovered that they were not only a different species, but a different gender as well. And they also found that they liked it. They realized that they were in love. Seasons passed, and the two trees grew like never before. Winters were mild and summers pleasant, and life was good. They let their roots get tangled, sharing the water and the food, giving each other support when the weather threw an occasional high-wind storm at them. The more they grew, the more their trunks thickened and grew closer, until they finally touched.

The merging was a final expression of their love for one another, and they each leaned on the other, counting on their support. Looking at them from a distance, it would appear as if there was a single tree with two very different trunks. One white, lean and tall, the other brown, stocky and strong. And the more they grew, the more they loved. Soon, life around them began to find shelter under their branches or up their canopies. Grazing deer found shade, ants and insects and small lizards climbed their trunks and explored their leaves. Birds made nests in their hair and green lichen tattooed their bodies. And the two trees loved them all. As more years passed, there was again a time for the miracle of life to occur; and this time, there were many small seedlings that came sprouting from the ground beneath the two trees. They were birch and oak, they were their children. And it was the happiest time of the two trees’ lives. There was life everywhere and their love only grew. Soon, they would grow as tall as the other trees at the edges of the meadow and they could finally peek over them. Life was beautiful. Until one morning, it all changed. First, there came a rumble. Like a tremor of a hungry beast. Then came a strange smell, a poisonous odor, like that of burning corpses. With it, came a loud sharp noise. A sound so utterly devastating, that it shook the birch and the oak to their very roots.

And finally, there came them . Animals not yet seen before, on this meadow. Their furs were various colors, their heads hard shelled as helmets and though they walked on two legs and carried those strange sound producing objects, some rode on big black and yellow demons.

At first, the birch and the oak were curious, who were these newcomers? Where did they come from? What did they want? And then, the first tree fell under their arms. And then the second. The third.

Before long, the whole western thicket of trees was gone, and the bipedal animals and their yellow demons seemed to only grow hungrier for more. They cut down the trees and stripped them of their limbs, taking only their thick trunks while leaving the rest to lie on the ground where it fell. The meadow soon became a corpse littered graveyard. The birch and the oak trembled as they watched the horror unfold all around them. Their children were scared, their young bodies shaking in the wind. They could only hope that these monsters wouldn’t come for them, perhaps their position in the middle of the meadow would spare them. But then, a group of animals came closer, those horrible sounding and foul smelling objects in their hands, humming with inner hunger. “Lookie here,” one spoke in a foreign tongue. “These two look like they grew together.” “They look like lovers,” joked another. “Yeah, they do,” the first one replied and cocked his head. “Melany Birch and John Oak, huh?” The animals laughed. Then they walked closer and the two trees could only watch in horror as the animals cut down their children one by one with some sharp sticks. The young trees, their wood hardened, fell softly on the grass, making a clearing for the animals to get to the two trees. The birch and the oak embraced each other tightly, knowing the end had come. It came so quickly… why ?! And then the agony started.

The objects screeched loudly, cutting into the trees’ flesh, sending chunks of it flying over the bodies of their children. The pain was too much to bear. The birch was cut clean through in less than a minute. But it didn’t fall.

Oak held her with his branches. Held dearly onto the love of his life. “They’re really stuck together, huh?” the animal said and then shrugged. The pain that ensued as the tool cut deep into the Oak’s body was severe, but nothing compared to the pain of the loss. And as the tool made its way through, the Oak fell with the Birch. As they lay on the ground, their branches were still entangled. When the first shock of death passed, Oak was surprised to notice that he was still alive. Though his roots and branches were cut from him, he could still see, he could still hear and he could still feel . Oh god, why did he still feel ?

His body lay on a pile of other bodies, other cut down and stripped logs. They were all crying, weeping, moaning and screaming in pain and loss. It made Oak want to scream as well, but his mind wanted to know if Birch was there somewhere. So he called for her. Nothing. He called again, many times, over and over, to overpower the screams of others. And then, when his voice was all soar, he heard a faint reply. It was her! He followed the sound and noticed Birch resting in another pile of logs. Her beautiful white bark was full of scars and scrapes, but to Oak, she was as beautiful as ever. He wanted to be with her, to feel her touch and her closeness again. But a herd of those monsters and yellow demons were in between. A sudden anger washed over him. They came here and destroyed everything. What for? Why?! He felt consumed by his wrath and fury, blinded by the horror and injustice done to him. He screamed out all his pain and agony in one mighty cry and the others trembled with the power of his emotion. They agreed with him. And the pile of logs where Oak was at suddenly collapsed under its own weight and sent Oak and the others tumbling down at the bipedal animals. Some of them jumped away in time, but not all. At least five were hit, and three of them didn’t get up again. Their bodies were crushed by the heavy logs. Oak’s rage was so hot that he thought he would ignite from the inside. He wished he could do something, to stand up and to crush them all. But he was just a log. He couldn’t move. And the look Birch gave him was enough to stop his blinding rage. She smiled at him. He smiled at her, putting all his strength into it. And then, the yellow demons came and they picked Oak and the rest of the logs in his pile with one giant arm and loaded them on another animal, this one long and flat. Feeling fresh pain from the cuts and the loss all over, Oak was transported away from the meadow, away from everyone and everything he ever knew. Away from Birch.

Oak fell into a deep apathy, listening to the others wail around him. His pains were so great that he didn’t dare think of Birch, as it would probably push him into insanity. Like the rest of the logs. The big flat animal they were riding, took them to a place of nightmare. Oak could see a large flat building where other animals were gathering, each bringing their own pile of corpses. On one end of the building there were piles of logs, and on the other… stacks and stacks of… of flesh ! Logs cut into thin sheets of wood! Why? What kind of hell was this? Oak soon found out that the name of this hell was a Sawmill . The bipedal animals used their large mechanical demons to unload all the logs and place them one by one on a black solid river - a conveyer belt. The screams of pain that came from inside the building made Oak want to die before he got to know the source of the screaming. He was already dead, was he not? But if so, then how come he still felt everything? It truly was a hell. The black solid river took the logs inside the building, one by one. Oak soon discovered the source of the screams - giant spinning blades, like those the animals had in the forest, only much bigger.

And they were slicing up the logs into thinner sheats. It made Oak sick. As the blades cut into his flesh once again, he got reminded of his loss of Birch and their dead children on the meadow. The pain of his body being cut into separate pieces, called planks, was so profound that he passed out immediately.

But he did not vanish yet. He could still feel. After that hell, the purgatory that followed in the next weeks and months was hardly worth noticing. Oak became cold and distant. His body was in five different pieces now, though his mind seemed to reside in only the center one. The animals had placed him on the stacks outside the Sawmill and left him there, his insides exposed to the rain and the wind. They didn’t even let him keep his skin… He grew cold. He grew sick. His mind started wandering, breaking down. His body started to rot. And after many seasons, some animals finally remembered that they had left him there. “This stack is rotting at the base,” one of them said, but Oak didn’t care. He stopped caring long ago. “This wood is not suitable for baseball bats anymore. Damn shame.” “Should we send the stack back to the blades? Cut it for firewood?” “That would be a loss of money. Perhaps it can still be salvaged for low grade furniture. Chairs maybe.” “Alrighty, boss.” After that, a demon came to pick up Oak and his stack. It placed him on another one of those long and flat animals, only this time it had a shell and Oak was pushed inside of it. If he still cared, he’d be glad for the cover. But he just sat there, in darkness and endured the bumpy ride. As the animal shell opened again, Oak found himself in another hell. Only this one was not as brutal as the first one. There were more of those blades there and more animals with screaming tools. They cut him up into even smaller pieces and never again did he see the majority of his body parts. If it continued like that, he thought he would soon cease to exist. In fact, he hoped for it. The animals rearranged the newly cut parts of his body into something grotesque they called a chair . Oak felt so small and fragile again. So rigid and imobile, with steel implants and chemical sap holding his new form together.

He hated the way he looked. Hated the way he smelled. Hated the way he felt. These were the only feelings that remained for him. He dared not to think of Birch or the meadow. Convincing himself that he didn’t care was the only way to endure this. As final death seemed to elude him so persistently. Eventually, Oak found himself in what he hoped would be his final resting place, a place these animals called a store. He soon started to loathe it. Animals would come every day and walk past him, talking loudly, even sitting on him from time to time. And he saw others there, other grotesque pieces made from wood. Other trees who shared his fate. Were they also from the meadow? What ever must have happened to Birch? Oak cursed at himself, but it was too late. He thought of her already. His mind fell into a whirlwind of loss and sorrow, from which he thought he could never recover. And like some confirmation of his thoughts, one day the animals suddenly took him from his place at the store and threw him outside, next to a smelly metal container. The throw broke one of his new ‘legs’ . It didn’t even hurt, compared to all the pain in his mind and heart. And so Oak lay there, waiting for a final mercy to come from somewhere, hoping to die already and be done with this horrible existence. And in his darkest hour, an angel appeared.

An old animal passing by stopped and walked over to Oak. “Oh my,” it said with a soft scratchy voice. “What ever have they done to you, poor thing?” The animal took Oak and carried him inside a metal demon. Oak was too broken to be afraid, so he just surrendered to whatever was going to happen to him. The old animal drove to its home and it took Oak to its workshop. There, it repaired Oak, gave him a new leg, a fine scrubbing and a new polish, which smelled quite pleasantly. When the job was done, the animal smiled. “Good as new!” He inspected Oak with care. “You’ll make my wife very happy,” the animal said.

Then he took Oak with him and climbed up the stairs in his home. He brought him in a room, where there were a lot of wooden things; some like Oak, with four legs, some hanging from the walls like boxes and one with four legs and a flat top, resting in the middle-

Wait a moment. That scent was familiar. “Look honey,” said the old animal. “I found this guy at the back of the store. They threw him out.” Another old animal turned, its face happy. “Oh you fixed it! It looks lovely! Put it by the birch table and I’ll fix us some coffee.” The animal put Oak down next to what they called a table . And Oak could not believe his senses. Birch ? It was her. She smelled of that strange chemical sap and her white skin was gone, but it was her. They’ve turned her into a table. Oak ? She recognized him!

Oak, are we in hell? I don’t know, he said. And I don’t care. As long as we’re together. Oh Oak , Birch moaned. I wish I could feel the touch of your roots again. To comfort me. Me too, Oak said. They were cut off. Like yours. But our bond goes deeper than that. It is beyond roots. Birch smiled weakly. You really think so? Oak smiled back. I know so. It brought us back together, didn’t it? I hope you’re right. I don’t want to lose you again. We are already lost, my love, said Oak . But I’m glad we’re lost together.


YOU MELTED INTO THE GROUND UNTIL the earth decided to release you. You had long lost the right path and the trees had shaken along with you as the cold had made your body shiver. Your feet had started to ache long before the tired sun had set but you had still had wandered onwards for a while after that. It was when you had knelt down, weary, that the grass and mud under you had welcomed you downwards. You didn’t struggle because you weren’t cold there. Your coat of dirt and roots and moss kept you safe and warm until the smiling moon came out. It smirked like it knew you and you shrunk into yourself, afraid, under its half-light. Growing up you had never been a frightful kid but the half-hidden face of the moon made of you a frightful adult. You looked at it, unable to look away and saw the guilt and shame of your life reflected on it. A dreadful mirror. It made your body shake. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. You felt you were dying. You cried. Whimpering like a little kid and in whispers you begged forgiveness to your parents for all the times you unjustly blamed them for your shortcomings. You begged for forgiveness to your siblings for all the times you envied them when they were better than you. You begged for forgiveness to your friends for all the times you neglected them and took them for granted. You said their names, all their names, like a long prayer and only when you felt true regret under the watchful eye of your silent judge, the earth around you loosened its grip and you stood tall over solid soil again. You looked down at the hollow space where your body had been, your shape still carved into the ground. You were confused but bowed and thanked the silver moonlight for taking pity of you and asking the earth to release you. Light as air you walked, continuing your search for your cabin after that encounter with the warm ground and the frightening moon. You walked on and on, paying so little mind to the chilly air that you no longer felt the cold gripping your bones as you did before. You were calm, reassured that you were heading in the right direction and that your watchful guardian above was showing you a path of silver light that would guide you home. But the trickster moon fooled you. Its bright light showed you a way to a cabin that wasn’t your own. “Why?” you asked as you glanced up, seeing its unflinching half smile. “Have I not been forgiven yet?” The moon stayed quiet, silently judging you. Then, in a second its crescent smile grew and grew, turning full and white and faceless in just a couple of heartbeats. You stared at it in shock, your heart beating quicker, fearing the moon again after the calm it had given you before. Running, you made your way into the foreign cabin. The door was open, calling you inside, welcoming you into its near darkness. “Is anyone there?” you hesitantly asked to the darkness, your voice hollow, quiet like a gust of nighttime breeze. You squinted your eyes, trying to get them to adjust to the dark. Only a window let some of the moon’s light in and you stayed away from it, frightened that it could perceive you through its glow. You were no longer sure whether the moon was a friend or a foe. Perhaps it was neither, or perhaps it was both. You curled up by a corner and warily examined the cabin, knees to your chest and arms around them. It was empty. It smelled of dust and loneliness. There was only a wooden door, closed and ominous, directly across from the entrance to the cabin. Part of you wanted to stay as far away from it as from the moonlight, but there was also a part of you that was intrigued by it, that wanted to know what was on the other side. The door called to you. It called to you and then the walls echoed its call, whispering your name in a way that made your skin crawl. The sound of your own name surrounded you and you grew more frightened, worried that your regret hadn’t been enough, that you had not yet been forgiven. “Please stop,” you whimpered almost soundlessly, burying your head between your knees. You were shaking, fearful and dejected, sorrow and fright easily taking over. “Please,” you begged again in whispers. The door continued its harrowing call and when you looked up your eyes widened in shock and horror. The cabin had shifted entirely. It was brightly lit by moonlight, its glow painting the murmuring walls, the floor, the roof. The lonely door was still there, but it looked at you in a new form, metallic and cold. And before you, bathed by the veil of moonlight that flooded the room, was a woman of white and silver, earthy and ethereal all at once. There were no features on her face, it was a blank mask of emptiness. “It calls your name because the door is yours, child,” she spoke without a mouth and saw you without eyes, reaching a bony white hand to touch your face. You trembled, feeling those skeletal fingers on your skin. The woman of white, dressed in silver and light, was oddly soothing and terrifying all at once, every bit the inquisitive and watchful judge she’d been when she watched you from above. “The door is yours and you must open it,” she insisted with a calm voice that echoed all around like a multitude of different voices had joined in one. “The time has come.” “The time for what?” you asked, afraid, but getting up from your corner all the same. You looked up at the woman of white, tall and slim as she was, two heads taller than you. You felt small and insignificant before her and in her expressionless face you could imagine her giving you her half smile. “Time to leave.” You glanced at the door, which nearly vibrated with the urge to be opened. Your whole body shook, sensing the nothingness that would greet you once you turned that knob and faced what no human ever wishes to face. You looked back at the woman and she gave you a solemn nod. Hesitantly, forcing your feet to carry you to the end, you reached for the door. It needed no key to open, just your hand around the doorknob. But your hand didn’t touch anything, it passed through it like it was made of smoke. You stared at your own immaterial palm as it formed again, forcing yourself to swallow a panicked cry before you looked back at the woman of white. She was gone and when you turned back to face your door it was gone too. You weren’t in the cabin anymore. That shifting place existed only somewhere beyond your body, in the twisting corners of your mind. You were still in the ground, surrounded by mud, sinking deeper and deeper. The earth never decided to release you. You understood it was truly time to leave, but Death wasn’t a door. Death was a faceless woman of white and she was the last thing you saw as you sank. A frightening blank face shining in the night sky. The trickster moon had fooled you twice.


There is a boys secondary school (high school) in Nigeria called city academy, situated in Zaria, Kaduna state. It’s a boarding school for the upper class kids, opened in the year 1998. School fees per term was N45000 (about USD500) then. It got a reputation for academic excellence in a very short time and it became famous, as a result, rich people troop to send their kids there. In the year 2004, the school graduated its first set of students. Politicians, business men, and senior civil servants were invited, that added to the school’s fame. As a result of the school’s academic excellence, it made it in the list of top twenty secondary schools in Nigeria. Year 2005 came and it was time to graduate the second set. Again, big men were invited and that added fame upon fame for the school. City academy then became a pride for the elite whose children school there. A poor man’s son can only admire. The proprietor who also was from a poor family decided to do an act of charity by creating an opportunity for the underprivileged to study in his school. So, when it was time for entrance exam into JSS1 (Junior secondry school 1/class 1), he forwarded invitations to a number of primary schools (for the poor) in his community to send one pupil each for the entrance exam, for whoever gets the highest score gets a full scholarship into city academy. The exam was conducted and a boy named Bilal Manu got the scholarship. Bilal and his family jubilated his success, of course they have every reason to jubilate, but there are challenges ahead. Since city academy is a boarding school, Bilal needs a lot of essential goods in preparation for boarding school life and his parents cannot afford all that, so they sought assistance from the community and people complied generously. There are even bigger challenges ahead for Bilal, he’ll be the only poor man’s son in city academy before other scholarship students join in the coming years.

School resumption time met Bilal fully prepaid for his first term in JSS1 at city academy. He left home for Zaria in the morning and arrived in the evening. At the school gate, his luggage was checked for contrabands and nothing was found. He was then directed to the financial controller’s office for documentation, then to the school clinic and finally to the hostel. At the hostel, he was given a mattress and assigned to a room where he was given a bed and a locker for his belongings. He was then asked to move his box to the box room. The school looks very nice, it deserves the reputation, Bilal thought. That was the beginning of his journey in boarding school. As a junior student, he has to tolerate all forms of maltreatment from the senior students, that’s normal in Nigerian boarding schools. There seems to be no big difference between him and the rich kids for now because money is not allowed in school; phones, personal computers, food of any kind, perfume and deodorants are all not allowed. That struck a balance in status between students. The school feeds the students, it also has its currency named coupons. Students are given coupons once every week; 500 coups each for the junior student and 750 coups each for the senior students. The money is not free, a student’s parent has to deposit money in the student’s account, domiciled in the account office (the school’s bank), in the beginning of every term, otherwise he won’t get a penny to spend. For Bilal, he gets it free since he’s a scholarship student. There is only one shop in the school, everyone goes there to spend during break time and after class hours. Students go to the dinning hall three times daily for breakfast, lunch and dinner respectively at specified times. During meals at the dinning hall, students find food, water, crockery and cutlery already placed on dinning tables for them. Eight chairs surround each table for eight students. Each student is assigned a table at the beginning of every term and that becomes permanent for that whole term. Each table becomes like a small family since students meet three times daily to eat together.. Life is tough in a boarding school especially for junior students since they have to adapt to seniority and bullying. There is time for everything, so students are reminded using a bell by the time keeper. Within a week from Monday to Friday, students leave the hostel for classes at 7:00am to clean the classes; assembly is called at 7:45am, and classes start 8:00am. First break is 9:15am, students go to the dinning hall for breakfast and return at 9:45am. Second break is from 11:30am to 11:45am. Classes close at 1:00pm. Lunch is at 2:00pm after which extracurricular activities begin until 3:45pm. Sports begin at 4:00pm until 6:00pm. Dinner is from 7:15pm to 7:45pm. Preps begin 7:45pm until 9:45pm and 10:00pm is lights out time (time to sleep). Saturday is inspection day. Students do general cleaning and wait for inspectors to come and judge which hostel in best. Sunday is a free day. Five weeks after resumption comes the visiting day. On that day, parents come from different places to see their kids. Bilal expected his parents to come but they didn’t. He was disappointed, but he later understood that his parent’s inability to come was a blessing for him, because all parents came in exotic cars. On that day, he saw clearly the difference between him and the other students, a donkey in a horse pen he is. His parents don’t even have a bike, so if they should come, they’ll have to use public transport and that alone will let everyone know of his social status. Normally in a visiting day, parents bring a lot of goodies for their kids, that is allowed only on that day. Those whose parents come share with those whose parents didn’t, because even for the rich kids, at times some parents fail to come due to personal engagements. That served as a relief for Bilal. Three weeks after visiting day comes the open day. On that day, parents come to check their children’s performance in the continuous assessment. Open day serves as another visiting day. Bilal’s parents again failed to come but he didn’t worry because he didn’t even expect them to. Exams begin two weeks after open day. After exams, students stay for a week in school awaiting their results. Student collect their results on the final Saturday of the term and on that day, parents come to take their children home for holiday. Bilal and two other unfortunate rich kids whose parents failed to come due to reasons unknown to them, were left in school. They slept in the school clinic. Early on Sunday, Bilal was the first to leave because the school sponsors his journey back home. Throughout Bilal’s days in city academy, his parents never came for visiting and that was part of the reason other students got to know who he is. They accepted him for who he is and treated him like family. He graduated as one of the best students in his set in the year 2011. His parents didn’t attend his graduation ceremony because his father died when he was in JSS2 and his mother died when he was in SS1 (senior secondary school 1/class 4). Two friends of his father attended the ceremony on behalf of his parents. It was a memorable one. After secondary school, Bilal didn’t get admission into the university the year he graduated. He got admission into Abubakar tafawa balewa university (ATBU) Bauchi at the end of the following year (2012) in the month of December as a chemical engineering student. Registration for first semester started in January 2013. Bilal was sponsored collectively by generous people in his community. He applied for scholarship under an oil firm (total oil and gas) in his second year at ATBU. He won the scholarship and the firm started paying a year after, i.e in his third year (2016). In his fourth year at ATBU, i.e in the year 2017, city academy old students’ association (CAOSA) organized a reunion. Bilal decided he won’t attend. He can’t afford to attend because he doesn’t want to look different. He was assigned the role of passing every information regarding the reunion to his set by the organisers of the reunion. That role will make it compulsory for him to attend the reunion and he doesn’t like that. Luckily for him, the reunion failed and was postponed to the following year (2018), he was relieved by that. Year 2018 came and Bilal was in his final year. CAOSA fixed a date for the reunion but chose a different person to represent Bilal’s set. Bilal was happy about that, because he has already made up his mind that he will abscond, for the same old reason; that he doesn’t want to look different. He knows that almost all the attendants of the reunion have their own cars, he doesn’t; they use luxury phones, he uses a very cheap one; their clothing is almost royal, his’ are very much inferior. They outclass him by an unimaginable margin and he doesn’t want to look like a donkey in a horse pen one more time. The reunion didn’t fail this time and he absconded as he planned. He knows that he’ll be treated like family if he attends but he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t want to look different. He has vowed never to attend any gathering of city academy old students except funerals and he’s okay with that.


A long, long time ago, when gods and goddesses, demons and fairies, wizards and dragons, still roamed the land, there lived a human woman in a rural village. As it is with villages, everyone knew everyone – and everyone knew this virtuous lady. This woman was the village school teacher, a position which garnered respect from the folks – even the village chief treated her like his own mother. Nobody knew where she had come from, but that did not matter. She was kind and did not seek trouble. In fact, when the village children saw her face, deeply imbued with grey haired wisdom and gentle eyes that could not see very well, it occurred to them that this lady had seen the rise and fall of every dynasty. That is to say, she seemed like a wise sage sent from the heavens to guide them. This woman was called Ms. Eirian. She was a sweet dear, with a seemingly everlasting supply of patience for anyone. Her kindness even reached out to animals and plants. The village chief once joked that if Ms. Eirian were to encounter a wounded lion, she would still treat its wounds – even if the cranky beast were to pounce on her afterwards. Ms. Eirian’s kindness, however, had spread far and wide – so much so that even the gods had heard about her. Would this be a blessing, or a curse?

*** One night, as thunder roared and lightning danced in the sky, Ms. Eirian was sitting by her fireplace reading her book. Soon, the rhythmic sound of water splashing onto her roof resonated within the house. Ms. Eirian glanced outside through her window, worried about her students. She hoped that every single one of them were inside their houses, safe, warm, and… “I hope this rain won’t distract them from their homework…” Ms. Eirian muttered to herself. Yes, Ms. Eirian was a really dedicated teacher. Knock, knock. Ms. Eirian turned to look at the door – and nothing happened. Did she imagine those sounds? Knock, knock. There it was again. Ms. Eirian stood up and walked towards the door. She held the cold metal of the door knob and twisted it. The wooden door creaked heavily, the sound scraping her eardrums. Standing before her was a young boy, drenched to the bone. “Oh my,” Ms. Eirian was surprised. “Quickly come in, lad,” she gestured for the boy to enter, which he did. With the warm glow of the fireplace, Ms. Eirian could see the slender face of the child, eyes as large as saucers. Drops of water dripped down from the boy’s black curls. He was wearing tattered rags that clung to his skinny frame. “Who are you?” The stranger asked. Ms. Eirian smiled kindly and opened her cupboards to fetch a clean towel. “I’m Ms. Eirian, the village school teacher… Who are you, kid? Where are your parents? You’re not from around here, are you?” She handed him the towel, which he used immediately. “I’m Lor. Parents? Never got one. Been traveling to get some coins – just to live, y’know,” Lor rolled his eyes. “I see…” Ms. Eirian felt her eyes tearing up for the unfortunate lad. “Ms. Air On, I must say, your house is so small!” Lor began. “It’s Ms. Eir – “Ms. Eirian was cut off by Lor. “I don’t think any human can live in such a dingy place! My, you wouldn’t know this but – even the beggars in my hometown have mansions as big as this~” Lor gestured with his hands. Lor took the liberty to seat himself – yes, he was still quite wet – on Ms. Eirian’s couch. Ms. Eirian just smiled and handed him a book. “Can you read, Lor?” “Yes, there was a man in my hometown who knew his letters. Taught me how to read, y’see.” “Well, that’s good then. Stay here and make yourself at home. I’m going to fix us some warm soup. Poor thing, maybe you should change your clothes too. I’ll look for something, goodness, I don’t think I have clothes the right size for you though,” Ms. Eirian mumbled. “Oh sure, I’m always good at making myself at home, Ms. Air – you won’t mind me calling you that, right? I really wondered why your parents would name you with such a silly thing… Really makes you sound strange. What soup will you be making? It had better have some carrot in it, or else I ain’t gonna eat… I hate green peas though. I also -” “Lor,” Ms. Eirian interrupted, “Can you please be a good dear and stay quiet for a moment? I really need to concentrate. If you keep talking, I might mistake the green peas for carrots and add them to the soup. We both wouldn’t want that now, would we?” And when Lor gazed at Ms. Eirian’s gentle, earnest eyes, he could not help but mumble his ‘yes’. Ms. Eirian began cooking her soup, adding a little bit of this and a little bit of that, all the while enjoying the peace that elderly people find in the presence of golden silence. But that silence was broken very soon. Thunder roared like an almighty lion. A shrill, piercing scream was heard from the living room. The living room! “Heavens, it must be Lor!” Ms. Eirian abandoned her boiling soup and rushed to living room, only to find Lor on the floor with a face as pale as sheet. “What happened Lor?” Ms. Eirian helped him up quickly. “Ms. Air On… t-there was thunder…” Lor cried pitifully. “Oh dear… Don’t worry, dear, the thunder won’t harm you here. Shh… it’s no problem…” “Ms. Air, you wouldn’t want me to suffer from everlasting trauma due to the terrible thunder, right?” Lor asked. “Well, of course not…” Ms. Eirian had completely forgotten to remind her visitor that her name was Eirian – not Air. “Then… will you do me a favor, Ms. Air?” Lor asked, his ink like eyes swirling with tears. “It depends, child. What do you want?” Ms. Eirian patiently asked. “Let me cook the soup for you. I’ll be thinking about the soup so I won’t have time to worry about thunder and whatnot.” Ms. Eirian hesitated. “I can cook really well, promise!” Lor pleaded. “Alright,” Ms. Eirian gave in. Thus, Lor went to the kitchen and cooked the soup. All the while, he bombarded Ms. Eirian with questions. “Do snails yawn? Are rainbows painted in the sky? Do fishes ever suffer from diarrhea? If they do, are they polluting the rivers by doing so? Can jellyfish be made into jelly?” Poor Ms. Eirian was starting to doubt if she was really capable of being the school teacher – and felt as if her ears were about to fall off. Lor also told Ms. Eirian he could juggle plates – something which Ms. Eirian deemed too scary to be done. However, Lor still took Ms. Eirian’s favorite China plates and showed off his acrobatic skills – it was fine at first, but Lor almost forgot to switch off the stove. In fear of burning the soup, Lor dropped the China plates he had been juggling and put out the fire. Ms. Eirian sighed and cleaned up the mess he had made. Seeing that Lor finally finished making the soup, both of them sat down and ate. Ms. Eirian almost spit out the first spoonful of soup. “Uhh, Lor?” She smiled weakly. “Yes, Ms. Air?” “How much salt did you put here?” Ms. Eirian asked hesitantly. “Oh, all the salt I could find,” Lor replied nonchalantly. He scooped up a piece of carrot and bit it, smilingly. “A-all the salt you could find?!” Ms. Eirian wanted to cry. He used the entire bag of salt just to season this soup? Lor looked closely at Ms. Eirian’s expression, as if waiting for something. When Ms. Eirian calmed down, she smiled gently again. It’s okay, Lor was still a child, he probably didn’t really know how to cook but still tried to cook for her – such a sweet child. Ms. Eirian’s gaze at Lor turned even kinder than before. Seeing this, Lor frowned and gritted his teeth. “Lor, I need to get some water in the kitchen. Just continue eating, okay?” “Sure, sure,” Lor paid no heed to Ms. Eirian and wolfed down his soup. Ms. Eirian drank a glass of water and her mood was lifted. “I don’t mind of the soup is too salty, Lor must’ve put in a lot of effort to cook it for us…” she muttered. Ms. Eirian decided she had to thank Lor properly, but when she arrived at the dining room… “Lor? Lor?! Where are you?” Lor had disappeared! Ms. Eirian was left bewildered. She opened the door and looked outside. The rain had stopped, leaving the fresh smell of earth in its wake. The boy – Lor – was nowhere to be seen. The bowl and cutlery that Lor had used sat cleanly on the shelf with no trace of being used. Only Ms. Eirian’s bowl of super salty soup was left on the table. Confused, Ms. Eirian was left to eat the remaining soup and mull over the events that night. *** Back in the heavens – home of the gods – Balor and Luken were sitting in the garden. “Lor, come on, pay me!” Luken urged his friend. Balor frowned; his exquisite face crumpled up because of his annoyance. “I can’t understand that woman at all!” Balor roared furiously. He ran his fingers through his black hair, gritting his teeth. “I broke her favorite plates! I called her name wrongly! I was rude to her! I even made the soup super salty, but she still… to think she would still look at me kindly! I can’t understand that human at all!” Luken chuckled triumphantly. “I told you… Ms. Eirian has the patience of the gods… No, even gods couldn’t stay as patient and kind as her. Maybe she should be nicknamed the goddess of patience instead. Hohoho, how does it feel to lose, Lor? Come on, pay me… you lost the bet this time.” Balor rolled his eyes, regretting that he had agreed to this bet in the first place. “No way, I can’t believe nothing can make that lady upset! Why don’t you try to make her mad this time, Luke? If you succeed, then – only then, I’ll pay you,” Balor said. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Trying to run away from this debt? You dare to bet with me but you don’t want to pay when you lose? Lor, you better pay this time…” “Ahaha…” sheepishly, Lor grinned and started running away. “I just remembered I need to visit my grandma… catch you later!” Lor ran away with his tail tucked between his legs. “Hey!” Luken cried, “You don’t even have a grandma!”


"Welcome to the Wild West, young pardners! After striking gold, you and your band of prospectors were robbed and taken hostage. You managed to escape but the robber rigged the saloon with all sorts of tricks to keep his loot secure. Your mission: break in and steal back your gold. Yee haw!"

I usually spoke that part with gusto- my shoot-em-up not-too-hokey Western accent, grazing my hand against my pretend holster, tilting back my head just so, a machismo wink- this time to a group of young boys- while I drawled, “You got it, pardners?” But then I saw him. My swagger faltered a bit. Coach Bowie, standing in such a familiar pose- arms crossed, staunch, glowering- that I was thrust back into high school; twelfth grade speech. His gut had grown considerably, and he appeared stouter, shorter, than his giant-sized persona back in high school, but still imposing.

I pushed a button on my Ipad and the iconic sound of wind rushing through the sagebrush whistled from its tinny speaker. I snuck a quick glance on my device to look at the kid’s name (much could be gleaned from digital waivers) but it pulled up right away: Bryce Bowie, aged six, birthday Wild West Extravaganza. Thoughts skittered- this must be Coach Bowie’s grandson; Colton Bowie’s son, had to be. Colton would be..what, 28, 29? He was four years older than me, had graduated by the time I started high school, but Coach had a daughter two years older than me- Carissa? Christy?- and a son my age, Jacob Bowie.

Flustered though I was, I had to keep the show going. “Saddle up!” I clapped my hands and the boys squealed in delight. I led them into the saloon, wondering if Coach recognized me, but then immediately dismissed the thought. Of course he didn’t. I was a drama kid. Not that I tended to parse the variances of human nature into categories, compartmentalizing them into some Hollywood version of high school: meaty jocks, ditzy cheerleaders, nerdy brainiacs. Football players could be sensitive too, right? Didn’t High School Musical already cover that ground- upending the status quo and all that? Everyone knew who Colton Bowie was; not because he was the football star (he’d started strong: varsity quarterback his freshman year, reduced to second-string his sophomore year, and then to JV his junior year, and then dropped out completely by his senior year). These days everyone had a psychology degree from Google University and could see that the relentless pressure his dad put upon him had withered away soul. By his senior year, Colton had grown his hair long, had a dramatic relationship with a girl, where he’d punched a few walls (misplaced anger, obviously) and then had gone of to a four year university (a mid one, nothing to brag about), married young, had a kid young…. Wait a hot second. Was this the kid?

As expected, the boys didn’t look for clues but manhandled all the props, they went straight behind the bar- cheap plywood with fake liquor bottles. I sidled up to Bryce and said with a wink. “Got an ID, pardner?” He grinned at me and his friends clamored around me. At this age, reality blurred with fantasy, and so most of them thought I was a true cowboy straight from 1880’s dusty New Mexico.

I jostled with them a bit, while Coach looked bored from the sidelines. “All them rattler bites get to your brain, pardner?” I said to Bryce, tapping him on the side of the head. I was straying too far from my comfort zone. Except for a few stock phrases, I didn’t know much beyond basic cowboy lingo. I wasn’t supposed to touch the guests, especially kids, but I was feeling reckless, Coach Bowie stirring things up like a mean ol’ viper’s nest.

Depending on the age group, the Wild West escape room could be a real head-scratcher. The management wanted to keep the script versatile, marketing for all age groups (to line their pockets) which meant adapting from the intricate to the simple. Such as: How much was the bounty on the wanted poster? The liquor bottle dates. The sheet music on the piano. The deck of cards. The menu. It all added to clues which led to a code which ultimately led to the safe.

For the young ones, the clues were so basic that I’d basically let them whoop and holler around the room until they found the code by me hinting at the clues in some Barney-like, Western-style yippee-yay in which I’d always let the birthday boy become deputy to allow them access to the jail, where the safe held their “gold.” But dammit, Coach Bowie.

I swaggered over to them, loose-limbed, and slightly bow legged, tilting my hat. “Okay young cowboys. You don’t want the robber to come and getcha!” I flourished this by lunging at the boys while they squealed and darted away. I pulled my fake gun from my holster. (The management thought guns, even fake ones, might cause some controversy, but ultimately decided that this being the Wild West, they warranted that they be props, always sheathed, not brandished about. I was of the anti-gun mindset myself, but this was a learning moment. And Coach Bowie the intended audience.)

The kids wanted to hold it. I put it into Bryce’s hot little hands, glancing over at Coach. Byrce immediately pointed it into the air and tried to fire. He whined, “But it’s not real.” I said more angrily than I intended, “Whatcha doing, Cowboy? Your granddad there not teach you about gun safety?” This got Coach’s attention. He narrowed his eyes at me. The bullet had found its target. I took the gun from Bryce. “Guns kill people.

Bryce was undeterred. “I’m going to kill the robber!”

Coach Bowie was the high school’s football coach, and he was a legend. A legend. But as legends go, they tend to lose their luster if they don’t eventually vacate their perch of greatness, because nothing lasts forever, right?

And it was clear that Coach Bowie, as most egotistical pricks, never thought his number with the football gods would be up. He’d led the school to three state championships, won two of them, but by the time his son came to high school, his star began to wane; and maybe because he’d lost that razor-sharp detachment, and with Colton’s lackluster performance, the public began to see the rage monster behind Coach Bowie’s facade.

But damn, isn’t verbal abuse, especially among youth, passe by now? Don’t we know so much more now? About emotional needs and sense of self and all the wisdom and knowledge amongst Tik Tok shorts and Youtube gurus? Aren’t we all so much more enlightened now?

Like I said, no surprise, I was a drama kid. And for some reason, as though my guidance counselor enjoyed tormenting me, she sprinkled the outliers (and only in a football state was I considered an outlier), a theater kid, a band kid, a chess club kid- just a few, and tossing us, like a garnish, into a whole class with athletes.

Bryce handled the gun with deftness, alarming, in my opinion, for a six-year-old. It looked like he was trying to open the chamber (there was no chamber on this cheap-ass fake gun). “Where are the bullets?” he asked me? “Where are the bullets?” I said in mock outrage. “Where are the bullets ?” Then I winked at them. “You gotta find the magic bullet.” I told them that it was a magic bullet, a gold bullet, and that we were going to shoot the bad guy with it.

Whoo-boy that stirred them up. They went hollering all around the saloon. I was thinking on the spot. I was changing the rules. Screw the clues and the code. This was about a bullet now. This was about a gun.

Colton Bowie shot someone dead the spring break of his senior year. He’d gone to a shooting range with his buddies and accidentally shot a woman (just a girl, really, nineteen years old), just an employee. No one knows if it was a misfire, or him being reckless, or a little of both, but truly no one thought it was intentional. It was clearly an accident. No one could fault him for lawyering up, for the coach wanting to protect him by getting the best lawyer; no one could fault him for that. But what we could fault him for was the fact that his own family- his dad and mom and sister- pillars of the community- did not give a damn, for this young woman, for this human being. And yet, his younger brother, Jacob, the same age as myself- he did care. During the time we spent together in high school, he looked gaunt, miserable, keeping to himself, looking pained to be associated with his father, especially his brother. These days, from my social media stalking, it’s clear he’s estranged from his family. (I say this facetiously- stalking- just an expression. Let’s just say I kept up an interest in Jacob.) He lives a more granola lifestyle, living in Seattle, committing the cardinal sin of being a liberal, liking all sorts of posts against guns and school shootings and so forth.

I hadn’t hidden the gold bullet. In the mayhem, I’d rooted around in a drawer for a tarnished old bullet that we’d kept among other “Western” knick-knacks in a drawer behind the bar. “Maybe it’s by the piano!” I said, to misdirect them. The bullet was real, an antique, belonging to an old shotgun that we didn’t keep on the premises. The coach still stood there, scrolling through his phone, underwhelmed. He was probably only waiting for the birthday cake in the party room. I edged by the coach and he looked up long enough for us to have eye contact. I smiled at him- a genial Cowboy smile, and he gave me a curt nod in reply.

One of the bottles behind the bar table knocked over but luckily didn’t break. The boys looked in every nook and crevice. A golden bullet! Under normal circumstances this would be a terrible idea. I managed to catch Bryce’s eye and give him a quick shake of the head. Over here . Luckily, like the sly little devil, he got the hint. Behind my back, I pointed to the drawer. “I found the bullet!” Triumphantly Bruce held it up, not knowing that it wasn’t exactly gold. You couldn’t bite down on that nugget- it would break your tooth.

“The birthday boy found the bullet!” Luckily the boys were too young to notice the game was rigged; that the boy of the hour had coincidentally found the prize. I took my hat off and gently set it on top of his head, in which it wobbled and slid low on this face. “I hereby declare, as the sheriff of Wild West Extravaganza, that Bryce Bowie, six years old, is now my deputy.” “Does that mean I can shoot the robber?” I kneeled before him and said soberly, “Bryce, what do bullets do to people?” “They kill bad guys.” There was a short gruff laugh from his grandpa. A ‘that’s my boy’ kind of chuckle. It pissed me off.

I uttered with all the sanctimony I could muster, “That’s true, Bryce, but bullets also kill innocent people too.” This got the reaction I expected. “What the hell did we pay for?” Coach groused. “This is supposed to the Wild West!" I stood up and stared him in the eye. “Boys, I just spotted the bad guy.” I retrieved my handcuffs- real ones, also a prop- and dangled it before them.

The boys spun wildly around. “Where’s the bad guy?”

I smiled at the coach, a gleam in my eyes. “Right there, that old guy there. That’s the bad guy.” “That’s my grandpa!” said Bryce. “That’s not your grandpa.” I widened my eyes at him, with a wide grin, appealing to Bryce's sense of fun. But I was dead serious. This was a reckoning. “Go get em Cowboys!” A little mob of six-year-old boys, attacking the old man, grabbing his hands, clutching at his legs. He didn’t look pleased, huffed a bit, but what was he to do? He wasn’t expecting, however, for me to pull his arms back and flip open the handcuffs, to lock his wrists in place. That set him off, but he managed to stifle his rage. Only a matter of time though. And I was here for it.

The girl’s name was Alexis Fernandez, and she was the granddaughter of the shooting range, part of a larger property that had been in the family for generations. They weren’t wealthy, didn’t have the resources to pursue both a criminal and a long drawn-out civil suit. But they loved their daughter, and the public responded. The story, as it goes, is predictable: the criminal suit was ultimately dropped, not because there was no fault, but because culpability was so buried under legalese, the Fernandez lawyer didn’t have the means to excavate. But buried there, a jewel, a simple truth. That Alexis Fernandez was a human being, and she didn't to deserve to die.

Everyone speaks of shame like it’s the hot lava core of emotional pain. Food shaming, body shaming, sexual shaming. But for Colton and Coach Bowie, they could have used a nice dose of shame, in its purest form, shot to the core of their black hearts. Because they felt none. And boy did we try. And by we I mean the social media swarm, where we fought valiantly to support the Fernandez family, trying and failing to appeal to the justice system, and then to the community, posting pictures of Alexis, appealing to their humanity. Our hive grew, the outrage grew, surely the Bowie family would cower in shame; surely Coach would quit; surely Colton would go into hiding. Only Jacob kept quiet; only he kept his head down; only he felt mortified. As for the Coach, it’s not hard to feed your ego when you know where to look. The audience might have been smaller- some sycophants at a smaller watering hole- but it could be a puddle and he’d find a place to drink. Colton went to college and posted shamelessly on social media- his buddies, his fraternity, his girlfriend, now his wife, his child, his church, his upstanding morality. No matter that the hive swarmed his comment section, reminding him, cajoling him, it did nothing. It did not penetrate into that part of the soul called conscience. While I was at school, his daughter was a cheerleader, flaunting her good looks, and charming the teachers. Again, it didn’t matter that most of the student body despised her. She would only look to where her ego needed nourishment. That’s what the Bowie family did.

“Let’s take him to the jail!” I hollered and the boys crowed.

I was so off script, there was no script. I shoved him into the jail, the final room, where typically the boys would find the clues- for the young ones, they just needed to count the “scratch marks” on the wall to produce the key- in order to open the safe where’d they’d find the cheap bars of gold. But not this time. “As my deputy, slam the door, Bryce. You’ve got the robber!” Bryce slammed it so hard it clanked open, and so I had to help him lock it. “All right, all right, let me out,” the Coach said warily. “Let’s get this over with.” I put a hand to my chest. If drama kids irritated him, I would be Oscar-worthy. “You are the worst kind of blue-bellied, grass-feeding, bottom-feeder devil in all of tarnation.” The boys laughed so tauntingly, it reminded me of the novel, Lord of the Flies .

He was getting angry, but it wouldn’t take much for him to barrel his way out of the cheap jail, past me to my manager, where’d he’d take pleasure from getting me fired.

Fired? This was beyond getting fired. I knew how to get him. I sidled up to the bars. “Hey, Coach, do you remember me? I was in your twelfth grade class ‘bout...oh say, five years ago.” “I don’t care who you were, you get me out of here, or you’re gonna get your ass served.” “No problem, Coach, sorry for the trouble. Thought I’d give your grandson a little show, right?” I gestured to the sweet child, who was still holding my gun and going “phew phew” around the room. I called the boys over and announced the code to the safe, told them now that they had their robber, they could open it. Bryce shoved his way to the front, demanding it was his birthday, but all the little boys were trying to shove their fingers onto the key pad.

I turned back to the coach. “Say, you heard from Jacob recently?”

Coach glared at me. “Get me out of here you good-for-nothing scum.” “Of course, of course.” I dramatically patted my pockets. “Well shoot….I thought it was here.” The temperature was rising. The joint was going to blow. I only needed to throw the match.

“You know, Jacob and I were friends in high school.” I leaned in, said conspiriatorily, “Special friends, if you catch my drift. Let’s just say…we liked to play cowboy and robber.” And then I winked.

Implosion. I tapped the record button on my Ipad.


Opening her eyes rather disorientated as to why she was lying on the floor, Laura groaned and slowly grabbing the side of the bedframe banging her arm in the process, she dragged herself up onto her knees. With her head resting on the mattress she stayed there for a good ten minutes before moving. Eventually, with a mighty heave, she managed to get to her feet and flop down onto her bed.       ‘Bloody hell that bloody well hurt,’ she yelled, rubbing her arm where she’d banged it.        Reaching out and pulling back the window blinds, she quickly shielded her eyes from the light and whipped them closed again. Getting to her feet, stumbling unsteadily, she swayed just a little wondering just how much she’d had to drink last night. Looking at the clock she sobered for a split second realising she was an hour late for work already.      ‘Oh shit’       Moving with a bit more haste, losing her balance in the process she fell into the bathroom; her head and toe colliding with the door.

‘Fuck, bollocks, stupid door get out of the way,        Now leaning against the wall, relieved she had something to rest on, she let out a long sigh and rubbing her throbbing toe she slid down the wall, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom and gripping the door frame she hoisted herself to her feet; just as she did so she made the mistake of taking in a sideways glance in the mirror.      ‘Dear God, what the actual fuck,’       Mascara smeared eyes and ashen face stared back at her and peering closer at the mirror, her nose practically resting on it to steady herself she whispered ‘what the hell “is” that?         Laura being a smart girl, as a rule, always very precise with her appearance normally, couldn’t quite come to terms with the vision before her, she took an unsteady step back and looked again to see what appeared to be marshmallow and candy twists wrapped in strands of her wild black unbrushed hair. Leaning against the wall unable to even think straight let alone speak, she turned on the shower and stood under it for a good fifteen minutes thinking just how much she hated her job, wondering what on earth she had got up to last night at Mike’s leaving do and how she was going to manage to struggle into work this morning. Mike was a colleague she admired and was really upset that he was finally moving on with his life whilst she ‘Laura Wilson’ was stuck in a mindless rut as an admin assistant to the worst boss in the whole world. Laura worked for an art distributor in admin which sounded good but in fact, was not very glamorous, but it paid bills. She’d always wanted to get onto something more interesting, she had a million clever ideas swirling in her head, but she’d never managed to get her break. Instead, Laura worked under Giles who was a rude arrogant little man, not very tall but nonetheless quite good looking. He shaved his head (because he was balding) but it didn’t detract from his appearance at all and he knew it. He frequently stole her ideas, one’s that in her naivety, she had put to him in the hope that one day he would hail her an inspiration and she’d be given the promotion she always hoped for. Sadly, she was always too impulsive making snap decisions in revealing her ideas to him before thinking it through. Well, she was an inspiration to him alright, as most of what he put forward to the board was grown from her proposals.        ‘Oh, I don’t care’ she said waving her hand dismissively, still obviously tipsy.        But the fact is she did care, especially when she realised she had melted marshmallow in a sticky mess tangled in her dripping wet mane. She flopped in a heap onto the toilet seat feeling like she was on a fairground waltzer she couldn’t get off.       ‘Why me?’ she was now whining pathetically feeling sorry for herself.       An hour later she had managed to sort out her marshmallow thatch; still feeling very unwell she slowly shuffled into the kitchen to put the kettle on, even the noise of that made her wince.       Phoning in sick is never a great thing to have to do yourself. Putting on that feigned too ill to get me through the working day voice, except in this instance that voice wasn’t feigned it was pathetically true and highly embarrassing since they would all know why she wasn’t making an appearance. With her hands around a steaming hot mug of much-needed coffee she began to mull over, and to her remorse, remember the events of the previous night with awful humiliation. They’d had one of those donkey things that you beat with a stick to break open; what’s that called she thought, as if it mattered, pancetta or something, or is that bacon bits? Tittering at her own stupidity, clearly still a little drunk from the night before.       ‘A pinata that’s it!’ she shouted.  ‘Anyway, whatever it’s called it’s tacky.’       Sweets had tumbled down onto her head, which she now recalled with great shame rubbing them into her hair in a provocative fashion, whilst performing something resembling a burlesque dance; at least that was what it was supposed to be, she probably looked more like what her grandmother would describe as a ‘streetwalker’. Oh God, who the hell did she think she was Dita Von Teese.  Oh, bloody hell the shame of it all she thought, and in front of her goddamn awful boss too.

      Trying to forget the events of the night before she made her way back upstairs to get dressed, grabbing a shirt from the bottom of the wash basket, sniffing it to make sure it didn’t smell too bad and pulled on a pair of equally creased joggers. She really couldn’t be bothered. Switching on her laptop to work from home she was met with several emails containing photo evidence of the previous night’s shenanigans, immediately deleting them; she didn’t want reminding, thanks very much. Getting up and heading into her lounge, she stopped dead at the doorway, a pair of legs were dangling over the arm of the sofa, bare legs at that, hairy and very definitely male.       ‘Who in the name of God…’ she peered in closer and to her horror realised it was Giles her boss.       ‘What the fuck,’ she said rather more loudly than she meant to.       Oh shit, she couldn’t remember a thing about it, did he come home with me she thought, well he must have mustn’t he how else would be lying on my sofa.      ‘Bloody hell,’ she said lowering her voice ‘did he think my Vita von Teese was a “come on” ha, as if.’        Quickly retreating into the kitchen, she picked up the mop and holding it at arms length she poked his arm with it to try and wake him but got no response. She poked him again, still no response. Putting the mop down she crept closer and leaned over him, his eyes were half-open but not really focusing.       ‘Oh fuck is he dead,’ she whispered ‘Oh my God I’ve got a dead body in my flat, shit, what the hell.’ She was now in a blind tipsy panic.        Running back into the kitchen she picked up her phone and rang the only person she knew wouldn’t think she’d gone completely mad.       ‘Shell? You’ve got to come around here, right now, as in now, right now.’       ‘Whoa slow down what’s up, what’s happened?’       ‘My boss is dead on my sofa that’s what’s happened.’       ‘Shut up, what are you talking about, are you pissed?’       ‘No, I’m not pissed I’m being serious he’s had a heart attack or something he’s not moving.’       ‘Oh bloody hell alright, are you sure he’s not just asleep?’       ‘I’ve poked him with the mop he’s dead, he didn’t move and his eyes are half-open it’s horrible Shell.’       ‘You’ve what? Jesus Christ give me a minute.’

       Shell was her sensible neighbour who lived two doors away, she worked from home as an IT consultant, always in the house glued to her computer. They’d become firm friends soon after Laura had moved in, Laura being ditsy of the two. Suddenly having marshmallows in her hair and feeling a little hungover was no longer of any consequence. Laura crept back into her lounge, although lord only knows why she was ‘creeping’ she thought, he wasn’t exactly going hear her was he.       ‘I always hated your guts Giles,’ she said, ‘but I wouldn’t wish you dead, I mean you are… were, a bastard to everyone, especially me, but why the hell did you choose to have a bloody heart attack on my sofa.’       Laura of course, didn’t know he’d had a heart attack, she was being impulsive again making assumptions whilst she panicked, running around shaking and feeling sick. She had to ring the police and an ambulance but what was she going to tell them? Oh God, I can’t possibly do it she thought, I’ll be locked up and spend Christmas in prison. The sudden ding dong of the bell brought her back to reality, she ran to the door opening it just a little to peek through the gap.       ‘What the hell are you doing, open the bloody door you stupid mare, it’s me, Shell.’       ‘Oh god alright, don’t raise your voice my head hurts, I don’t know what I’m doing do I, I’m having a break down that’s what I’m doing.’       ‘Behave yourself and calm down, so where is this dead body you say is on your sofa?’       ‘Is that a serious question, It’s on the bloody sofa, where else do you expect it to be, how are we going to get rid of it?’         ‘Get rid of it, and you ask me if I’m being serious? You need to call the emergency services, it’s not like you’ve killed him yourself for goodness sake. Oh God Laura you didn’t kill him, did you? I mean you hated the bastard you kept saying how you wished he was… Oh, I can’t say it,’ Shell cupped her hand over her mouth.       ‘Of course I haven’t fucking killed the bastard, what do you take me for, I don’t even know how he got here.’       Shell gave Laura a sideways glance and cocking her head to one side as if to indicate that she wanted a word in private, she made for the lounge to take a look for herself, dragging a reluctant Laura with her. Peering around the door with Laura hiding behind her, Shell suddenly stood up poker straight.       ‘Which room did you say this Giles person was in?’       ‘Oh hilarious, this is no time to be joking it’s not funny Shell, he’s in there on the sofa.’       ‘I wasn’t joking Laura, there’s nobody in here, no dead body, no living person, nobody.’       ‘What? There’s got to be, I mean he was there, right there on the sofa,’ shoving Shell out of the way to look for herself, ‘I’m going mad I’m now hallucinating, I need to sit down.’       Laura was now feeling very unwell, not only from the excesses of the night before but now this fiasco of the missing body. But he must be there, she thought, he was right there, I know he was.       ‘Laura,’ Shell was being very composed and practical now, ‘you look dreadful, I think you’ve dreamt all this, you’ve always disliked the man and in your semi-pissed state you’ve merely imagined it, you must have, you can see for yourself there is no one dead or alive in your lounge.’       ‘I didn’t imagine it, this is the worst kind of hell’ running her hands through her wet hair she declared ‘I’m never drinking again,’ waving her arms in the air looking skywards for solace ‘never again, do you hear me God, never.’       ‘Was that your toilet flushing’? Shell said tilting her head to one side to listen.       ‘What do we have to do to get a coffee around here?’       Both Shell and Laura spun around at the voice that had just spoken to be confronted by Giles, looking a little rough but very much alive. They both stared wide-eyed at the man standing there in the lounge doorway.       ‘Hi’ said Shell reaching out a hand to greet him ‘I’m Shell, Laura’s neighbour’ we were just…|       ‘Yeah I heard, you were just discussing how to get rid of a dead body, so is the kettle on?’       ‘But,’ Laura stopped she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She maintained the stare and repeated the word ‘but.’       ‘But what Laura,’ he said, ‘you hate my guts? and no, I didn’t think you were “coming on to me” Oh and I’m not dead either,’ he said tapping his body in several places to emphasise the fact whilst smirking. ‘I brought you home in a taxi last night you were a mess, I slept on your couch, as you observed when you poked me with the mop handle’.       ‘Well…’ she began, as if she was about to give a lengthy explanation but nervously twiddled her hair instead, unsure of what to say next.       A short while later following an awkward conversation he was gone, leaving an embarrassed Laura and an amused Shell behind him.       ‘He’s a bit gorgeous,’ Shell said as she closed the front door, ‘is he single’?       ‘Oh, shut up Shell,’ said Laura as she slumped onto the kitchen stool, thinking that nothing in the world could prepare you for some things, but there’s one guarantee; they will not turn out as expected. Word Count - 2299


Buoyed by the principles plus precepts learnt from watching a few YouTube videos on skiing well and without fear as a novice, I set off down the snowy slope with a significant sense of déjà vu! This euphoric feeling was as indescribable as it was enjoyable. This wind at my back turned to temporal dysphoria as I crashed into someone while seeking to employ a wedge stop technique practiced a few times after watching the how-tos. A more experienced skier auspiciously came to the rescue of my "victim" as I steadily moved to a safe spot. Basking in the euphoria of fully skiing for the very first time made me forgetful about avoiding an accident... The person I crashed into and the rescuer continued down the hill after slowing down to confirm I was okay. I muttered a rapid prayer of Thanksgiving to God for safety. With this done, I was back in high spirits ready to continue with increased care and competence. I sure wasn't ready to give up! The more daunting the task, the more daring I can be. This disposition describes me since attempting to date a dancer I met while on duty in a departmental store where I briefly worked. Her velvety voice saying "Excuse me sir, do you work here by any chance?" as she sought out a particular product principally "pulled" me to her as I thought "this lady must be 'mine' if she's not already hooked up with anyone!" Her svelte silhouette surely sealed my stance as I blurted out "are you married or in any serious relationship with any man?" Flabbergasted and flushed, she fumbled for words to say without being overly brutish or brutalizing my ego... ... flustered but not feeling foolish, I found the courage to correct course by saying "Yes, I work here but I'm very honoured to have been blessed with the chance of meeting you. Would you please forgive my being rash even though I'm truly interested in  knowing you?" The fury on her face faded into a smile that made me further think "this woman and I sure need to become close friends". She then responded by saying "it's okay as I see that you are not the highly insensitive and incongruous individual I initially thought you were...; but I must say you're intrepid!" "intre..what?" I replied. "You're interestingly fearless and forthrightly bold", she said as we both burst out laughing. Then I introduced myself and she reciprocated.

She was in search of silver coloured swimsuits she could adapt as costume for the next dance presentation of her troupe. On showing her the pertinent section of the store, I proposed two complementary colours - light purple and light blue - to her. She accepted my propositions and profusely thanked me as I escorted her to the till area. As she joined the queue, I excused myself muttering "I'll be back in a jiffy." I dashed to pick up my stuff as my shift for the day was now over. But my section manager requested help to reset his computer and thus an unexpected quarter of an hour! On returning to the till, she was nowhere in sight but the cashier handed me a note tucked inside an envelope from her. Excited and curious but unwilling to show my disappointment mixed with anticipation, I calmly put the envelope in my knapsack and headed home, a few blocks away. On getting into my studio apartment, I quickly opened the envelope hoping to therein find her phone number and request to be called, but alas, it was not so. The little note in one of the loveliest handwriting ever sighted simply read: "Good things come to those who wait for and merit them. Sorry I could no longer wait as I have a plane to catch and billed to be back in six weeks after a tour with my team. I hope to answer your two-in-one question on my return if the wait turns out to be worthwhile for us both. Meeting you was a memorable encounter. Thank you once again and take care. - Your 'yet-to-be' friend." "Six weeks!? I'm scheduled to also leave town in two weeks as my sojourn at the departmental store comes to an end in a week!" I thought to myself. That was six months ago. Now in Switzerland for a sixteen-week writing project, I came in three days ago, a week before the expected commencement of this plum job. This is in order to take advantage of a stay offered to me in a resort owned by the parents of a Swiss friend I met three years ago at a writing conference. It also affords me the opportunity to enjoy a dream activity - skiing. The following morning, on the way to a breakfast of rösti, raclette and lamb in one of the restaurants, the chit-chat of a motley crew could be heard behind me... Suddenly, a particular voice stopped me in my tracks as my heart skipped a beat and I trembled with unbelief. "Was I finally going to see her again? Is that not the velvety voice I've been longing to hear for the past half-year?" Turning back, her instant recognition of me was a welcome validation. "Oh my goodness, we finally meet again!", she said, as she rushed towards me and beaming, I instinctively threw my hands wide open for her to crash into. We struggled to outdo each other in playing catch up. It seemed so serene and sensible to be together. With breakfast and others around us immediately put on hold, hand in hand, we gravitated towards a nearby face to face bench and settled in. She looked so beautiful I wished I could watch her all day that day and every other day! All anxieties about what to say if we ever met again had disappeared into thin air. She regaled me with stories of how, on her return from the tour, she had gone back to the departmental store many times every week for six weeks to look for me (or get information that could reconnect her with me) before giving up. For an inexplicable reason, I had brought her note with me on this trip. More curious was the fact that I read it just before leaving my room and ended up putting it in my shirt pocket. Reaching therefore into my pocket, I brought it out and I could see her liven up even more as she gasped in surprise. "Oh là là, you still have the note with you. When I couldn't find you, I wished I had left my contact details in it", she said. On flipping open the note and putting it sideways for it to be readable, we chorused the first sentence: "Good things come to those who wait for and merit them."


“So, what’s the catch?” “No catch, man, it’s just like I told ya.” “Really? When it’s too good to be true, well, you know, it usually is.” “I’m being straight with ya, man. This ain’t like that Nigerian Prince scam ya get in your fax machine. No, no. This is one hundred percent, full disclosure, top notch, no bullshit stuff I’m talkin’ ‘bout here.” “Okay, so let me ask. Why me? How’d you land on my sorry ass, huh? What, am I on the cover of Gullible Magazine this month?”

“C’mon, nothing like that, I’m just trying to do you a solid, that’s all. It’s all above board, nothing sketchy. Honestly, hand to God, it’s for real. So am I.”

Harry pushed the stool back from his makeshift desk, reread the last bit of dialogue and stood, stretching his tall frame side to side until he felt a few cracks and pops in his aging back. After hunching over his computer for over an hour it was good to bend and move. Not bad, not bad, but I don’t know where I’m going with this idea, he thought, scratching his bristly white scalp with chewed fingernails. I’m just letting it flow, stream of consciousness style. Frequently it worked for him and sometimes he didn’t have the foggiest idea what he was going to write about, but after sitting down at the screen, it just came. Often, he would reread what he had just typed and would marvel at where it had come from. It just seems to write itself, he thought.

He found it helpful to begin with the word “So” and go from there. This way, he wasn’t looking at a completely blank page. That can be intimidating. All his blog posts began that way: So. . . .  And so far it seemed to be working for him.

He began his blog about two years ago, after finding himself unemployed, grief stricken and frightful of venturing out into a Covid infected world. It helped fill his day. It helped distract him from his heartache. He would blog about the injustices in the world, about the political and social outrages he saw and read about, and about personal things as well, anecdotes and events he had experienced. It felt good to get them down on paper, well, not paper exactly, he thought, but in writing nonetheless and it was cathartic. Like letters home from a war front or a secret diary hidden by a child, he would record and recount the stories of his life. Of her life. Of theirs.

His blog entries gave way to more fully realized stories, not necessarily about himself. He began to enter writing contests where the idea was to write a story based on a selection of prompts offered up by the website. Just as the “so” of his beginnings acted to jumpstart his creative juices, so did these prompts, leading him to areas he would not otherwise have gone and he was on a roll lately, producing more completed work in the past few months than he had. . . well, ever.

So, what to do with this newest challenge? So, what’s the catch? The “catch” being the crux of this new contest. To start a story with that phrase and explore the possibilities. He didn’t want it to be some Twilight Zone variant, although he did love that old show with its twist endings, but rather wanted something more. . . heartfelt. Not sure. I’ll stop thinking about it and let my subconscious work on it, he thought, and lay down on the leather couch for a nap, chiding himself that it was some kind of research.

As he slept the dreams came, as they always did. His wife. Her face, her laugh, her final breaths. They were the kind of dreams that he both wanted and dreaded. Sad and heart wrenching to relive moments of their lives together, but also happy for the chance to do so. To see her in his mind, hold her there, trace the curve of her face with his sleeping fingers. Breathe her in. He would have breathed for her if he could at the end, but the virus would have none of it. It was her ventilator that kissed her then, filling her lungs with the dispassionate air of a machine. In the end her metallic lover couldn’t save her and the lungs that had once sighed whispers into his ears, just stopped, like a faulty bellows unable to rekindle an ember.

He awoke, momentarily unsure of where he was. A blurry image coming into focus, lines sharpening at the edges. Easing himself off the sofa, he stretched again, bent to touch his toes and then the ceiling. It was dark out now. How long had he slept? The glow of his computer, screensaver sliding random pictures from his photo library, lit the kitchen countertop. At the moment it was a wedding picture, where she had smacked his nose with icing after cutting their cake. That spontaneous moment always made him smile, as he remembered rubbing noses with her and listening to her giggle. He could hear it now, through the cloud of his grogginess. Rachel would have been so proud of him, he thought, for the work he was producing. All those years he talked about it, but aside from the occasional anniversary poem, there was nothing.  Now, he wrote consistently both on his blog and on that writing site for fiction. His blog had over two thousand followers and his fiction was beginning to gain a bit of attention, despite having never won a contest, it still garnered many likes and positive comments. He appreciated the ego salve it provided.

Harry removed two shiny cold triangles of foil wrapped pizza from the fridge, placed them in the toaster oven, and poured himself a glass of white wine from an open bottle. He would continue with his story after dinner but for now he raised his wine glass, silently toasting Rachel.

So, was this the bargain? Was this the catch? Did she have to die in order for him to begin writing in earnest. Did the torment, does the torment still, unlock an inner cell of emotion and creativity, allowing him to vent his pent up feelings. No answer. He looked back at the first few lines of dialogue he had attempted to address this latest challenge with and realized that it wasn’t leading to any sort of “catch,” it was only a placeholder waiting for the true story to emerge. That story, the one where he “catches” her attention and they create a life together, where she herself was the “catch” of a lifetime, is the one worth telling.


Tiny Specks They had woken to the rain falling in solid sheets, water bashing the roof, pounding the steel, the inside no longer safe, weather roaring its way in. Opening the front door they saw a rolling sea of brown water, rocks and rubble hitting the side of the house. The shock created opposite reactions.

    “We are moving out,” Jacko shouted above the noise. He saw her eyes on the plants they’d been growing. His rage rose with the storm, her endless crazy decisions, ignorant of her own ignorance.

   “What about the flowers, I’m sure I could bring some inside.” Sarah flinched when she saw his face.

  He’d experienced nature’s violence before, knew with every soaring muscle and vein of his body they had to escape. And she wanted to move towards the water. He pulled her back roughly, she never grasped when she must listen to him.

    Imagine – he could let her have her head and people would say he failed to protect his wife, watched her die rescuing some pots of flowers. “We are not going out there,” he said, closing the door and locking it, as if a bolt could hold back the power of the water.

    They moved around a small space in the kitchen indecisively. Seconds passed with their mouths dry, heartbeats raised. Neither touched the other but felt each other’s heat. He watched her turn towards the laptop. Then he saw the puddle of water, licking under the side door.

     “We are leaving, through the back, not the front. Forget those things, now we are going.” His voice thudded with certainty. He couldn’t stomach the fear in her face and turned towards their exit route, calculating the route of the unleashed river.  When he turned back he saw she had piled things off the floor onto chairs and beds. He took hold of her hand and pulled her towards the other side of the house. The rear of the yard was flooding, the river spreading, speeding between the two houses.     “Get on my back.”

    She did as she was told and he carried her through the driving water.     The rain was never going to stop. The mountains had split into lakes and giants were tossing their contents over the villages. Within second they were drenched, skin sizzling with fright, eyes pushing from their sockets. Once Jacko had got her to dry, higher ground, he sped back over rocks to survey the house. Saw the river clean everything away, pots, wood, tools, an old fridge full of newly burst flowers, flicked into the brown inferno, gulped down in milliseconds. Impossible not to feel respect for such mighty indifference.

    He sensed her behind him and shouted above the roar: “Go back, where it’s safe. Don’t follow me.”     “I want to see what’s happening,” she shouted.

    He turned his back waiting for her to return to the safe place he’d deposited her on minutes earlier. When he looked over his shoulder he saw she’d obeyed him. He didn’t want her anxiety pricking him, munching at his forehead, taking his attention away from what needed to be done.

    His friend Longshot appeared to check him and his spirits lifted in a swerve of conviction. Together they’d defeat the mud. They started to work their muscles in unison, shouting above the water, ripping away the filthy lino, forcing it out over the river or through the back door. He didn’t see his wife until she got in the way of Longshot sweeping.

    “I told you to stay away.” His eyes glittered with rage.     “This is my house as well, how can I?” Her voice sounded funny, like a sharp twig, ready to break.     He turned away quickly, calling his friend to hold an end of sand filled carpet.  He didn’t like to see her moving things. She was putting them on the steps when she should have carried them up to the top, making a pile that teetered on the edge of falling, wasn’t quick enough to rescue the pillows before they tumbled into the mud. His head throbbed with the effort of not noticing what she was doing.  He watched in despair as she dived for the pillows, failing to rescue them. “Why can’t you do it right? Instead you make it worse, you don’t listen to me, oh no, you go ahead and make it a disaster.”     Longshot laughed nervously. “Hey Jacko, chill, she’s trying to help.”     Sarah left them and without her they worked like well-sprung machines until only an inch of squelch remained. Exhausted and exhilarated, they were painted in mud, clothes stuck like skin. They noticed the rain had stopped.

   No water in the taps but plenty gathered in buckets. Jacko ran for clean T shirts and shorts and something fiery to drink. As they threw the rum at the back of their throats his wife returned. He could see her clothes were glued to her body and mud smeared across her arms and legs.

    “You have to get out of those wet clothes. I told you to stay away from the rain,” he said, guiding her to another room. “Do you want a drink?” He didn’t wait for her reply, leaving in a gallop to re-join his friend.     Longshot waved his glass for more and they drank together, the rum hitting empty stomachs and radiating through their bodies. He paused in his rage. She was English and had never experienced a storm like this, didn’t know the times you were a tiny speck of nothingness. He stared at the river, white and brown foam calmer, fallen branches now visible as they rolled downstream towards the sea.

    Sylvie arrived, calling out: “How goes my English girl? Seen anything like this before?”    Sarah emerged in clean clothes. “Never in my life. The river is like a sea, something out of the bible.”

   Sylvie laughed loud. “Come on chick, we got work to do.” She gathered up some buckets and headed nearer the swollen sliding mass of the river.     Sarah followed, picking her way carefully over the wet rocks. Sylvie filled the buckets from a barrel full of the rainwater and swung one towards Sarah.     “Here, can you carry this?”     Sarah bent down and lifted the bucket, willing herself not to react to its weight, the strain that ripped through her shoulder and back. She got it to the house, having spilt a little. Sylvie was behind her, effortlessly swinging two full buckets she threw over the mud. Sarah copied her but her water sat feebly on the surface, rather than dashing the dirt. They adopted a rhythm, Sylvie bringing two buckets, or even four, to Sarah’s one, Longfoot throwing the water, Jacko sweeping it clear.     “You doing good girl,” Sylvie said. “Look at them arms now, you building strength.”    “If you say so,” Sarah shook her head as she glanced at her bicep and then at Sylvie’s.  The words weren’t convincing but she appreciated the comforting.

    The floor was as close to clean as they could get it for now and all four stood back, scoping the improvement. Jacko poured more rum, offering a cup to Sylvie, hesitating before raising his eyebrow to Sarah. She always drank rum well-watered with juice. She held out her hand for a cup and copied the other woman’s movements. He noticed her shudder as it thumped down her throat and handed her the water bottle quickly. She gulped some down and smiled at him.     “Better than a cup of tea.  Although I might make some. Clever how you put your sockets three feet off the floor, I’ve only just worked out that’s if water gets in.” She stopped as she saw them grinning.     “Electricity gone, who knows when we’ll get it back.” Jacko said. “Once the wood dries, we’ll catch a fire. Only power is the river and the sun just now.”

    Sarah shook her head and waved her arm round. “And the strength you have.” She wanted to say more but remembered the unstoppable, greedy, terrifying wall of water, proclaiming their flimsiness.  The difference between the two understandings stretched her mind and settled her.

    Her, Jacko, their two friends were in a delicious calm. They’d survived as tiny specks in the face of a storm.


Dear daughter, You are now six years old. You are sitting on the floor next to me, listening to endless Russian

skazki

and drawing exquisite sketches of princesses. The remoteness and solitude of the place we live in trigger a unique combo of sadness and self-reflection. I will use the second as my main ingredient and the first as a grain of salt. I believe this to be a perfect recipe for a healthy piece of motherly life advice that I want to share. Today I want to tell you about the importance of daring. When I was a six-year old, brown-eyed girl, I became a dreamer. One fact that played into this head-in-the-clouds mindset was being a sickly child and having to stay home for days on end while my engineer mother, a single parent and a sole bread winner, was working. The other one was the many books she bought me. Dreaming was both exciting and, most importantly, safe. It required a minimal effort - I learned to read at the age of three. My mother valued safety. She was fiercely protective of her only late child that God gave her after many years of dating and a huge disappointment in fellows. She made my safety the main purpose of her life and tried really hard to surround me with coziness, stability and comfort — the things she herself never had as a child or young adult. Filled with the smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns and jam, our two-room apartment was my safe haven, the many books lining our shelves — my ticket to safe trips to the outside world. Mom preferred to do stuff for me because it was faster and easier for her, a single working mother who had a lot on her plate and only so many hours in a day. “I will cook, I will clean, and you go read, your job is to learn”, — she would tell me. When I was twelve, I went to a summer camp and was the only twelve-year old girl who didn’t know how to wash her hair. You get the gist. I was a good student. I grew accustomed to being the best at some subjects, especially, English. But internally I was terrified of trying new things because I could fail. Or get hurt. Years went by. I turned sixteen and suddenly dared to travel downtown with a friend of mine to participate in a language competition held by the American Council of Teachers of Russian language. The huge room was filled with snobby kids from “specialized” cool schools who looked down our noses at us. It was a rare occasion when my passion for the language helped me push through my shyness and fear of failure. I won and spent a wonderful year in the USA. But when it came to the high-school exit exam, the fear of failure overcame my desire to try and stay. I went back to Russia and started medical school. While everyone else managed to find time and relax and party a little, I was generally skeptical of the behavior my fellow young and properly reckless students would engage in. I considered myself a cool, level-headed person. Looking back, I see how inappropriately boring my weekends were. I never took a chance on anything, I would stick to safe activities with safe people. Times were tumultuous in Russia, and I prided myself on staying in my room and out of trouble, or walking the usual safe route. When it came to taking a chance on a new job that required frequent travelling, I thought of how it would affect the convenient life routine I had built up and a wave of fear washed through me. Although I realized it was the opportunity that would never again present itself, I rejected the offer and stayed in my hometown. As a married woman, I only traveled to a handful of countries that were safe and only chose the five-star hotels that offered protection, not unlike my old two-room apartment. Dangerous sightseeing was out of the question. Life has taken us to a remote place in a small country. Your Dad, knowing what a safety freak I am, made sure we live in a very protected area. It is the epitome of safe. Three-level protection, expensive cars and little or no neighbors. Sometimes it feels like a padded cell. All my life, I have been voluntarily confining myself to safe cells. And I regret this now. I feel like I have been sticking to a rather bland diet. Good for you but nothing to remember when your teeth fall out. My dear daughter, I marvel at how independent and strong-willed you are at six. I am so glad you didn’t take after me in that department. You already you know what you want. “I want to learn how to saw and play the guitar. Mommy, find me a teacher!” — you say. You pack your own things, butter your sandwiches, tie your shoe laces and protest strongly when I try to help with brushing your hair. I back off, happy. You dare to jump into a cold lake and ride a zipline at an adventure park. From the bottom of my heart I wish you to retain these qualities and let them, among others, guide you. Years will fly by and you will turn into a beautiful young woman. Enjoy life. Explore the world, and not only through books and Internet. See it with your own eyes, feel it, smell it, taste it. Take last-minute travel offers, prefer going out and traveling with friends to sitting at home and inside your comfort zone. Take an adventurous job offer. Meet new people. Use a grain of sensibility and safety, of course. But don’t overdo it with these condiments. Of course, I am still young and have all the opportunities of daring more. And, inspired by you, I will probably start my late journey to daring with a zipline and jumping into a cold lake at an adventure park…Because, young or not, we are running out of time. Love you always, Mom.