Author note, Trigger warning, explores emotions following a miscarriage. They say third time lucky, but as the survivor of three miscarriages I could definitely bust that particular saying. Is survivor too dramatic a word? No, I don’t feel it is.

I mean, no my life hadn’t been at stake, or had it? Maybe not in a physical way, but emotionally it definitely was, as each loss had taken me closer to the brink, I often worried that each loss was erasing a little piece of me, and what would finally be left?

And what of the future life that I had lost, all

those experiences of raising a child, that now I would never know.

I

felt traumatized , so yeah I damn well classed myself as a survivor, although at that moment in time, I wasn’t entirely certain that I would make it through to the other side. But there was a glimmer of hope, as after days of sitting in my dressing gown, staring blankly at the wall opposite, I had managed to rouse myself and muster the energy to get dressed, which was

a shock to my system. The next part is still a mystery, but somehow on autopilot I managed to drag my sorry carcass out of my street door and along the road, towards my chosen destination.

As I walked along, crisscrossing pavements periodically to avoid coming into contact with women passing by pushing prams, my mind pondered upon the word miscarriage. Such a benign word for such a soul destroying event.

Before going through it, I had only ever briefly wondered about it. But now it seemed I was unable to think of anything else. Almost three years of my life sped by with me living in a

perpetual cycle of hope, anxiety, fear and guilt. Three years of fending off the commiserations of the World and his Mrs. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, I’d heard it all, from “You're better off with a dog, kids just disappoint you?” to “May you’ve had a lucky escape, might have grown up to be a mass murderer.” Neither of which gave me any comfort. But then neither did the more sensitive comments, because let’s face it, when it comes to miscarriage the sorrow is personal.

 My faith had got me through it, up until that point.

Whether it was praying to conceive or praying for my child to survive, I had done it. I think my kind of miscarriage didn’t help matters,

as they were

silent and void of

fanfare. There was no drama, no mad anguished dashes to A&E in the middle of the night. No mine were just a possession of

tiny beating hearts that forgot to beat. A little trio of

tiny beings with ten fingers and toes, that were lulled to sleep within my lousy treacherous womb. Self loathing seemed to be the norm, that and in that moment a desire to do something right for my never to be born child. This last miscarriage had been different to the others, he’d survived longer and I had seen him alive on a screen, and that’s how I know he’d had ten fingers and toes, to wriggle in rytthm with his beating heart. A black and white, grainy image with the power to rob me of my breath, as tears cascaded joyfully down my cheeks. Only a few short weeks later, those tears flowed again, but this time in sorrow. “You are lucky,” they told me, (what a crass choice of words) I had thought, “a week later and you would have had to give birth.” they’d explained with a level of professional calmness that was borderline cold.

 I had still been thinking about their choice of words, as they had wheeled me into the theatre. In some crazy ill thought out decision, I even tried to resist the anesthetic, I wasn’t ready to relinquish

my child, not ready to wake to the emptiness. I counted beyond the twenty, before pitching into a darkness, that even now weeks later I was trying to submerge from.

 At last I had reached my destination, my local church, my safe haven. Upon entering I glanced up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, proudly holding her child in her arms, “is the fruit of thy womb”, I whispered, and felt the sting of tears. Looking down the aisle I spotted the priest, he was new, and I didn’t do well with change, but still he was God’s servant, and in that I had to trust. I gulped back my tears and told my sorry tale. He looked slightly bored, I told myself this was in my imagination as I had grown way too sensitive, my hormones seemed to be riding an everlasting rollercoaster, of ups and downs. Was it any wonder I was an emotional wreck.

Then once I had reached the end, he nodded and said he was sorry. “The thing is” I stuttered, “I really would like for you to say a mass or something for his soul” As I spoke, I thought my request was reasonable, I mean he’d had ten tiny fingers and toes, so it stood to reason that just like any other human being he had a right to celebrated.

“I am sorry I can’t do that.” The priest replied, bringing me up short. “Why?, I mean I am willing to pay” I explained, delving into my handbag and praying I had remembered my purse. “It's not a question of payment, your child did not breathe and therefore had no soul. Come sit with me, and we will pray for your speedy recovery.” I stepped back, shaking myself from head to toe, as if trying to dislodge something nasty that had settled on my skin.  “I don’t want you to pray for me.” I shouted, wondering if he would be able to see the guilt that oozed from every pore. “I am sorry.” he said again, in a tone that told me his decision was final. “Three times I have endured this pain.” I continued as if he had not spoken. “I don’t think I could go through that again.” I paused to make sure I had his attention before allowing my axe to descend, “If I were to fall again, I think I would need to consider an abortion.” Even saying the words left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I had lied of course, as I knew that

I wanted a child, so bad that I would keep trying no matter what the cost. My lie was necessary as I wanted this man, this supposed servant of God to feel the extent of my pain.  “I can not condone that.” he replied simply, “You would be acting against the will of God.” “Why?” I asked, defiantly jutting my chin forward. “Where is the sin, if like you say the child has no soul?” A silence lapsed between us, I could see a rage building in his eyes. And almost smiled for having outfoxed him, but then I remembered I no longer knew how to smile.

 “That’s different. “ he said at last, in a tone that told me this explanation should be enough. It reminded me of the Holy Sisters in convent school telling me it was not my place to question. But I was a bereaved mother, and at that moment it was not only my place to question, but my duty to do so. Too long have women been told what to do, by a church that calls itself the Mother Church, that adores a Virgin Mother, yet does little to ease the daily suffering of women. When I thought about it, why was Eve blamed more than Adam? She hardly held a gun to his head. Why was original sin credited to women, when we all know it takes two to tango, even in the garden of Eden!  “So you’re saying that my child who I saw alive and moving, be it on a screen, had no soul and is not recognized. Yet, another who might not even reach that stage, who might even resemble a raspberry would be awarded more rights and make me a murderer, if I chose to put my sanity first?” I wasn’t sure if he was acting in accordance with church policy but, at that moment I didn’t care. I just wanted out of there. After twenty five years of loyalty, the blinkers were off. Having said my piece,

I turned and walked straight out of the church, not even stopping to anoint myself with Holy water,

swearing never to return.

However, as you most likely know my darling, I didn’t turn my back on God. No, the way I saw it, every organisation has its share of

bad managers, and quite often the man upstairs has no idea of what is going on at the grass roots, why should God be any different?

But I couldn’t be a part of something, so held back by dogmas that it couldn’t see beyond them. I had stood before him a broken woman, a mother with no child to hold, who was lost in grief. He’d fallen back on his own misguided beliefs and hadn’t allowed himself to see that

he was my last hope. The only way I could possibly give my child something, to demonstrate my love. Unknowingly he gave me anger, and anger fueled me forward, so I suppose he did something in the end. And that my sweet girl is why you and your sister have not been baptized, I am sure if we search hard enough we will find the perfect venue for your wedding, that accepts you simply as you are.

You are my miracles, born out of my belief that I would one day hold you. To me you existed from the very first moment that I knew you resided within me. You had ten fingers and toes, a beating heart, and a soul that would be your moral compass. As a mother I have given you love, and freedom not to be tied to any outdated institution. You are a woman now and you are free to choose your own path.


"That one looks like a dragon." Rupert pointed to the lazily drifting cloud. "I don't see a dragon," Steven responded. "I see a rabbit right there." His finger intersected Rupert's. "What are you talking about? That is clearly a dragon." Rupert scooted over closer to his friend and started tracing the shape. "See, there is the body, the open mouth, and it’s even breathing fire." Steven squinted, "OK, I guess I can see that." He started tracing the same shape at a different angle. "See? Here's the body and the ears, and he's eating a little carrot." "OK," Rupert conceded. "That proves that you're crazy." "Says the guys seeing dragons," Steven retorted. "Oh, look at that one! It's a turtle!" Rupert poked at another cloud drifting by. It started contorting immediately. "And now it's a sandwich." Said Steven. "It even has the toothpick and olive." "I guess it is just about lunchtime, huh?" Rupert observed as his belly gurgled. "I told you to pack a picnic." Steven stretched in a sunbeam. “But, nooo, you couldn’t find napkins.” He mocked. "You’re an idiot," Rupert muttered, then, "Where do you want to go to lunch?" "How about that deli with the patio? Their rye bread is amazing." Steven said longingly. "Oh yeah," Rupert's eyes sparkled. "Maybe that girl will be working the counter." "You mean the one you can never talk to?" Steven chided. "You can barely give her your order." "Shut up." Rupert pushed up from his belly. "It's right over there," he pointed down to the ground far below. "Let's go eat." Rupert grabbed his things and fell into a dive from their perch above the clouds. "Hey! Wait up!" Steven crawled to the edge and threw himself out into the sky. They tucked their bodies tight like bullets. The wind slashed and buffeted them. It was exhilarating every time. Once below the clouds, they arched their backs to angle themselves toward the target. The deli was under them now. Locking eyes, they nodded to one another. Simultaneously, the two friends flared their wings and swooped by one another. Rupert, with his white wings, and Steven, with his brown ones. They banked back to one another and started spiraling down to the deli in a tight formation. "Damn it!" Steven called now that the wind shear was lessened, and they could talk. "What's up?" Asked Rupert. "I left my shirt up there." "I bet you left your whole bag up there, didn't you?" Rupert asked suspiciously. "You left so suddenly, I had to catch up," Steven said with wide, innocent eyes. "How many lunches do you owe me now?" "Come on! You wound me.”- Steven held his hands to his chest, gripping the emotional injury- “Friends shouldn't keep tallies like that." "Easy to say when you never pay," Rupert grumbled. Their spiral ended in an alley behind the deli. A shirt hit Steven's face hard. "Hey! I wasn't ready." "You should be happy that I had an extra, and I'm not leaving you out here like a leashed dog," Rupert said as he retracted his wings into his shoulders. He covered his impressive pecs and abs with a shirt that, if anything, accented them more. Steven put his wings away as well. "You carry a gay pride shirt around just for me, don't you?" He asked as he put on an equally form-fitting rainbow shirt. "Makes you a better wingman." Rupert smiled at his friend. They rounded the corner out of the alley onto the sidewalk. The lunch rush was in full swing. The line was to the door. They had to stand there, holding it open. The deli was a neat little shop with bare red brick walls. A few black and white family photos hung. According to the sign above the counter, the place had been family-owned for five generations. The floor was mop-water-colored linoleum. The counter had a quarter dome of glass that showed various meats, cheeses, and bread. All were labeled simplistically. "Ham," "Turkey," "Salami," and so on. There were no complicated subcategories for people to try to wade through. Rupert was less interested in the contents of the counter than the attendant behind it. She was tall, about five-eight. Her red hair blazed and refused to be tamed in the ponytail it had been wrangled into. Strands still wisped about in a halo around her freckled, heart-shaped face. She had deep green eyes, like a forest. She wore an apron that still revealed some curves beneath the grease and flour. She was dazzling. They made it to the front of the line. Those eyes were so close. "What can I get you guys?" Her voice was cheery but brisk. Customer service meets efficiency. Rupert looked like a deer in a headlight. He had just been staring at her and forgotten to be sentient. "Um- Uh. I'd like-" "I'd like a ham and swiss on rye, please." Interrupted Steven. "He usually gets a club on wheat." "I thought I'd seen you guys before." The sandwich girl said, her smile turned genuine. "Do you work together? Is that how you can get lunches at the same time? It’s nice to see couples get lunches together during the week." "Oh," Steven smiled shyly. "We're not a couple." He looked coyly over at Rupert, "He's not into me like that, ya know?" "Oh," Her face reddened like the tomatoes she placed on the sandwiches. "I'm sorry to imply-" "Yes, we do work together.” Rupert spewed out quickly. “We're just good, platonic friends. Not that it would be wrong to be-” "No need to be sorry, dear," Steven cooed. "I wish you were right." He winked. “But I can’t convince him.” Rupert felt his face flush as he stared, gobsmacked, at Steven. The girl smiled a bit awkwardly. “What do you guys do?" "We work with climate control systems," Steven said before Rupert entered the conversation. “It isn't all that glamourous, and we don't get to see nearly as many interesting people as you do." "Yeah, interesting. Like two guys that should be models coming in, but they actually fix A/C units." A crooked smile split her lips as she finished wrapping the sandwiches. “See that?” Steven nudged Rupert with his elbow. “She thinks we’re interesting, isn’t that great?” “I think she’s great,” Rupert said suddenly. The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh?” “She’s great at making sandwiches and conversation, so obviously, she must be great in general.” Steven tried to recover. “I’m Steven, by the way. This is-” “I’m Rupert,” he blurted, awkwardly shooting his hand out at her. She leaned back from the abrupt gesture and scrunched her face, “Mmm, sorry, I can’t.” She held up her hands and wiggled her fingers. “I have the gloves on.” "It's understandable." Said Rupert. He scratched behind his head, embarrassed. Her eyes lingered on the scratching arm and traveled down to where the tail lifted slightly to reveal the last line of his abs. Her brows rose slightly. "My name is Cat.” Her smile returned. “I don't normally do this, but you seem like a nice guy."-she scribbled on a napkin- "Give me a call sometime. I get off at 7:30 every night." Rupert's mouth opened slightly as his arm moved from his head, and he grabbed the napkin. "He means to say thank you, and he'll do that," Steven said as he grabbed his friend by the shoulders and steered him onto the patio. "Thank you," Rupert called back as he put the number in his pocket, too embarrassed to look back at Cat. "You really needed a wingman. I’d say that was worth the lunch." Steven said as he unwrapped his sandwich. They sat and enjoyed their lunch, delighting in the view of the clouds from the ground. "See? Another dragon!" Rupert pointed. "You mean the kitty cat?" Their sandwiches vanished. They both looked at the wrappers with a sense of loss, wishing they had enjoyed the last bite more. "I guess we better get going before they decide to stampede," Rupert said, looking skyward. "Yeah," Steven groaned. They went through the deli to dispose of the refuse and leave a tip in the jar. To Rupert's relief and dismay, Cat was not at the counter. The shop had cleared out. She was probably attending to things in the kitchen or something. They left and turned back into the alley. "You gonna call her?" Steven asked, wiggling his eyebrows. "No." "What?! Why not?" Rupert inhaled deeply, let it out, and then did it again. "Say I call her. We go out and hit it off. I can't marry this girl. ‘'Til death' would only be a thing for her. Or say we go out, and it turns into an all-nighter." "That's the spirit!" Steven encouraged. "We have sex, and I lose my self-control. I could shatter her pelvis!” “That seems a bit unlikely,” Steven retorted. “True,” Rupert allowed. “Or let’s think a little longer term. Something goes wrong, and we end up being the point one percent that birth control fails on; would she have an angel baby?” “You’re catastrophizing.” Rupert takes off his shirt and stows it in his bag. Steven doffs his shirt and hands it to Rupert. "I'm just saying you've coveted her for a while now. Would it be so bad to go to a movie?" Rupert jammed the shirts into his bag, then slung it over his shoulder. "Drop it." "OK, sorry." "We have to go." Rupert rolled his shoulders, and his great white wings extended. "Oh my God!" A gasp slipped from behind him. Rupert turned, casting a gale through the alley, hurling trash, and pinning the interloper to the wall. It was Cat. "Well, shitballs," Steven said eloquently. Rupert rushed closer to block any escape and stood face-to-face with the beautiful woman. "What are you?" She squeaked through wheezes. Rupert gritted his teeth, frustrated with himself. "Angels," he mumbled. "Angels? W-what?! That's impossible." “But it’s true,” Rupert said, his wings flexing. "Yeah, it is," Steven said as he strode over to them. "Except you aren't supposed to know about us." "Why are you here?" She asked, not grasping the gravity of Steven’s comment. "It was a lunch break," Steven explained. "Break from what?" "We are cloud shepherds," said Rupert grim-faced. "What does that mean?" "We heard the clouds around." Steven provided. "If they gather in places they aren't supposed to, we move them. If they need to gather someplace, we get them there." "The wind does that," Cat said. Worry started creeping into her voice as she noticed Rupert’s stony expression. “Oh!” Steven threw up his hands and spun in a slow, dramatic circle. “The wind does that?” His voice cracked. “I guess we can relax, Rupert. The wind does our job. I guess it makes storms too?” “So, like lightning and thunder? That’s you guys, too?” Cat said slowly. “It is,” Rupert said calmly. “The wind is one of our tools.” "I guess that makes sense," Cat repeatedly nodded, fixating on the enormous wings. "As much sense as angels being real. So, what happens now?" "Now," Rupert sighed, stepping back. "We make you forget about all of this." "How?" Her head stopped bobbing, and she looked right at him. "We make your memory foggy." Steven provided cheerily. Cat’s confused expression whipped to Steven, who nodded and wiggled his eyebrows. "Yeah," Rupert slumped, dejected. "We use fog." “Are you fuckin’ serious?” Cat looked between them as a bank of gray fog started boiling in from the back end of the alley. It looked like a wall of smoke but heavier somehow. “What the hell is that?” she stepped away from the menacing mist. Then she looked at Rupert’s solemn face, "Is it going to hurt?" Rupert looked into her eyes softly. "No. You won't feel a thing." "How much am I going to forget?" "Just here in the alley. You'll keep the rest of the day. You'll even remember us in the deli earlier. You'll just think you zoned out while taking out the trash." "So, I'll forget how the hot guy I gave my number to is an angel?" Cat asked tersely. "Yes,” Rupert said, ashamed. “Wait, you think I’m hot?" "Why do you think you got my number? Your wit? Now I'm going to get ghosted." "Holy ghosted,” Steven offered. “If you like." "You are NOT helping," Rupert said with a glare. "Sorry," Steven said, retreating into the background. "Well, I guess if things are going to go that way-" Cat threw her arms around Rupert's neck and kissed him. The kiss was warm and gentle but charged like the hours before a summer storm. Promise and passion were ready to burst in that kiss. Then it burst. Her lips started to part to let her tongue swipe his lips. He sucked in her bottom lip, nibbling a little. His arms pulled her in tightly, conforming her body to his. She tangled her fingers into his dark hair, her leg riding up his. “Ahem,” Steven coughed. “My virgin eyes.” They broke apart, both panting and flushed, floating in mid-air. "Wow," Cat said. "We're missing out." "Yeah," Rupert said, catching his breath and his thoughts. "We are." He looked deep into those gorgeous green eyes and gave her another slow, soft kiss. "Good luck." He said as they lowered into the fog bank. The fog rolled away, leaving a bewildered Cat alone and wondering what she had been doing in the alley. Then she found the trash bag that she had sitting next to her. "I'd lose my head if it weren't attached." She muttered to herself, discarding the refuse. Rupert and Steven had made it back to the perch at that time. Steven punched Rupert's shoulder hard. The thunder was loud enough to scare away some of the closer clouds. "Ow!" Rupert rubbed at his shoulder and glared at his friend. "What the hell was that for?" "Now I can't go back there," Steven grumbled. "She makes the best sandwiches ever. And now, we can't ever go back because you flashed her." Rupert started rolling his now stiff shoulder. "Yes, that’s the big issue here. We memory wiped an innocent girl, but it's a big deal because you miss out on her sandwiches." He rolled his eyes. "She doesn't even know she's missing anything!" Steven cried, throwing his arms up. “What does it hurt her?” Rupert sighed. "That's the whole idea." He stared down toward the deli. Months after forgetting about Rupert and Steven, Cat started researching flight schools. Her father came to join her on the deli patio. "Why are you looking at that, Kitty Cat?" He was the only one allowed to call her that. "Wouldn't you rather put all of that money into a car? Or business college?" "I started thinking, Pop," She looked up from her laptop. "I want to know what it is like to be in the clouds. It looks so peaceful and happy up there all the time. Don’t you wonder what that’s like?" "The clouds? You can see the clouds down here just fine." "I know, Pop, and I still love doing that, but wouldn't flying be exhilarating?" Her eyes were sparkling. The furrow of concern and confusion smoothed from his brow as he looked into her eyes. "If that's what you really want, Kitty Cat, that is what you should do." He took her hand across the table. "But, for now, will you watch the clouds with your old man? From down here?" Cat smiled and sat beside her dad, setting her head on his shoulder. She pointed up in the summer sky. "Doesn't that one look like a dragon?"


Sarah wasn’t sure when she had become such a big worrier. She had always been cautious, but as she approached 30 she had to push herself harder to do anything outside of her comfort zone. It was much easier to stay home and work in the small backyard garden of her townhouse or delve into one of her many crochet projects than to put to herself out there. Sure, she went to parties and events, but not without a million doubts and hesitations running through her head first. She was usually emotionally exhausted before she even left the house.

A paralegal in a family law firm, Sarah spent most of her days doing research in the secluded law library or sitting at her computer compiling information on one of the many adoption, divorce or child custody cases she worked on.  She was privy to her clients’ most agonizing and their most joyful moments.  In her line of work, one person’s happiness was often at the expense of someone else’s misery.  Decisions had consequences, and somebody always got hurt.

Outside of work, she had a few friends she met through yoga classes, some college girls she saw occasionally,  and then there was Jamie, who she had known since childhood. Her best friend was everything she wasn’t – adventurous, social and confident.  At least that’s how Sarah saw her. She leaned back in her kitchen chair, took a sip of coffee and opened the newspaper. There was that ad she’d been seeing every day, the one that seemed to challenge her.

Get your scuba diving certification and explore the fantastic world of beauty and mystery that’s just below the water’s surface. It was one of those things that sounded both heavenly and terrifying at the same time. She could picture the peacefulness of gliding through the water weightless, the only sound her own breathing as she explored a vibrant new world. But she felt queasy at the idea of taking those first steps. What if she felt claustrophobic or panicked? Could she drown or get bitten by a shark? She wasn’t sure what to think. Maybe she would mention it to Jamie. They always talked about doing something new and different together, but it never happened. Maybe this time, they would finally take the leap. *** “Fasten your seatbelts and put your seats back in their upright position as the captain prepares for landing,” Jamie said into the microphone. She watched as rows of heads looked up from their phones and kindles at the sound of her voice. “We’ll be on the ground in 15 minutes.” She walked up and down the aisles, collecting used cups and napkins, reminding people to stow their carry-ons and making sure the cabin was ready for the descent into Baltimore, which was home for her. She thought of the leftover vegetable chili she had in the fridge, the TV shows she had recorded to binge during her three days off and, most of all, her comfortable bed. Even though Jamie travelled around the country, she didn’t feel like an adventurous person. She worked in a small and confined space, with a predictable and repetitious routine.  She was responsible for keeping her passengers comfortable and safe as they flew through the atmosphere at up to 550 miles per hour. It sounded remarkable, but in truth her job wasn’t rocket science. She tended to fly to the same five or six cities, and she was usually back in time for dinner or the evening news. While the faces of the passengers changed every day, she encountered the same personalities on every flight – the flirtatious businessman, the needy older couple, the high-strung mom travelling with her kids. And that inevitability  brought a comfort and security to her days that made Jamie feel content.

On her days off she spent hours at the ceramics studio. Molding clay gave her the same focused feeling as being in flight. It was her passion and her therapy. She also savored spending time with her best friend Sarah. She loved hearing stories about Sarah’s law firm, a far cry from the tightly regulated world of the fuselage. She knew that Sarah admired her, but the truth was, Sarah was the one who deserved admiration. They were both guarded, but she was more open to change. Sarah was always suggesting they take exotic trips or dance lessons or volunteer to work with children in need, but Jamie could never make the commitment. She made excuses about her busy work schedule to hide her own fear and insecurity of trying something new. *** Sarah opened the paper the next morning as she sipped coffee before work, and there was that ad again. “ Get your Scuba Diving Certification in four weekend sessions and then sign up for one of our amazing trips, where you can dive, take photos and experience a once-in-a-lifetime underwater adventure. ” It was insane to think she would consider doing something like this. Last fall she had talked about taking dance lessons and the summer before she had looked into volunteering to work with disabled children, but she never followed through. She was having dinner with Jamie tonight. She vowed she would learn more about this scuba school and talk to her friend about it before she lost her nerve. *** Jamie stayed in bed until almost 10:00 Thursday morning. She normally got up early, but she was feeling down today and didn’t even want to go to the ceramics studio. She had looked forward to these three days off. She couldn’t wait to get home last night. But somehow the house felt too quiet, and she found herself longing to be back on the plane listening to the comforting buzz of conversation around her. Yesterday, a nice older man had told her all about his visit with his grandkids – and she had helped a mom settle her infant who had cried all through take off. She often thought of the people she met on her flights, but she was sure they never thought of her after they left the plane. The idea made her feel small and lonely. She dragged herself out of bed to run a few errands, and later she was meeting Sarah at their favorite Italian restaurant. That was something to look forward to. *** Sarah arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early to be sure she could grab their favorite back booth. During her down time at work, she had researched the scuba place, and printed out schedules and descriptions. She wanted Jamie to know she was serious this time – that she was ready to sign on the dotted line as long as her friend was up for it as well.  She was ready to do something outside of her comfort zone … wasn’t she? She waved when she saw Jamie headed toward the table. She noticed her friend looked tired, her eyes puffy and her hair not in the usual perfect bun she wore even when she wasn’t scheduled to work. Maybe it wasn’t the right day to talk about scuba lessons, or maybe it was the perfect day. ‘Hey girlfriend,” Sarah said as her friend approached. “Hey Sarah,” Jamie said, sliding easily into her side of the bench seat.

“You okay?” Sarah eyed her friend.

“Yeah, I’m just tired today. I’m not sure why.” “Maybe it’s the jetlag from travelling to Las Vegas and Denver this week. You flew across the country three times while I barely left my desk.” Their favorite waiter Tony came over and they ordered two glasses of merlot and the fried calamari appetizer they always shared. They would munch on that for a while, and then each order their favorite pasta entree.

Jamie usually told Sarah stories about her trips, or the passengers she met that week, but she wasn’t in the mood. “I was in both those places, but I never saw the outside of the airport.” “Maybe not this week, but remember last week you went to that amazing new restaurant in Miami with the crew?” “It is fun to explore the places we fly to sometimes, but Sarah, my job is not as exciting as you make it out to be. Most of my days are just spent walking up and down the aisles of the plane, pouring drinks and distributing snacks.  It’s my passengers who have the exciting life. I’m just helping them get to their destinations.” “That doesn’t sound much different from my job,” Sarah said. Jamie looked up at her friend, just as Tony brought over their wine. She thanked him and  wrapped her fingers around the stem of her glass. “Okay, what in the world are you talking about?” “Maybe you’re just helping people as they go from one place to another, but so am I. You think my job is so important, but I spend most of the day sitting at my desk filling out papers so other people can move on with their lives. I’m living through them, following their ups and downs, but not really experiencing any of it myself. Jamie took a long sip of her wine. “But you have a graduate degree,” she finally said. “You’re incredibly smart and you work around other smart people. I help serve coffee and tea.” “And I help serve papers,” Sarah laughed. “I really like my job, and I’m good at it, but it’s not like I’m changing the world.” “Sorry to interrupt,” Tony said, putting a platter down between them. “I have your favorite, and I made sure they were extra crispy.” He winked and walked away. Jamie laughed. “We’re both really good at our jobs, but we’re also both creatures of habit.” Sarah picked up a fried ring of calamari and popped it in her mouth. “I know, but these are so good.” Jamie nodded in agreement. “Definitely, but we both need something new in our lives.” “I agree” Sarah said. “But I always worry about what could go wrong. It’s so much safer not to risk trying something new.” “And for me, it’s just familiar routines. That’s what I like about being a flight attendant. Every flight has the same tightly controlled protocols. But sometimes when I get home, I don’t know how to enjoy having free time. I seek out the same regulated life I have at work, and that’s not good.” “Maybe that’s why we never actually do any of the things we talk about,” Sarah said. “We’re each depending on the other one to say yes, but instead we both make excuses.” “I think you’re right, but what do we do about it?” “Well,” Sarah said, pulling the papers out of her handbag. “I was thinking we could do this.” “Scuba diving? You must be out of your mind. I think we need to start with something small,” Jamie said, her head still shaking as she scanned the sheets.

No, I think we need to start with something big,” Sarah said. “And I can promise you, I’m more terrified than you are, but I think I’m ready to do this.” Jamie read through the sheet. “Okay, it sounds like they walk you through every step, and you practice in a swimming pool, so that’s not too bad.” “They’re not going to throw you into the ocean the first time,” Sarah said. “And when you finish, you don’t have to take one of their suggested trips unless you’re ready.” “But if we get our certifications, we really should take one of their trips. I could use my travel discounts, and we can go someplace really amazing.” “Sounds terrifying – and perfect,” Sarah said.

“Which part?” Jamie asked. “All of it,” Sarah admitted. “The idea of signing up, the idea of putting a mask on my face and breathing under water, and definitely the idea of doing it in the ocean.” “So why do you want to do it then?” Jamie asked, leaning in toward her friend. “Because if I don’t, and things just go on the way they are now, I’m going to look back one day and wish I had. I’m going to be sorry I let the worry get in the way of making the most of my life. What about you? Why do you want to do it? “Hey, I haven’t said I want to yet,” Jamie said, but she looked much happier than she had just a few minutes earlier. “I guess I’m tired of feeling like my whole life is about watching other people have experiences and living my life through them. Sometimes when they share stories or photos with me, in that moment I feel so energized, but the feeling doesn’t last because I’m not the one taking the risk and putting myself out there.” “So, you’re saying you do want to sign up for scuba lessons, or at least a part of you does?” “Is this crazy?” “Yes, no -- I have no idea. But it could be fun, and whatever happens, whether we make it through the course or not, it will give us our own stories to tell.” “Okay, let’s go for it. If we can start next month, I’ll have time to adjust my schedule to make sure I’m off on Saturdays. I’m always accommodating the other crew members. I’m sure they’ll be happy to do the same for me.” “Okay, then, we’re really doing this. I’ll send you the form, and we can sign up tonight when we get home,” Sarah said. “Good idea, by tomorrow I’ll probably change my mind.” “Then definitely tonight, and we’ll still have a few weeks to get prepared.” The girls clinked glasses and made a silent promise to each other. They were going to try something new together and it was going to be fine, maybe even great. “So,” Tony interrupted, “What can I get you ladies for your main course this evening. Will it be the usual?” “No, not tonight,” Sarah said. “Can you give us a few minutes to review the menu” “But before you go, can you tell us about the specials for this evening?” Jamie asked. Tony nodded, his eyes shining. “So, we’re finally going to switch things up? That’s good. He handed them a sheet with the daily specials. “They’re all amazing, so whatever you pick, you can be sure you made a good choice.”

“I guess even Tony knows you have to try something new every once in a while,” Sarah said.

“Yes, I think so,” Jamie agreed. “He knows us better than I realized.” Both girls studied the menu in search of something they’d never tried before. It was a small change, but a step in the right direction.


*Disclaimer - this story contains sexual themes and graphic descriptions of violence. Churches are strange places. The Church of St. Augustine’s in the small village of Ramswick-on-Tye was one of the few churches that hung onto its Norman origins. It had beautiful ornate stained glass windows, hand carved pews and a golden lectern that would make the pope green with envy.

One Saturday morning, after the completion of Mass, Father Luke was praying quietly at the altar when he heard the heavy wooden doors swing open. He ended his prayer quickly and stood. Stood in the entrance was a young man that Father Luke guessed was close to twenty one.

“Good morning my son” Father Luke spoke warmly “How can I help you?”

“I need to talk to you Father” the young man replied. He was on edge. “I mean…I need to confess”. “Then let us not waste any time” Father Luke indicated towards the confessional. It was an ornately carved confessional with the faces of cherubim in the doors.

“Bless me father, I have sinned. It has been sixteen months since my last confession” the young man replied after entering the confessional.

“Tell me all that currently separates you from God’s glory and love” Father Luke replied “Let’s start with your name first”. “My name is Jonah Wallis” he responded “I’ve not long turned 21 and I have done something terrible father”. “Calm yourself Jonah” the father comforted “Just start from the beginning. What sin are you confessing?”

“Sins” Jonah clarified “The first is the sin of adultery and the other is the sin of murder”.

There was a silence. Father Luke had heard many confessions in his years, but never one of murder. “Go on, my son” Father Luke finally spoke.

“Well, it started when I met this woman. She was the wife of my brother’s teacher, Mr Elgin” Jonah began “I was stunned by her beauty and began to think about her often”. “There is no harm in thinking about people, or even being stunned by the beauty. Providing you didn’t…” “My thoughts affected everything I did father” Jonah interjected “I imagined how good she would look…” “I get the image” Father Luke interjected “So you had desires for Mrs Elgin?” “So I work at the local post office behind the counter, and one morning she walks in, looking like a Hollywood glamour girl. She puts her letters on the counter and asks for them to be posted”. Father Luke tries to picture Mrs Elgin. The mental image he has corresponds with the one that so infatuated Jonah.

“Go on my son”. “So, I start talking to her, about anything. She finds my jokes funny and even invites me to join her on my lunch break”. “She tempted you?” Father Luke was surprised. “She took her lunch at the same time I do. She works for old Mr McGuinness at the bank” Jonah replied “So, we go down to the river and eat our lunch. As we talk, she kisses me. I then kiss her back”.

“Oh my dear boy!” Father Luke exclaimed “How far did you go?”

“To the point where I ended up meeting her after work and using my spare change to book us a room in a hotel to meet”. Father Luke was blushing. All his years in the clergy had made him come into contact with all the forms of the physical sin, but Jonah’s were proving a struggle. “Go on my son” he replied. “One day Renee, I mean, Mrs Elgin arrives late” Jonah started to sound worried “She said that Mr Elgin was suspecting that there was something going on. He’d found the broach I’d bought for her”. “Oh dear” Father Luke remarked. “She said that we needed to be careful. Mr Elgin had a violent temper and would likely attack me on sight if he knew I was sleeping with her” Jonah sighed “So after we had made love, Mrs Elgin suggested that we meet every two weeks until her husband’s suspicions had died down. I told her that I couldn’t last without her”.

Father Luke soon became aware of footsteps in the main church. The clacking of high heels suggested it was a woman.

“I may have another confession to take shortly my son” Father Luke spoke softly “But I’ll wait until you’ve finished”. “So she said that I should come to their house that evening when her husband went out to play cards with his friends. I snuck into the house and we made love in every room. It was magical. But…” “He returned early?” Father Luke guessed.

“Yes. I was terrified” Jonah stated, conscious of his breathless state “So I hid in the wardrobe. She dressed quickly and sprayed her perfume to disguise my cologne. He entered the house and I heard a scuffle. I snuck out and watched him raise his hands to her. I acted out of impulse. There were a pair of scissors on the dressing table. I rushed up behind him and without thinking, plunged them into his back. He toppled over the banister and landed in the hallway. I wish to God there was a way I could wind the clock back". He began to weep. "I wish that I'd never done this!" Father Luke was speechless. Here was a young man he’d known as the village’s faithful post office worker, reduced to a sex-driven murderer.

“Your sins are grave my son. But say eight hail Mary’s, six our Father’s and go around the rosary for every time you indulged in the sin of the flesh. Then get from my sight”.

“Thank you father” Jonah whimpered. He left the box and walked out into the main church. Father Luke was saying a quiet prayer to himself when he heard Jonah having a conversation with a woman. He left the confessional only to find Jonah stood with a woman wearing a black veiled hat and a shapely black dress.

“Mrs Elgin?” Father Luke asked. Jonah turned to face Father Luke, and sure enough Mrs Elgin was stood there. The Black Widow herself. Father Luke offered a comforting smile. “My deepest condolences”. “Thank you father” she replied “I was just being comforted by Mr Wallis here”.

“How can I help you?” Father Luke asked. “I need to make a confession” she replied, as she walked past Jonah Wallis, she gave his bottom a pinch. “It’s a very terrible sin I’m going to commit”.

“Going to commit?”

Father Luke hadn’t banked on what was going to happen next. Mrs Elgin had a small black handbag on her left arm. She opened it and retrieved a small calibre pistol. She pointed it at Father Luke and without a second’s hesitation, pulled the trigger.

As Father Luke lay on the floor, bleeding out. Mrs Elgin walked over to Jonah Wallis and they kissed.

“You were wonderful darling” she purred at him “We’ll definitely get away with it now”. “What do we do with the body?” Jonah asked. “I’ve already contacted my cousin in London to raid the church to make it look like a robbery gone wrong”. “I love how you think of everything” Jonah kissed her again. As they walked out into the sunshine, Jonah realised that he was at peace. Something about confession was…refreshing.


The Woods Are Lovely Dark and Deep – But Don’t Go Into Them by April Knight A large sign was posted at the entrance to the Pioneer Nature Trail reading “CAUTION! Enter woods at your own risk. Not responsible for accidents, injuries or death.” Lavender wasn’t concerned about the warning. She was wearing a new purple jogging suit and had new sneakers with purple laces. She had a fanny pack with a bottle of water, a granola bar, her car keys and her driver’s license. She was stretching and running in place to prepare herself for the Silver Sneakers 5K cross country run. She had gained ten pounds over the winter and decided being a volunteer partner for one of the seniors in the race would be a good start to getting back into shape. Most of the seniors were sixty or over and the volunteers to be their partners were in their twenties and thirties. The volunteers were not competing in the race, they were only there for moral support and to carry water bottles and to provide help if any of the seniors were injured or too tired to finish the race. Lavender noticed a nice looking man wearing a T-shirt with a computer logo on it, he definitely looked like a computer nerd but he did have beautiful blue eyes. His name tag said Joe. The cross country race was through rugged, forest land, there were no paths to follow, just yellow flags placed to mark the course. There were bushes, fallen trees, two shallow creeks to cross and the finish line was at the top of a steep hill. It would have been challenging for a Marine. The seniors and the volunteers were paired off by the numbers on their name tags. Lavender’s running partner was a small, thin woman with snow white hair who was wearing a pink shirt that said “Cancer Survivor.” “My name is June,” the woman said, “I hope you can keep up with me.” “I’ll do my best. Good Luck,” Lavender smiled and admired June’s courage for entering the race and hoped June could at least make the first mile, the seniors got credit for each mile they completed even if they didn’t cross the finish line. There were fifty volunteer and fifty seniors standing at the starting line, Lavender saw Joe standing next to a thin man with white hair. He smiled at her and she gave him a smile and a “thumbs up.” The horn went off and one hundred people headed into the dense, overgrown forest. June took off running like a rabbit and jumped over a log. Lavender didn’t think she could jump over the log and climbed over it. Lavender lost seconds and June was leaping over bushes. Lavender put her head down and ran as fast as she could and didn’t see a low hanging limb until it slapped her in the face. She ran through a small stream getting her new sneakers muddy and her purple shoe laces were now soaking wet. She ran as fast as she could after June but the pink T-shirt had disappeared into the crowd of runners. Lavender ran a little farther but she was gasping for breath and her side hurt. There was no way she could catch June. She held her side and walked a little farther and found Joe sitting on a log drinking his bottle of water. “I lost my partner,” Lavender puffed. “I can’t believe it, she was jumping through the woods like a deer. I couldn’t keep up.” “Don’t feel bad. I was partners with a seventy-year old accountant. I couldn’t keep up with him. I’m embarrassed, I feel like my manhood is threatened. By the way, you have a beautiful name.” he read her name tag. “It suits you.” “Thank you,” she said, feeling a little better. “My partner was a sixty year old cancer survivor, she left me in the dust.” “Seniors aren’t what they used to be. My grandmother knitted, baked and spent most of her time in her recliner watching TV. In my wildest dreams I can’t picture her leaping through the woods,” Joe said. “I guess things have changed,” Lavender laughed. “I didn’t know I was so out of shape,” Joe said. “I spend about twelve hours a day sitting at a computer, I eat junk food and I joined a gym and went one time.” “I bought a treadmill and used it for a week. Now I hang my laundry on it,” she laughed. “I’ve got to lose some weight and get in shape or I’ll never make it to seventy,” he said. “Me too. This was definitely a wake up call,” she said. “Shall we do the walk of shame back to the starting line?” he asked. “I wonder if there will be any other volunteers laying the path,” she sighed and stood up. “I’m sure there will be, we can’t be the only two people who couldn’t keep up,” he said. Joe was right. There four volunteers sitting at the starting line looking tired and embarrassed. “Are you going to volunteer again?” she asked. “Well, I might volunteer but not for a race, or any athletic event, or anything that threatens my manhood and causes me to lose face. I would be willing to write a check and make a donation,” he said. “How about you?” “No, I’m done. That was a wake up call for me. Those seniors are too tough for me,” she admitted. “I’m going to start walking in the park for an hour every day. As soon as I get off work, I’m going straight to the park.” “If you’d like some company, I’d be honored to join you,” Joe said. She looked at his blue eyes and his smile. “That would be nice, it’s easier to train if you have a partner to motivate you,” she said “I’ll be at the front gate at 5:15 tomorrow afternoon.” The next day Joe met Lavender at the park and they started their walk. When she saw him her heart started beating faster. “By the way, your partner, June, came in second, yesterday and my partner came in seventh,” he laughed. “Good for them,” she said. “I’m glad you showed up today. I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t come.” “I’d walk a thousand miles to spend time with you and get to know you better,” Joe said. “A thousand miles?” she smiled. “One mile at a time,” he said. End


The umbrella in our yard was bright pink and had a giant slice torn out of it the morning I went to the porch after the rains had hit our town. I recalled my mother had bought the umbrella at an estate sale for around three dollars; how excited she was to bring it home and plant it on our back porch. Well. Now it was in tatters, not unlike the rest of the yard, which had flooded last night in the storms. I didn’t want to tell my mother her prized umbrella was broken now, but she would notice soon enough. She managed to notice everything. I walked closer to inspect the damage. What caught my eye, though, wasn’t the brightness of the umbrella or the large gash breaking it down the middle, but instead a little green bug wrapped around the base of the pole. It was a caterpillar.

I thought about throwing it off the porch because my parents would be mad if it got to the porch garden and chewed through the leaves, but the thought better of it. What did the caterpillar ever do to us, huh? Instead of flicking the tiny fiend, I let it crawl up my arm.

“I think I can find a jar for you, buddy.” I said as I walked into the kitchen and, as expected, found a jar for the caterpillar. Luckily for me, I had been to kindergarten so I did know how to raise the bug. Give it some sugar water, let it make a cocoon thing, release it when it was a beautiful butterfly. Easy, easy, so easy. Right?

Well, as it turned out, the only easy part of raising this butterfly was getting it off the umbrella pole, because the next morning when I looked at the jar, there wasn’t a caterpillar there at all, but instead a nasty, glinty eyed mini dwarf. It was sitting on a broken stick I put in the jar and staring up at me through deep black eyes. I backed up and hit the back of my shins on the bed behind me.

“Are you a mini dwarf?” I asked it, and then I realized that the lid was still on the jar. I unscrewed the lid and peered in. “Are you a mini dwarf?” I asked it again.

“No, I’m the queen of England.”

“Um, really? The last time I checked she wasn’t two inches tall.”

The mini dwarf leapt off his seat and kicked the glass wall. “Well, the last time I checked, I didn’t ask you for these accommodations, buddy!”

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what to say. I thought I was helping, honestly. But this little mini dwarf, this little beady eyed freak, was absolutely livid with me and I knew what guys like him could do to humans. Especially me. “I didn’t mean to capture you. I thought you were a caterpillar.” “You were wrong.” “Yeah, I know that now, thanks for the reminder.” I peered deeper into the jar. The mini dwarf had a shock of blue hair and an orange beard. He reminded me of a fruit snack, only harder to get along with. “What’s your name, and then I’ll let you go.”

“What’s your name?”

“Phillop.” It’s a lame variation of the Phillip because my parents tried to be original and just made me sound like a moron every time I said my name. What kind of accent is that, people would ask me, and I’d have to explain that I wasn’t from anywhere exciting, just the small town of Drixmin, and they’d laugh and laugh.

“That’s a stupid name, Phillop. I have a much, much better name than you do.” “Is it Shrek?” The mini dwarf didn’t appreciate that comment. “Nooo, Shrek is an ogre and I am a mini dwarf of the blue and orange beard variety and my name is Marmalade.” “Um.” Marmalade scoffed. “You don’t like that name? Too bad because now that I know your name, I am your ruler.” Oh.

Fae.

“I don’t think that means you rule me. Maybe I owe you something, like a coupon for three in one shampoo, or my firstborn child…” Marmalade chucked at this. “You’re never going to have children, Phillop, and if you did, they wouldn’t be very attractive.” That was rude, but probably true. “I don’t want your firstborn child and the only three in one shampoo I can use is available only at the Fae Walmart of Vancouver.”

“What do you want, then, man?”

“Don’t call me man.” Marmalade crossed his arms. “I think that you should have to come with me on my next trip.”

This worried me. What kind of trip would a little bitty mini dwarf have to go on? Was his travel insurance printed out on the backs of fun sized chocolate bars? “I don’t know about this. It was an accident, you know, me capturing you. If you had been a caterpillar I would have let you go as soon as you were a butterfly. Plus, you were disguised as a bug. How was I supposed to know you were a member of the fae?” “What kind of caterpillar is blue and orange, Phillop?” “A neat one? I don’t know! But I have school.” I did have school. Not that I liked it all that much, but I’d like summer school even less. “I have a family!” I had a family that was never home, but surely they’d miss me if I was gone. “I have friends.” I had two people I sat at lunch with that would be upset if I wasn’t there to share my egg salad with. “And…” this was my crowning glory, “I have a girl friend.” That was true. Kind of.

“Sure you do, Phil. I think you should pack up your bag and we can get a move on my nightfall. See, when I said I wanted you to come on a trip with me, I meant my vacation to the leprechaun realm. They’re having a fantastic party that I would hate to miss.” “Um, what do you need me for, then?” “Human sacrifices do spectacularly at the buffet table.” My eyes widened. “Nope.” I swallowed hard and sat back down on the bed. “I really don’t like that plan.” “I didn’t think you’d be thrilled.” Marmalade ran his hands through his beard. “But it must be done if you want to pay off your debt.” “ Dude, if I am being used as a human sacrifice at a fae buffet table, why does it matter if I pay my debt off or not?” “You know, there is another option. You won’t like it any better though.”

“No, no. Tell me what it is. It could work. Anything is better than this option, honestly.”

Marmalade nodded smugly. “Alright.” He rubbed his hands together malevolently. “I’ll take your girlfriend instead.” “Wait, no.” That wouldn’t work either. That definitely, definitely wouldn’t work. Where was the wiggle room with this deal? “It’s either me or her?” Marmalade picked his teeth with his dirty nails and shrugged. “Yeah, that’s the deal.” “Well, that is a terrible deal.”

“She’s not really your girlfriend though.” This was correct. Sabine Monte was not technically my girlfriend. In fact, she was nobody's girlfriend. In fact fact, she wasn’t even alive and had never been alive to begin with. I made her up at a party in eighth grade when I spun the bottle and landed on the unibrowed, tuna breathed Tina Lard. I panicked and said Sabine, my very real, very not imaginary girlfriend, would kill me if I kissed Tina. It got me out of that trouble, but now I was in some more trouble and it involved me being a human sacrifice.

“Yes, she is!” This could maybe work. “Sabine is my girlfriend and she’s real and she would be happy to join you for you leprechaun party but she’s so smart, she would make it out of there alive. I dare you,” I stood up again and pointed at the glass jar, “I dare you to try and keep her for your ridiculous, not to mention inhumane, buffet table.” “I accept your challenge, young human.”

Craaaaaaaapola.

“Fine. I’ll call her.” I picked up my phone from the bedside table and scrolled through my contact list looking for some girl unfortunate enough to have my number. As I scrolled through the short list, I caught a glimpse of my pasty face in the phone’s backlight. I looked like a toad. A fat, bloated, contaminated by chemicals in the lake toad. Grooossss. I clicked further down my phone list. There was someone I could call… but considering this was the girl who I had refused to kiss in eighth grade, she probably wouldn’t be happy to hear from me. Tina Lard. I changed her contact name to Sabine Monte (girlfriend) and showed the screen to Marmalade. “Here she is.” Her contact picture was one of Natalie Portman, but chances were Marmalade had no idea who she was, so in his book she could be Sabine Monte. This was my first mistake, because if Tina Lard showed up to the leprechaun party, she would most certainly not look like Natalie Portman, right? Righttt.

“Call her.”

I gave the mini dwarf a thumbs up and called Tina. The phone rang twice and then a voice answered. It sounded different, but for sure it was Tina. Maybe she’d had her braces taken off or something. That was another one of the reasons I hadn’t wanted to kiss her; because I had braces too and I had always bought into the myth that if two people with braces kissed, well, they’d be stuck together forever and all of eternity, which didn’t seem like a terrific fate for me. “Who’s this? I don’t have the number saved.”

“Oh, hey, Sabine.” “Sorry, wrong number, my name’s Tina.” “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s a great name. This is me, um, your boyfriend, um, Phillop. I know after our last argument we’ve been on the rocks, but I need you. You’re smart, you can get through this. Come over, please?” “Are you crazy? I haven’t talked to you in like three years! I don’t know you anymore. I’m not coming to your house.”

“Please? I need you.” This was getting awkward… “I need you to come to my house. There’s an issue.” “What kind of issue?” “A fae issue!”

“Oh.” “Yeah, oh. So can you help me? You’re the smartest person I know and I think you’re the only one who can help me get out of this. Please?” “I’m not doing anything else so I guess I’ll be there in five minutes.” “You live really close by?” “Nope, I can teleport. Yes, I live close by. See you soon, weirdo.” Who was she calling a weirdo? Last time I talked to her she was the one who was extraordinarily strange. She cosplayed as a toaster for the fifth grade cosplay ball!

“She’s on her way, Marmalade.” “Good luck… Phillop.” I glared at the non caterpillar. “You’re mean.” “No kidding! I thought I was akin to the Easter Bunny! ” The doorbell rang. Tina Lard had arrived.

“You’d better go get that, stud.” Marmalade grinned from his jar. He picked up the bottle cap of sugar water and threw it back like he was at a little tiny fae frat party. I ran down the stairs and opened the door, but Tina Lard wasn’t there.

Instead she had been replaced by… by someone else who sounded like Tina had on the phone, but had two whole separate eyebrows and, considering she was on my doorstep, she was close enough to me that I could tell her breath didn’t smell like tuna anymore. She looked like a whole different Tina Lard. Was it possible there were two Tina Lard’s in the county? No? Maybe? Or. Was it just true that the ugly duckling made the most beautiful swans?

“What did you get yourself into now?” “I thought a mini dwarf was a caterpillar and I captured it and now it wants to take me to a leprechaun party as a… as, um, a human sacrifice.” Tina Lard scowled. “You want me to be the human sacrifice?” “Not at all! I know you’re smart enough to not be a human sacrifice!”

Tina crossed her arms in front of her chest. “This seems like a trick.” “It’s not a trick, I promise!” I lowered my voice. “Look, I can show you the mini dwarf, he’s upstairs in a glass drawer.”

Tina resolved to step inside, but as she did she tripped and held out her hand.

I grabbed it to stop her from falling and… Tina Lard’s wings sprouted from her back, orange and blue as a monarch butterfly. Seems that now I owed favor’s to two fae, not just one.

A name and a hand had become my chain and ball.


Ten-year-old Hamesh sat at a table in his grandmother Bibi’s kitchen. He was reading one of Bibi’s books on magic, a subject Hamesh’s parents never allowed him to discuss while he was home. “Bibi is a powerful and wise sorceress,” they told him, “but her power comes from the Old World, which even she knows is dying. There is a reason she did not teach magic to her children.” Bibi didn’t teach magic to Hamesh either, but she did let him read her tomes and patiently answered his questions. He knew never to tell his parents about what he learned during his visits to Bibi’s cottage in the enchanted forest, but this silence with his parents was worth the treasure of the times he spent with his grandmother. Bibi, who always looked much livelier in her cottage than she did when visiting Hamesh’s home, was preparing dinner at the oven while Hamesh read. He was reading about a rare lizard whose scales could be used to fashion impenetrable armor when heard a wooden spoon clatter on the floor. “Bibi!” Hamesh cried, dropping his book and racing to his fallen grandmother. The old woman clutched her chest. “I must rest,” she whispered as Hamesh led her to the bedroom. “I’ll run to town and get a doctor,” Hamesh said after he put her to bed. “No,” she commanded. “I know what sickness ails me, and it can’t be healed by any human medicine. There is only one cure – you must find moldunberries in the forest.” “Moldunberries,” Hamesh whispered. Earlier that evening he had read about the miraculous healing properties of these berries. “Where do I find them?” The old woman shook her head. “I have seen moldunberries in this forest so I know there must be a bush somewhere, but I’ve never found it. Only the woodland creatures know where it is, and they are too scared of my power to reveal their secrets to me. But you… yes, you.” Bibi smiled at Hamesh. “They won’t be afraid of a small boy like you. You must convince them to tell you where to find the moldunberry bush.” “How could I do that?” Hamesh asked. His grandmother’s books hadn’t told him how to talk with animals. “It’s impossible!” “You’ve been listening to your parents too long,” the old woman said as she patted Hamesh on the head. “Listen to the voices of the woodland creatures and allow them to speak. The words will come to you.” Bibi shuddered and pulled the blankets up to her chin. “You must go, now. Find the moldunberries, before it is too late for me.” The boy stepped back from the bed, afraid yet somehow certain his grandmother was correct. Had he not read about wonderous powers in her tomes? Learned about potions that could give strength to the feeble and speed to the halt? Spells that could allow men to fly like birds or swim with dolphins? Herbs and roots that could make men fall in love or heal a broken heart? If Bibi could do all the things in this book, as Hamesh’s parents had attested, why should he doubt her if she believed Hamesh could accomplish this task? Taking a pouch from the kitchen, Hamesh went into the forest. He walked until he came to the log of a fallen tree, the top portion scarred by a lightning strike during a storm the previous night. On top of the log was a squirrel, running down one end to the other. On hearing Hamesh approach the squirrel turned to the boy and chittered loudly, but did not run. Hamesh stopped and closed his eyes. He remembered from his grandmother’s book that each creature in the woods had a secret name. He then began to chant: Squirrel, master of tall trees, tell me your name, so that I may speak with you “I am Scurry,” the squirrel told him. “And who are you?” “I am a boy who seeks to cure his sick grandmother. She needs moldunberries, but I don’t know where to find the bush that bears them. Do you know where I can find it?” “I would help you,” replied Scurry, “but I must help my family. We had been storing nuts in a drey on one of this tree’s branches before the tree was struck by lightning last night. My family and I were able to escape, but when the tree fell it landed on top of our drey. Our food is now gone, and we must find more before we perish.” The boy looked at the fallen tree. One of its branches had broken off during its collapse and lay nearby on the forest floor. One end of the branch had split into a jagged point, resembling a spear. “Scurry, I can help you recover your family’s store of nuts from under this tree.” “Impossible!” cried Scurry. “The strongest man in the world couldn’t move this tree on his own, much less a boy like you!” “I shall move this tree,” said Hamesh, “and then you shall tell me how to find the moldunberry bush.” The boy lifted the branch, carrying it to the fallen tree. He then dug the spear-pointed end of the branch deep into the dirt beneath the log and pressed his shoulder into the underside of the branch’s other end. Pushing forward, the boy used the branch as a lever that rolled the fallen tree aside. “The drey!” exclaimed Scurry. “And my family’s store of nuts! You have saved us, boy.” “And I must now save my grandmother. Tell me, Scurry, where to find the berries.” “I will tell you,” said Scurry, “though I wish I had better news for you. The moldunberry bush is guarded by a bear who will slay anyone who enters his lair. Turn around, boy, for your grandmother is doomed, as you shall surely be if you continue this foolish quest.” “I can’t let my grandmother die,” Hamesh protested. “There must be some way to get to the bush without being killed by the bear.” Scurry thought a moment. “I’ve heard that the rabbits in the fields adjoining these woods can grab moldunberries from the bush without being captured by the bear. Go seek them.” Hamesh thanked Scurry for his help, then ran off. Hamesh then came onto a large meadow, where he found a colony of rabbits. All but one turned and fled into the high grass as Hamesh approached. The boy stopped and chanted: Rabbit, master of broad fields, tell me your name, so that I may speak with you “I am Burrow,” the rabbit told him. “And who are you?” “I am a boy who needs to steal moldunberries from the bear so that I can heal my grandmother’s sickness. But I don’t know where to find the bear, or how to stop him from killing me.” “Even if I told you our secret, it would do you no good,” Burrow replied indignantly. “Only we rabbits are able to defeat the bear.” “If I beat you in a footrace, will you tell me?” “Impossible!” said Burrow. “The fastest man in the world can’t outrace me, much less a boy like you!” “I shall beat you to the river,” said Hamesh, “and then you shall tell me how to defeat the bear.” With a laugh, Burrow raced ahead of Hamesh. Both Burrow and Hamesh knew the fastest way to the river was through the woods, but the trees that had fallen during the storm blocked Burrow’s path. The rabbit was delayed as it had to go around, climb over, or slither under the obstacles. The boy, on the other hand, was able to leap between the fallen logs without once breaking his stride. When he reached the river he turned and balled his fists into his hip, waiting for Burrow to arrive. “You are a swift lad, and clever,” Burrow said. “But you lack the speed and wit to defeat the bear.” “But I must save my grandmother,” Hamesh demanded. “Tell me, Burrow, how you defeat the bear.” “The bear is fast and powerful, but not smart,” Burrow explained. “My people force him to chase us, and we struggle to stay outside the reach of his terrible claws. Fortunately, we are small and difficult to catch, and the bear’s strength eventually fails him. He then naps, and that is when we take from the moldunberry bush. But you are too large, boy, and the bear will have no problem catching you. Turn around, for your grandmother is doomed, as you shall surely be if you continue this foolish quest.” “Tell me where to find the bear,” Hamesh demanded. “I shall honor my promise,” Burrow explained. “Follow this river upstream until you come to twin boulders. Go west from the boulders for half of a league until you see a barren hill. Under that hill is a cave with the bear and his berries.” Hamesh thanked Burrow for his help, and began walking upstream beside the river. Hamesh found the twin boulders and headed west. The forest grew darker with each step he took, but in the twilight he was able to find the barren hill. Hamesh then heard an awful growling, and knew he had arrived at the right place. A massive black bear rumbled to the entrance of a cave. Hamesh closed his eyes and chanted: Bear, mightiest beast of the forest, tell me your name, so that I may speak with you “I will not tell you my name,” the bear replied, “for I am hungry, and shall eat you now for my supper!” The bear charged at Hamesh, who ran away with all his speed. Yet the boy knew the bear was faster and would certainly catch Hamesh before it grew tired and needed to nap. Hamesh thought of the magic he had learned in his grandmother’s books… surely he must have read of some spell that could help him escape the bear. “Grumble rumble stumble!” yelled the bear. “I’ll cut off your head and cook it in the oven, boy!” “I’m hungry too,” said a small voice from the bear’s cave. Hamesh looked back, and saw Scurry nibbling on a berry. “These moldunberries are delicious!” “Grumble rumble stumble!” yelled the bear. “I’ll tear your tail off and boil it in a stew, squirrel!” The bear charged at Scurry, who climbed up a tree and out of the fearsome creature’s reach. “Now there’s a sight,” proclaimed another small voice. Hamesh looked and saw Burrow perched on top of a rock. “A boastful bear, defeated by the smallest of creatures.” “Grumble rumble stumble!” yelled the bear. “I’ll rip your ears off and fry them in a pan, rabbit!” The bear charged at Burrow, who was just fast enough to stay out of his reach. Hamesh rested and laughed as he saw the bear’s gait slow with weariness. “Be gone from me,” the bear finally said to Burrow. “You’re too small for my supper anyway. I’d rather feast on this boy!” The bear chased after Hamesh again, but the boy knew now that the creature did not have enough energy left to capture him. “Grumble… rumble… stumble…” the bear moaned. It was now walking, head hanging low. “A squirrel, a rabbit, and a boy, defeating a bear. It is –” the bear fell to the ground – “impossible.” And then the bear’s eyes closed. “Hurry!” Burrow cried, running up beside Hamesh. “The bear will not long slumber.” Scurry met them at the cave’s entrance and led them to the moldunberry bush. After Hamesh filled his pouch with moldunberries he gathered more for Scurry and Burrow. “We have food enough to feed our families through winter,” the animals said when they were finished. “Thank you, boy.” “My name is Hamesh,” he told the creatures. “And thanks to you, my grandmother will be well.” The journey back to Bibi’s house was long, and Hamesh had more adventures before he finally stepped back into the cottage. His grandmother was still lying in bed, her face pale as she slept uneasily. Hamesh shook her shoulder. “Bibi,” the boy whispered. “Wake up. It’s Hamesh. And I’ve done what you’ve asked.” He took one of the moldunberries from the pouch and placed it on his grandmother’s dry lips. Bibi’s eyes opened, and her lips drew the moldunberry into her mouth. She then crushed the berry with her teeth, and Hamesh could smell the sweetness of the juice that coated his grandmother’s tongue. “You’ve done well, my boy,” Bibi said, color returning to her face. “You’ve done very well.”


My Uncle's Beast. After my grandmother's death, my uncle, consumed with grief, locked himself up in his studio for weeks on end and did nothing but stare at the wall like he was staring into an abyss. Almost like he was trying to get rid of his sadness by projecting it onto the white nothingness of his studio wall. My uncle was especially angry because even on her death bed when she could no longer speak or swallow because the cancer that would eventually kill her had metastasized into a goiter in her throat, my grandmother still had a look of disappointment in her eyes when she saw my uncle for the last time because despite his immense talents, he remained an obscure, penniless artist who brought nothing but shame to our family name with his excessive drinking and street fighting. My grandmother died a few days later convinced that my uncle was an irredeemable failure who would never make anything of his immense talents because he always sabotaged himself with drink. He became even angrier because he was beginning to believe she was right and even if she wasn’t and he somehow found a way to escape the hamster wheel of drink, debt and fights he had been stuck on his entire adult life, he would never not see that look of disappointment in her eyes, so he stared into the nothingness of his studio wall, avoiding his creditors and remaining sober for the longest period in his adult life, until one afternoon when he looked outside the window and saw his future in a pile of broken bottles. Green and mesmerizing, they were shimmering under the intense sunlight like something out of a meteorite shower, like a pile of kryptonite crystals that had just fallen out of the sky. My uncle walked up to his epiphany entranced like he had never seen that pile of STAR bottles before even though he had personally broken almost every bottle in the pile during any one of the countless drunken fights he had while trying to fend off the righteous repayment demands of his creditors. My uncle, who had become locally famous for his skills as an intoxicated pugilist, had fought his way from a few shards to the almost knee-high hill shimmering before him. He had walked past that pile of broken bottles a thousand times on his way to the studio without taking any notice of it or how much it had grown over the years but on that hot summer afternoon, beatified by the angry sun above, he saw that testament to his drunkenness in a different light. That was when he decided to create a sculpture out of broken glass. My aunty was alarmed when she saw her husband transporting that pile of broken bottles to his studio. Everyone told her she had married a mad man not a genius like she believed and on that hot summer afternoon when she saw him shoveling what remained of that pile of STAR bottles into the metal bucket she used to fetch water, she wondered if the circumstances of his mother's death had driven him off the deep end and he was in the process of trying to commit suicide by bathing with broken bottles. She approached her perspiring husband with caution. “Ade, what are you doing?” she asked genuinely concerned. He stop shoveling looked up at her and said “I have seen the future my dear. It’s in broken bottles” he smiled, pointing before picking up the bucket and locking himself up in his studio. His actions over the next few weeks made my aunty certain her detractors were right. She had indeed married a madman whose derangement was now manifesting in self harm. Self harm was new to him except if you consider getting into a thousand needless fights a form of self harm by proxy. Then my uncle had been self harming his entire adult life. After being thoroughly seduced throughout his childhood by Newspaper adverts and brilliant billboards depicting “The Happy life” and how much “Brighter your life would be with STAR”, my uncle finally succumbed to the Nigeria Breweries Propaganda machine and decided to celebrate turning eighteen by drinking his first bottle of their golden brew, on that very night he discovered that far from being happy, he was an angry drunk who loved to fight and break bottles after downing their content. Something about seeing those golden bubbles rising into white froth reminded him of his wasted potential and made him angry at the world.

My grandmother always reminded him of his wasted potential and advised him to spend more time in his studio away from fights and bars but instead of heeding her advice, my uncle only heard nagging and always drowned out her voice with a few more bottles until she fell silent.

My uncle spent weeks gluing together the shards of broken glass that brought the beast to life. The beast fought against its creation, not wanting to come to life, it wrestled against its creator, slashing him open many times during the labor, hoping the pain of his bandaged hands would make him abort the process and go back to working with wood but my uncle was a persistent god, who, although he had to take the precaution of wearing thick rubber gloves while transfiguring that pile of kryptonite, soldiered on until he finally brought that reluctant nightmare to life. Foreshadowing future pandemics, my uncle also took the precaution of wearing a face mask and a pair of goggles to protect his eyes from the caustic but lotophagic fumes of evostic glue. My uncle was a great artist, a modern Pygmalion, his sculptures always seemed to carry life within them but that kryptonite beast was different. It was his masterpiece. It didn’t just convey a semblance of life like the others, it seemed to genuinely be alive, imbued with a breath of life so powerful, sometimes it seemed to move, startling its viewers. The razor-backed beast was sharp, green and menacing to the eye. Rabid and crouching, its glare was an assault on the senses, yet as feral as it was, there was something vaguely human about the beast, almost like it was a werewolf crouching smack dab in the middle of my uncle’s studio, underneath the fluorescent lamp he used to see at night and just a few feet away from the only window that let sunlight into his well lit but poorly ventilated studio. The green monster reeked of anger, stale beer and dried blood mixed with the repugnant yet magnetic fumes of evostic glue. Throughout its brief existence and for many months after, its smell and presence completely dominated that room, my uncle worked on nothing else while it was alive. It was a jealous beast, demanding one’s full attention with the magnitude of its aura which rendered all the other artworks in the room invisible. Almost like it intimidated them into denying their very existence with the sheer awfulness of its presence. Beautiful sculptures who now cowered in the corners of the room hoping not to be seen by anyone especially the beast which looked like it could turn around and devour them at anytime. My uncle's first and only piece of abstract art was disturbing to look at, it perfectly conveyed menace, possessing the demeanor of a grizzly bear with green instead of brown fur, awakened too early from hibernation, grouchy and ravenous with the hunger of many months, stalking, snarling, showing if its fangs, not hiding its desire to pounce and feast on its viewer but like many tyrants, the green monster also knew when to take off the edge and turn on the charm. I remember the first time I met the beast I was mesmerized, it knelt down submissively beside me and looked up at me with the puppy eyes of a lonely dog that just needed its back rubbed, only after I had slashed open my fingers on its jagged back was the spell broken and I saw the beast for what it was, a rabid, insatiable glutton baying for my blood. The green monster loved the red blood of children and adults alike. Prior to its untimely death, the beast had grown fat on the plasma supplied to it by the endless stream of blood donors that came to see it crouch in my uncle’s studio, young and old, we all fell under its spell and willingly donated our blood to that glutton. Even in the early days, my aunty was always on standby with her white first aid kit when people came visiting and even though they were forewarned by a large sign on the wall screaming in capital letters, in my uncle's angriest voice, DO NOT TOUCH THE ARTWORKS; they almost always came out bleeding, such was the power of the monster’s mesmerism. The beast, whose fame was growing in and beyond art circles fueled by real life encounters that sounded like phantasmagoria, continued to grow throughout its life. By the time two articles titled “The Kryptonite Beast” and “The Green Monster” appeared on the Art pages of the Weekend Times and the Sunday Guardian, my uncle’s favorite newspapers, along with identical black and white photographs which didn’t properly convey the beast’s charisma; it was already a giant, about twice its initial size its jagged fur almost pressing up against the walls of my uncle's studio, threatening to scratch off the paint but for some odd reason nobody but me seemed to notice its constant increase in size and audacity. The number of people who came to see the beast doubled everyday, from the few friends my uncle invited over to christen his latest work to the thousands who lined up around the block willing to pay the ever increasing gate fee to my almost-millionaire aunty on the day the beast died. Many of them repeat customers with already bandaged hands begging to pay double to have another encounter with their torturer. Thanks to the beast, my aunty stopped making excuses to all her husband’s creditors, paying each one in full, avoiding the drunken fights which always led to his arrests and debt-inducing fines. The beast, born out of his grief of my grandmother’s passing, though reluctantly at first, had roared into existence and completely smashed the hamster wheel of drink, debt and fines my uncle had been running on his entire adult life; bringing fame, wealth and glory to our family but my uncle remained unfulfilled, he could still see that look of disappointment in my grandmother’s eyes because she didn’t live long enough to see him succeed, to see him as something other than an irredeemable failure who was wasting his potential. Thanks to the beast’s alchemical ability to turn its victims blood into money, my uncle, who had always been known for his generosity, buying crates of beer for his fellow merry men even if it was with borrowed money he never intended to pay back, went haywire with his proceeds from the gate, hosting lavish parties every evening and becoming a creditor himself for the first time in his life not always the borrower. The beast didn’t like being disturbed at night. Something about being suddenly awakened by the light of the fluorescent overhead made it incandescent with rage. Shimmering and bristling with anger, it looked like a giant porcupine with quills made of kryptonite crystals. The beast never looked move alive and menacing than when sharp rays of light suddenly pierced through it glass body, you could almost how it growl looking to devour its awakener. Luckily the beast was murdered in the morning when it was at its weakest, long before any of its devotees had been let through my aunty’s gate if not my uncle would have had to smash his way through a thousand strong zombie horde, evostic fiends, willing to die while protecting their false idol. During the height of the beast’s reign, there was an ambulance permanently stationed outside my uncle’s studio with nurses to attend to the wounded. Despite the health hazard the beast posed to its visitors, my uncle bluntly refused to close down his studio instead he kept making excuses for the beast “Why do they keep touching it?” he would ask “There is literally a sign on the wall that says DO NOT TOUCH THE ARTWORKS” he would conclude, feigning ignorance of his cash cow’s powers.

My uncle kept making excuses for the beast until it attacked his only child, my little cousin, Omeri, who, not noticing how much the beast had grown, ran directly into its quills while playing hide and seek, almost losing any eye. The sight of his only child’s blood drove my uncle “Super Saiyan”, filling him with his final rage not fueled by alcohol but vengeance and fatherly love. For the crime of almost blinding his only son the beast had to die. Pestle in hand, he approached it with caution and resolve, like it was alive. Circling it, he avoided its glare like it could fight back. Then suddenly my uncle raised the giant pestle and fell on the beast, striking it a thousand times with the Frankenstein fury of vengeful god destroying his own creation gone awry, like it was a rabid rottweiler that had to be put down after maiming its owner’s child. My uncle didn’t just club the beast to death; screaming, bawling, he punched and kicked it continuously until he began bleeding profusely from his slashed up fists and the soles of his feet. Still he didn’t stop until he shattered that unrepentant monster into a green sea of catharsis, into a thousand shimmering drops of kryptonite that lay on the studio floor underneath the fluorescent light looking like a field of tears. I deliberately stepped onto those bloodstained smithereens later that day before my aunty swept them away. I have forgotten if it was guilt, curiosity or empathy that made me walk onto that glittering field. Guilt because I was the one playing hide and seek with my cousin when he ran into the beast and almost lost an eye trying to hide from me or was it curiosity entwined with empathy because I wanted to share my uncle’s pain, I wanted to know what it felt like to bleed from their soles of one’s feet while filled with anger, regret and remorse or maybe it was a combination of all three that made me walk onto that sea of catharsis, I still can’t remember. I just know I can’t blame it on the monster’s mesmerism. I did it myself. As a form of atonement for almost blinding my cousin, I felt I had to be the beast’s last victim. The beast lived for less than a month but in that time it left an indelible mark on everyone who came to see it crouch in my uncle's studio, so long-lasting was its effect that for many months after its death, its smell still dominated that room which was like nectar to the endless stream of well wishers that poured into my uncle's studio not to admire his other sculptures, who, since witnessing the beast’s defeat at the hands of their creator, were slowly regaining confidence and retaking their pride of place in the center of the room away from the corners where they cowered throughout its month long reich, but to bask in the monster’s zombie aura, that unique blend of stale beer, anger and dried blood mixed with the sweet but fiendish fumes of evostic glue. Like many tyrants who reigned before and after its Reich, the beast’s power seemed to grow in death, inspiring a kind of strange nostalgia in the minds of its victims. An endless stream of masochists gathering in art circles, showing off their bandaged hands while fondly reminiscing about the injuries they suffered at the hands of their tyrant. Each misremembering it's reich as “not that bad” and “unfairly maligned after its demise”. All wishing they could once again slash their palms open while stroking the monster's fur. My aunty still collected a small gate fee from those who came to mourn the beast until they figured out the best way to satisfy their nostalgia for the monster was not by communing on the ground where it was slain but by sniffing evostic glue mixed with a few drops of their own blood while downing a pint of beer preferably from a soon-to-be-broken green bottle. Watching those golden bubbles rising into white froth, dwelling on their own wasted potentials. After his hands healed, my uncle went back to slowly carving out the sculptures he had abandoned after birthing the beast but although they had life in them none of them could match the monster's charisma. I’ll never forgot the day my uncle smashed that beast to smithereens, he was never the same again, he became a lot calmer and more secure in himself, almost like he stopped seeing that look of disappointment in his mother's eyes, a change reflected in the smiling self portrait he produced shortly after reopening his studio. Many years later I would come to understand that I had just witnessed a exorcism, almost like my uncle had gotten rid of the frothing demons that made him drink until he became angry at the world by pouring them into one of his sculptures, his greatest work, which was a reflection of something deep inside him, something sharp, green and menacing, something he needed to kill. The End.