Extinction. There’s a certain finality to the word, that summons a primordial sense of dread and doom to the core of our being. It means the end of a species. Not just the happenstance death of a few individuals you don’t even know, but the final, irreversible end of an entire world population of a species, meaning there would never be such a life form ever again. Uniqueness, lost forever due to the very trait that made it so special in the first place.

Extinction is happening all the time. It didn’t just happen to the dinosaurs and it doesn’t just happen in sci-fi movies. It’s probably happening right now, to some species we don’t even know exists, likely a tiny bacteria living in the depths of Earth’s oceans. A tiny bacteria. A badass warrior that we all owe our lives to, for kick-starting our evolution and for terraforming Earth into a life-sustaining planet. But a bacteria is not a dolphin or an elephant, so nobody cares. You can’t take a picture with a bacteria and post it on social media. You can’t even see it with your naked eyes and yet the combined mass of all the bacteria on Earth heavily outweighs the mass of every other animal and plant that you can see. Next to the sun and the elements, the bacteria is the first link in the food chain. That precious dolphin or elephant would never have existed if the bacteria was removed. Yet humans pretend otherwise. There’ve been major extinctions in the past, five big ones, to be precise. One nearly destroyed all life on the planet. Another killed the ruling class and gave room for us to evolve.

Extinction is not a bad word. Nor is it a good one. It is a tool of nature and just like any tool, it can either destroy or create. Nature can give life and nature can take life away. The degree to which we care about that life is the degree to which it either promotes or threatens our survival. Would you care if a nameless bacteria died in an ocean? Even if it’s responsible for making your atmosphere breathable, even if it provides food for everything above it? What if your pet’s species went extinct? Would you care? What if you go extinct? The answers are tied to your survival, either physical, emotional, or intellectual. You care only as long as it helps you, by either keeping you alive or making you feel good about yourself. You don’t truly care for other life, because selfishness is genetically encoded in your DNA.

Don’t believe me? Do you cry when your skin cells die? Each of them is a living entity, but do you mourn when one of the billions of cells that comprise your body dies? Do you even notice it? That’s how selfish you are. And it’s neither a good thing nor a bad thing. All life is made that way - that’s what life

is . At least, what we mean by ‘biological organism’.

Realize that you could not be alive if you were selfless. If your cells would be equally accepting of all other organisms, from the bacteria in the sea to the elephant in the zoo, your body would fall apart and become food to sustain them. You’d love them so much you’d give your whole being to them, instead of the one dollar you pay monthly for a preservation cause. So don’t pretend you’re selfless. Don’t pretend you care. Admit your selfishness to yourself for that is the only path on which genuine compassion can begin. Only if you accept the selfish creature that you are, accept it for what it is, can you begin to develop true compassion. And only then can you start taking care of the most endangered species on the planet. Do you know what that species is? It’s you. Homo Sapiens Nescium. The unconscious human. You’re simultaneously the greatest danger to the universe as well as its greatest gift. And you are facing extinction. No black hole, no big rip, or other doom theory for the universe can come close to the destructive power of your selfish ego. And no star forgery, big bang, or any other creation theory carries more compassion and love than your heart is capable of. But the problem is that you’re unconscious. Your ego rules and your heart is enslaved to your mind. This is the reason why you are the most endangered species and why you’ll go extinct if you continue on this path. No other life form, as far as we know it, has an ego to such a degree that we do - it’s actually a gift, but we’ve turned it into a curse. You see, the unconscious ‘common’ man is endangered. He is destroying his world, his race, his life. He lets others dictate his thoughts and feelings, he is a sheep, a puppet. And what's worse, he has convinced himself that he is not controlled by others, that the things he values are the products of his own flawless and uncorrupted reasoning. The unconscious man is the devil, his unconsciousness the very vehicle of evil.

For in his ignorance, which he has interpreted as knowing and understanding, he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. He believes what he has been told blindly, like a naive little child who has no experience of the world. He believes in the answers his mind provides for him and he interprets the world based not on what he perceives with his senses, but based on what he

thinks

he perceives with his sense. The unconscious man lives in augmented reality, which he calls his life, the only reality that he thinks is true and real. He is much like a character in a video game, unaware of the fact that his existence is a figment of imagination of a much higher being. You are a figment of your own imagination. You’ve never met yourself, all you’ve seen is the person who your mind thinks you are. Homo Sapiens Nescium. The one that has problems in life. The one that wants things, but cannot get them. The one that suffers and is pained by existence, while joy and happiness seem like foreign myths.

The unconscious condition of Homo Sapiens Nescium is by far the worst pandemic ever to hit humanity. It claims lives in the

billions . Lives that could be, lives of fulfilled dreams and joy and peace. Harmony with oneself and with the world.

An united humanity, where hate, selfishness and suffering are reserved for works of fiction. That’s what the unconsciousness pandemic claims, among other things. Luckily, the world is changing. It has been changing for a long time, quietly, from generation to generation, one lifetime at a time, one individual’s choice after another. Now, the change is beginning to become noticeable. The momentum has started picking up the pace. A new kind of man is emerging, a conscious man. A growing man, one that realizes he doesn’t know himself and he does everything he can to find himself. A self-actualizing man. A hero. This man is nothing new, for he had existed for just as long as the unconscious man did. But never before has the world been so connected as it is today, never before in history did the conscious man have access to communicate his message with so many unconscious people. This new man threatens the unconscious man, but not in a hostile or aggressive way. He threatens him simply by existing, for he shows the unconscious man his deepest flaws and failings of reason. The new man is searching for a solution, while the unconscious man believes he already has it - while in truth, he does not. The unconscious man has only fooled himself into thinking that he does. And it is this foolishness that will ultimately cause his extinction. If he does not begin to realize that he doesn’t know himself or the world, the unconscious man will perish. He will be nothing more than a farm animal, docile and obedient, serving to drive the dreams of others with his cheap labor and inability to perceive a different possibility for himself. And this is how it should be - the unconscious man should die. He should not be preserved, just as cancer tissue should not be allowed to spread through the body.

He should be studied and given full attention to, for his condition is mortally threatening to us all. His species’ time is numbered and to those of his kind that genuinely see their mistake, they should be helped. Others, who think they’ve got it all figured out already, should be ignored and kept at arm's length. The unconscious man will not die without a fight, and his unconsciousness will make the fight terrifyingly devastating, if not handled with the utmost awareness.

Maintaining the status quo, ‘returning things to normal’, being safe in numbers, being right by the shared opinions of the many, amassing means of survival for oneself… These are all the weapons of the unconscious man and he will not hesitate to use them to preserve himself. He will do anything to keep himself in the dark, to stay unconscious, to maintain the illusion that he already knows everything he needs to. The biggest threat to the ego is what does not directly promote its survival. A gun to the head, a new discovery that threatens the old paradigm, realizing the truth of oneself. When self-agenda goes against the truth, the ego’s choice is a no-brainer. Literally. The ego doesn’t even

consider

it could ever be wrong. It cannot be wrong. It knows what’s best for you and it can prove it by the fact that it has kept you alive up until now. Can you argue with that proof? Of course not. The ego’s got you by the balls, or by the ovaries. But while it might have kept you alive so far, how’s that life worked out for you? Are you so fulfilled with it that you could die tomorrow and be okay with that? If not, then you’re unconscious, much like the vast majority of the human species. Vast, meaning 99,99%.

Do you think cavemen were ignorant because they didn’t know why the winds blew? Do you think people from medieval ages were ignorant because they believed in witchcraft, burning people by the thousands? Do you think tribesmen in Africa are ignorant because they didn’t go to school? No, our level of ignorance is the same as theirs.

We never left the Dark Ages. We’re as ignorant as we ever were - even worse so because we’ve masked our ignorance with reason and logic. Technological advancement does not equate to ‘banishment of ignorance’. Acquiring knowledge does not equate to true knowing. Improving the outer circumstances of your life does not improve your inner world. Today, we’re living in the

Age of Delusion ,

Rationality

is our God and

Business

is our moral code of conduct.

Unconsciousness

is the most valued state of being,

Symbols

are more valuable than the things they represent. The

Ego

has been set loose upon the world, killing its own

Mother Earth  for profit, and is now turning its eyes toward the stars, to spread itself like a cancer until all of the universe is under its dominance. Sounds like some dystopian science fiction premise, right? But then again, is dystopian science fiction mere entertainment, or is it a warning, a prophet of doom in disguise?

What’s more trustworthy, the ‘facts’ provided by the institutions who don’t even realize they're unconscious, or ‘fiction’ dreamt up by individuals who feel like their voices need to be heard, who feel they’ve tapped into something that should be shared? Could it be that fact and fiction are different sides of the same coin?

Witchcraft was a fact in medieval times. Today, it’s fiction. The Earth revolving around the sun used to be a fiction in the past. Today, it’s a fact. It’s all perspective, all arbitrary. ‘Facts’ are worth no more than a passing thought in a child’s mind as he plays in his sandbox. Without knowing the mind that came up with the fact, without understanding the limits of the logic that supports a premise, a fact has no more inherent ‘truth’ in it than fiction does. Realize that with logic you can win an argument even if your argument is  factually wrong . All logic is based on some premise, on some ‘thing’ that you arbitrarily ascribe truth to and if that premise is flawed, then no amount of logic or reasoning can ever take you to the right answer. If you firmly believe in the existence of a God, then no amount of scientific evidence can shake your logic, for you have decided that your premise is flawless. And if you firmly believe in science, then no amount of miracles will deter your logic, for your premise does not allow miracles to even exist. The tragedy of the unconscious man is that he does not know, what he does not know. You don’t know what you don’t know. How could you? If you knew what you don’t know, then you’d know everything. But you know nothing, Jon Snow.

You think you know yourself because you can spell your name? The name is a symbol, a word your parents used so they could call you to the table for dinner. You think you know yourself because you can tell me your likes and dislikes, your dreams and passions, your fears and insecurities? Most people don’t even know those, but even those who do, how do they know their likes and dislikes are their own? How do you know your values are truly yours and have not been given to you by your parents, society, culture, religion…? How do you know that what you know is true? Do you verify it on Wikipedia? Do you ask a scientist with a Ph.D.? Do you ask your parents, your God, your friends? Do you contemplate the answers yourself? Questions. It is by questioning that the unconscious man begins his climb out of the darkness. But you won’t ask questions if you believe you already have the answers. And you will not dig deep enough to find the truth of your question if you settle for the first answer that comes your way. That’s why it’s so hard for the unconscious man to even begin to change. He has no solid ground upon which to stand, he isn’t sure who to trust, what’s real and what’s not. He has to create a clearing in his mind where he can hopefully catch a glimpse of the real world. A crack in the Matrix. A glitch in his augmented reality. A moment of peace in the ever noisy mind-chatter of his ADD brain. You say, ‘Wait a minute. Something’s not right here. What am I doing with my life?’ And just like that, with the rise of the first question, a whole new cosmos of possibility opens up. The unconscious man glimpses a tiny circle of light above his head - the exit from his cave of ignorance, the light at the end of the tunnel. Of course, you have to take every single word you read with a grain of salt. I’m also a member of the Homo Sapiens Nescium race, I’m also unconscious. My ego has me by the balls and if I were to die tomorrow I’d be far from okay with it today.

But I’ve been lucky enough to have seen a glimpse of the exit. A way out has been presented to me and it would take no more than a blink of an eye and I’d never seen it.

How many glimpses have you been presented with in your life, but you blinked with your mind at the worst time? How many chances were you given to climb out of the hole, how many opportunities to question? Maybe you’ve even started the climb. Maybe you’re not far from the exit. If you do ever get out and step into the light, if you become the conscious man (or woman), then it's your duty to reach a helping hand to those who’re still climbing. But remember, an organism that is threatened with extinction will do anything to keep itself alive and the unconscious man is a master at just that, staying alive.

Keep your feet firm on the ground and do not let yourself be pulled back under. Honor the chance at life that you’ve been given, by actually

living

it. Because, for all the immortality of your soul, this life that you have right now will never be lived again, so why squander such a gift? Be a hero. Be conscious. Your life and the world will thank you for it.


This is a story about a letter. Like the letter itself, much of this story is true, maybe all of it is true? But then again, maybe it’s just the invention of a creative mind, or mis-remembered events and conversations? We may never know. Of the biological father, Mum seemed a bit vague.  Maybe he was half Indian and half Scottish. Maybe he was a doctor or a surgeon, or an aspiring movie producer. Maybe his first name was Ellis, or Elliot. For sure he was a philanderer, for sure he didn’t know I exist, nor do his two daughters, my half-sisters, if they are still alive. He must have been tall because Mum was not. She promised me that she would tell me the man’s surname one day, but she never did. I imagine prospects for a single mother with a child born out of wedlock would have been very grim in the early 1960s, and given that abortions were still illegal, my Mum had little choice but to resume a loveless marriage, entering into a pact of silent compromise with Dad. Which of them had it harder? My Dad, raising another man’s son, or my beautiful Mum, dutifully sharing a bed with a sloppy drunk? Dad and my brother were masters of the cryptic crossword, which they devoured on Sunday mornings along with tea and toast. They would take turns at the puzzle until it was completed, printing capital letters and making tick-marks that seemed done by the same hand. Sometimes they would ask me to help on a literary reference or a historical fact, but I was never able to make much of a contribution, moreover my handwriting was messy, and I often forgot to tick off the completed clues, which irritated Dad. I just left them to it, bonding over anagrams, reversals and hidden words. I also left them to their politics. Dad had good qualities: he was garrulous and courteous among strangers, he was a good cook, had a terrific memory and was generous with his pension money, but he was also a drunk, a bigot, a small-minded man that didn’t really know how to give of himself and never read books. I loved him, I suppose, but it was hard work at times, and I often worried that I might become more like him as I got older, since the proverbial apple never falls far from the tree.  I also hoped that I might develop the same movie-star frown-lines, but I never did. The Letter? Well, it arrived at our downtown apartment in New York, soon after our Long Island wedding. My wife knew already of its contents because she’d had an uncomfortable and secretive solo lunch with Mum shortly after the wedding and prior to my parents’ flight back to the UK. She handed me the postmarked envelope and withdrew from our bedroom, where I read the letter for the first and only time, so I don’t exactly remember the tone. Was it apologetic, exculpatory? Was it sad or uplifting? For whom was it really written? It is in a box in the garage now. I should re-read it, but it’s been such a long time. Water under the bridge. The outline that I recall was simple. Dad was a heavy drinker and a bore, and when he got a job assignment in Chatham in 1959 or 1960, they agreed to a trial separation. Mum stayed in north London, working as a hairdresser in the West End during the day, attending adult education classes at night, when she could. One winter evening she met a fascinating man who beguiled her with visions of beauty and truth, had sex and got her pregnant. She never saw the man again. Faced with the prospects of raising an out-of-wedlock child as a single mother, she reconciled with Dad, and they resumed their troubled marriage. He raised me as his son and in exchange she gave him a third child, a daughter, and, as far as I can tell, it was thereafter a barren, loveless and almost humorless cohabitation.  She claims that the one-night stand was meaningful, and that I should not consider myself an accident.

If I could turn back time I might go back to before the letter, to a road trip in the West Country when I was twelve or thirteen, sitting in the back seat of the car, listening in on a coded discussion about me. Only, of course, I did not know it was coded at the time, it was just oblique and awkward and unintelligible, using words and phrases that I only half understood. I remember asking Dad about the word “bastard”, and he said it was a type of bird.

My mum was an orphan. She thinks she saw her father once when she was an infant. She remembered him as a kindly presence, dressed in a dark suit, maybe a hat, walking through a patch of bluebells in the woods one day in late Spring. She drew this scene in crayon, painted it in oils, talked of this vague encounter often. She conjectured that her father was a doctor, had an affair with a young maid who abandoned her to the Salvation Army. She was adopted by an elderly and childless couple, who encouraged the pretty little girl to sing and dance, and before she was old enough to understand that she was being exploited, her adoptive father, introduced the golden-haired girl with the curly locks to London’s club owners as an English Shirley Temple.  She sang at the Albert Hall, she sang with the big bands at Alexander Palace, she sang alongside the organist during the intervals at The Empire, and she was anointed the Beauty Queen of Wood Green, but then she married my dad, the boy next door, and her life shrunk to that of wife, mother, and apprentice hairstylist. After Dad's heart attack, she became the breadwinner too. I was a very good swimmer. After the fourth and last race of this particular district swim meet, I ran to the side of the Olympic-size pool and handed four gold medals to my Dad up in the stands. I remember that my hands were shaking, and I am sure I had a huge grin on my face. I didn’t know what to expect, so there was no reason for me to be surprised at his reaction, but I was. He seemed embarrassed, took the medals, muttered a “good lad”, and put them in his pocket. Some of the people around him were clapping and cheering, but he just sat there looking awkward. Soon thereafter, he stopped taking me to the Swim Club because it was affecting my grades at school. Mum told me that, being half Irish, he sinks in water; its relevance was lost on me.

For some reason, most of the school football games took place in the rain. There would be a handful of grim-faced dads on the sideline, smoking cigarettes, dressed in gray suits and dark woolen overcoats. In those days they wore black dress shoes, which slipped on the muddy grass, so the dads walked like they were on stilts. My uncle told me that Dad was a terrific footballer when he was young, very fast, played center forward at school, and could have been a pro, but for the War and all that. On this day I had a terrific game playing sweeper. I was not fast, but I was strong, smart, a good tackler and possessed a great right foot. I delivered a perfect long looping pass up field, releasing the striker to score an easy goal. There was a smattering of applause from a huddle of dads on the sideline. My Dad stood apart from the others, hands in pockets, and when the game ended, he promptly walked to the car where he waited for me to clean up while the other dads escorted the team to the changing rooms, chatting away, offering advice. At the time I thought he was giving me some kind of hard-knocks lesson in stoicism, but the letter puts things in a different perspective. I had literally outgrown the man, like a cuckoo. Out on the stoop, Mum asked me whether I ever wondered whether I was a misfit, which I did and still do, but I thought she was talking about herself, the orphan, so I probed the half-memory of her father in the woods, but she turned the conversation back to me, my thoughts; she really wanted to know. I like to generalize, to conceptualize, and I was about to leave for university to study Philosophy, so I said something inauthentic about alienation or disassociation, actually meaningless to her and to me, and she seemed irritated. The conversation stuck with me, but I didn’t know why at the time. Dad was estranged from his sister and three of the four brothers, a schism formed at the time of his mother’s death, vaguely attributed to an acrimonious resolution of her estate. Dad and the youngest brother remained close; it was one of the few relationships that endured over the course of my parent’s peripatetic life, and I like to think it is because there was a full and honest understanding between them of the truth of my provenance, but when Dad died, I asked the uncle about my Mum’s letter, and he claimed that he was unaware of their separation, didn’t have a clue. I promised my Mum that I would not discuss the letter with Dad, or with anyone other than my wife. I struggled with this for a while, but figured that it was their pact, their burden and it was the respectful thing to do for Mum, and for Dad, for whom the disclosure would be a public humiliation; that of the cuckold. I also figured that dad, a smoker, alcoholic with a severe heart condition, eight years Mum’s senior, would die soon, and the need for secrecy would end.

But Mum died first and unexpectedly. I was working in Singapore at the time. My wife and I took the girls on holiday to a tropical island in Malaysia. I phoned Mum from the hotel, to give her a weekly update on the girls, my job, life in Southeast Asia, but there was something odd about her responses, robotic. I felt like I was talking to a stranger or a hostage. “Love you, Mum”, I said, to which she replied, “Do you? That’s nice”. These were the last words that I ever heard her speak. I at once phoned my brother, asked him to check in on her, something seemed awry. Perhaps Dad was drinking again? Perhaps she was going to leave him – at last? I didn’t phone my sister, but I should have done. My Mum had breast cancer, it metastasized, migrated to her brain, she went into a coma. We ended the vacation and flew direct to the UK. At Heathrow airport we hired a rental car, rushed up the A1 motorway and went straight to the hospital. My wife, more practiced in grief and loss, went in to see my Mum while I waited outside the ward, distracting the girls. She came out, ashen. “Didn’t look like her”, she said, “without her hairdo”. It isn’t her, I thought, not without her perfect platinum blond perm. This was not my mother, so I didn’t go into the ward to see her, because she wasn’t there. Her body ceased functioning the next day, and I cried at my father’s knee. I have a brother and a sister, and I love them, but we are estranged by geography and time. We are also estranged by genetics, and there’s nothing much I can do about that, except dismiss it as irrelevant, for my sake and for theirs. It is one of the reasons that I have not done a DNA test. My wife, recently had a genetic test, revealing that she is very nearly 100% Ashkenazi but for a tiny sliver of Scandinavian DNA that must have originated in another eventful one-night stand, albeit in the dawn of time.  I took the family on a road trip once, to France, the girls were maybe eight and ten. My youngest asked, “so we are half Jewish, and half English?”, which caused a good deal of mirth, but it was a good question, nonetheless. Maybe one of the girls will get a DNA kit one day and figure out the other 50%. Maybe I will meet my half-sisters as a result, assuming they are alive.

There were only a few people at my Dad’s funeral. The owner of the local pub said Dad was a regular and would be missed and shook my hand. My brother-in-law said that the same publican had been forced to ban Dad from the bar for being drunk and disorderly, and when we got back to the house, we found dozens of empty lager cans beneath the kitchen sink. Sitting in the living room, nibbling on white bread sandwiches, I told the family about the letter, which was greeted with denial, surprise and shock, except that my brother knew already. He disclosed that he even remembered the trial separation, and he said that Mum had confided the truth in him many years ago, preceding the letter. My sister, who had cared for my father since Mum's death felt that she’d been disrespected and was understandably upset.

Once things had settled down, I asked my brother whether he knew the last name of the biological father, but he did not.  So, I don't really know who I am, but I do know that I am free.


Her wicked eyes brimmed with angry tears as she put the final nail into the door, sealing it shut. The entrance of her home. Or at least what she called home for the last blissful two years. She was tired of running. Tired of creating another version of herself. Or at least a version of herself she wouldn't be able to touch for two hundred years or so. She usually had fifteen to twenty before people started staring at her too long. Holding their children a little tighter as she walked by.

Something happened this time,

She thought. Something had been happening in every new town for the past decade. Making the locals wary of her quicker each time. Asking their inquisitive questions as if she couldn't tell their motive. Her money would no longer be accepted at stores, they'd all say with an unwelcome stare. Quick whispers would quiet as she entered an area filled with townspeople. She tossed the hammer into one of the two bags she allowed herself to carry from place to place. Of course, both were charmed to hide how much they could take. It landed at the bottom a second later; remembering what else was in the bag, she was thankful she didn't hear a tinkle of shattered glass. She had been so careful in choosing this place, these people, this cottage. She loved it so much. The quiet and simple life of a town nowhere near a city. With no mandated state leaders but a simple, friendly town mayor. A town that had been built and was thriving through the work of other people fleeing whatever they felt chased them. All in hopes of a peaceful fresh start. Strangers were not new or unwelcome here. She had made herself useful by being a midwife, pharmacist, local healer, or whatever you call it these days. The age of the witch was over, and people understood medicine. They understood science. Did they know a woman with intelligence was not in league with the devil?  T hat battle will never be won.  She thought to herself. Especially when those who pointed the finger so often were fragile men.

And those types of men , she thought,

were always around.  No matter how many decades passed or how much knowledge was understood. She quickly wiped the tears away, knowing she would be saying goodbye to the sunny garden she had just started seeing come into its own this summer. Goodbye to the peaceful mornings waking up to the birds chirping outside her window in the overgrown and knobby oak. Smiling to herself and remembering that it always smelled slightly of vanilla on rainy days. Goodbye to the cozy nights by her fire reading and sipping the local vintner's newest uncorked spicy red he knew she liked.

And goodbye to Lizzie. Her one friend in this tiny town, even amongst the whispers. A teacher whom she'd spent many a shared breath with on those quiet nights. Where they could steal and freeze time, it seemed with each other. Touching and stroking her in a way Lizzie's husband would never imagine.

With a slight chuckle, she thought teaching women in her travels was a wicked treat. Married or not, she relished opening their minds and bodies to their own pleasure and what they could feel when they weren't having an underwhelming pudgy cock put upon them. She looked at her hands and hoped Lizzie wouldn't be too hurt by her friend's sudden disappearance. They both knew it wasn't love, just a distraction from the day-to-day. They'd shared that secret adventure while her husband was drinking with the other men and coming home without even noticing if she was there. She'd hoped the message of boarding up the house versus just leaving it or burning it down made it seem like she would be coming back. Fewer questions. Or at least until later. And she would be long gone by the time those inquisitive tongues began to wag.

Kneeling to pick up her bags, she smelled a familiar scent.

Cinnamon?

She thought, quickly seeing a single face flash through her mind. Before she could even turn around to say the spell upon her lips to freeze the moment, she had her back against the door and a hand around her throat. "Hello, Mick." Whispered a deep voice up against her ear as he licked the heated column of her neck. "Fuck" Mick managed to mutter from her clenched teeth. Her hands her trapped by his hips, and she could tell he was sniffing her.

"Time's up, darling." He ground his hips deeper into hers. "I gave you those last fifteen years as a gift since I had to deal with pesky royals and their political squabbles." His breath became more labored and ragged, both knowing what would come. And damn her if she wasn't a little bit wet thinking of it herself. "Your freedom for a hundred years and after that you spend one year with me. That was the deal you made with me to have all this delicious untapped power and eternal youth." He said, pulling back and looking at her face.

"Though," He said, grinding up against her, "It was fun watching your confusion as each town became less of a haven in such a short time." Running his free hand up her torso and skimming her breast, he was happily surprised when he felt the hard nub as he moved his hand up to her mouth. "I was almost jealous of your latest conquest." Staring into her eyes, looking for anything besides anger in them. "It almost looked like you cared for her." Chucking and pulling back to gaze at her face. "But we both know you feel nothing here, do you?" Tapping on her chest where her heart lay beating slower than most humans. Just like his. Watching her reaction, he swore she was more radiant whenever he came for her. Her ivory skin and rosy cheeks made to feign innocence with the forever flush of youth and dusting of freckles over her cheekbones. She was breathing hard through that daintily upturned nose. The sweetness was faked by that wide heart-shaped mouth that always looked as if she was ready to be kissed. But one look at those eyes. Those almond-shaped hazel eyes flashed with surprise and anger, and was that a touch of lust in them? He prayed so. Those eyes, which changed color between dark brown and hazel depending on her mood, were perfectly positioned under beautifully arched dark eyebrows that matched her thick wavy mane of hair that flirted with the tips of her breasts.

She was as tall as most men, taller than many. And even at his height of six foot two, they were almost eye level in her boots. Her curves were unmatched. Which became truer every time he desired a bedmate when he didn't have her for that blessed year every century. He was always looking for her in other women. He never really put that together until now.

The face and body were all hers. He didn't have to do anything to accentuate her beauty when he gave her the gift. But gods, the gift had just made her even more cripplingly breathtaking. Snapping out of it, he looked at her rage-filled face. She was such a bratty thing, he mused. He was always having to retrieve her. She never was the good girl and came to him. Holding back a groan, he thought she was always worth it. "Now, did you learn your lesson from last time and will come willingly?" He said a hairsbreadth away from her sneering mouth. "Or will I spend another night chasing you through the forest like a typical cat and mouse cliche?" Using the tip of his tongue to outline her lips, he sensed them softening just slightly and grinned. "Mmm, a bit of a disappointment, though. You know I do love the chase." He said, biting her bottom lip. "Especially when I get such a delicious reward." Growling the final word into her mouth as he started to thrust up against her.

She had planned for this. Well, kind of. She knew he would come eventually. And knew it would be soon. All the signs were there. It's not that she hated him. In fact, she respected him. But she'd never tell him that.

She simply preferred herself and lovers of her own choosing. Though the coupling was, she had to keep from rolling her eyes back at the sensual memory of their last row, seriously good.

A year of it, though? If he had ever bent on changing the contract they made and her constant begging to modify it, she'd have been so much further in her work. And she might even like spending that time with him, but he relished the fight she gave each time. Mentally smirking, so did she.

Every year she spent with him was time away from a new breakthrough in her search. Disrupting decades of work that she had to start again each time she returned to the human world. She knew the answers she sought were here and not in the godlike realm he'd created. The glimmering estate in the sky he'd built as a reprieve from the 'exhausting and mundane world of humans,' she could hear him say.

After five hundred years, she'd assumed the apparent brief extension he'd referred to was due to a lack of long-term interest. Which men so rarely had. But apparently, a man gifted by the gods to become something other, and with nothing but time on his hands, would come. He could have picked anyone, any woman.

She knew he had given this gift to others over the centuries. But none of their deals were even close to the one he asked her for. She'd found that out when searching and speaking to his other magical wards, and they confirmed none had seen him since they were changed. But he always came for her. So ravenous as if he waited for that release to be with her singularly. "Hello, Nicholas." She managed to loosen her hand and spread her legs; luckily, it made him think it was in excitement.

"I was hoping you'd forgotten little old me. And found a new plaything." She said and began gathering power into her loosened hand, but not so much that he could scent it. Enough though, to get the juice needed to push out the wind that would knock him down and hold him so she could grab her things and run.

"Oh, sweet, stubborn Mick. Why settle for a plaything that needs so much education when I have a rage-filled goddess at my beck and call." She could feel the hand around her throat loosening. His eyes showed her that he thought he'd won her submission. She stifled down a scoff; let  him think so for now. "Don't you get tired of coming after me each time? Why not find someone you don't need to bargain with. One you don't need a deal against to have your dick played with every hundred years." She was almost ready to attack, just a little longer. She had to keep her arm still with the power growing to keep from shaking, so he didn't notice. He laughed deep in his throat, his thrusting hips getting too excited for her liking. Though damn her double if she didn't want a taste of it.

"What can I say? I've never chosen the easy way." He said, grinning in triumph. Just as he was about to go in for the kiss she knew would transport them to his realm, on a growl, she released all the built-up power to his throbbing crotch. An evil grin slid over her face as he flew 20 feet into the air and landed on a pile of fallen leaves with a hard thump.

Ok, so she had put the pile of leaves there as she gathered her power. She didn't want to kill him, just get away from him.

Wasting no time, she threw the bags over her shoulder and bolted in the opposite direction from his limp form. She had memorized this path. It led her through the dark center of the woods and out the other side to a clearing in minutes. In the clearing was a horse stable conveniently placed by her newest neighbor for her quick thieving. She may or may not have moved his markers one night for an event like this.

Blinking and gasping for breath, Nicholas heard her footsteps soften, putting distance between them. He knew the little scat was up to something the second before he felt immense pain only a man could understand.

Her eyes had gone almost black; good to know her power still came from pleasure. Her eyes changed the same way when she was screaming his name as he was deep inside of her. Power from passion was always more potent. As he was reminded while he blinked and gasped for breath. After making sure she hadn't actually blown off his manhood, he stood. He shook the leaves and dirt from his tall, broad frame, his jaw-length messy brown hair dampening in the morning mist. The smile faded on his wide-set mouth, and outrage shot across his deep bottle-glass green eyes as he heard hoofbeats in the distance. Setting his square jaw in frustration, he couldn't help but shake his head and look up to the heavens. Even to his own surprise, he laughed. "Gods I've missed you." He said under his breath. And began the chase.


“So, what's the catch?” Asked Gertrude, hunching over her 2004 Gateway computer, on the phone her grandson bought her around the same time. “Ma’am, that's the best part! There’s absolutely no catch at all.” Said the friendly voice on the other end of the line. “All we need is the first four digits of your social security number, and we can get you started.” “Wow!” Gertrude thought. With Albert's birthday coming up, this was the luck she needed. Finally, a break. Finally, a time to-

“Wait... The first four?” She asked. “Yes, ma’am. Just the first four digits, and we can proceed.” The voice on the other end of the line answered. “Hmm, I think you mean the last four.” For a moment, all Gertrude heard was silence. Then, the sound of papers shuffling. “Uh, the first four work also!” The voice finally responded. Gertrude tried to think but was interrupted by the sounds of a garage door opening, followed by a car’s engine. Albert must be home.

“Well, okay! It’s 929-4.” “Excellent! Just give me a moment while we verify your account… ok, looks like we are good to go.” “And this will give me NFL Pass for, you know,” she whispered. “for Albie.”

“Yes, ma’am! We at DirecTV are just trying to give you the best package available for gameday for your husband.” Responded the friendly voice. “That’s wonderful. So wonderful.” “All we need you to do now is open your computer email.’ “Oh, Ok I-” A Door opened.

“Hi, Gertie!” Albert peaked his head from the doorway of the room both of them aptly called, The Computer Room. “Oh, Hi, Albie! I’m just in my emails.” Albert walked to Gertrude and kissed her on the head.  “Love you, Gertie!” he said, as he dawdled back out of the room.

“ Ma’am…” The voice interrupted. Sounding Anxious. “Oh I’m so sorry Albie just-”

“Have you seen the email, from DirecTV?” “Oh yes, sorry, I see it right here. Do you want me to click on it?” “Yes, Ma’am, Click on it.” “Okay!” Click! “What does it do?” “Ma’am, it should take you to your account page. Tell me what you see?” “Oh just a moment… I see the DirecTV logo and a…” Gertrude had to think quickly. She didn’t really know computer “lingo,” and felt it to be embarrassing. “... And uh… the home button and, Oh yes, I’m seeing my account page right here.” “Ok, great!” Said the voice on the other end of the line. It then became serious. “If you see the page, it, unfortunately, looks like you still owe us from last month's cable bill.”

“Oh, dear!” Gertrude cried. “Yes, ma’am. You see that number on the screen.” “Negative a thousand?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am, it looks like you owe us $1,000 for your last month’s cable bill.” “Oh my, that's terrible. Albie usually takes care of the-”

“Yes ma’am. We can still get you your exclusive deal for NFL Pass up and running real quick, but first, we will need that bill sent to us.

“Oh okay I-” The serious voice continued, “And now I am terribly sorry, but it seems like our server is down, so we need to use alternative methods for payment, like gift cards.” “I’m sorry, what?” She asked. “Yes, Ma’am. Gift cards. Do you currently live near Target or Walmart, maybe?” The voice responded. All of this sounded so new to Gertrude, so different from how things worked when she was younger, but Albert’s birthday was coming up, and an “NFL Pass” did sound like something he would like. ___________________________ “Ok, So what's the catch?” Mark shook his head. “Sir, for the last time, this is the bargain bin. Everything in here is and will always be five dollars. That is the point.” “So you are saying this DVD copy of I am Legend, AND this DVD copy of The Money Pit-” “Yes, are both five dollars.” “So what’s the catch?” “I don’t know, maybe you need a DVD player? Are you gonna buy something, sir, or just ask questions?” The man humpfed and scurried off. This was Mark's last day, or maybe his last week, last month, for sure. He had just enough savings to start something new. Maybe go back to school and become a vet, maybe! Mark liked animals. He was going to talk to his boss, and soon, right after he dealt with this kid coming in hot from Aisle 9. “Hey! I saw you take that Fast & Furious BluRay off the wall and put it in the bargain bin, you can't just take it out now, and have it be magically five dollars. It doesn't work like that!” The kid stared blankly at Mark.  “Get outta here!” Mark scolded, and without a word, the kid took off. “Ok then.” Mark thought. Now is the time he’d go up to Angela and tell her he was quitting. If not today, definitely tomorrow. He started his B-line to Angela's office, then froze. It was only Tuesday. Someone told him Fridays are the best days to quit a job once.

“Ok then.” He thought. New plan of attack: He’ll coast the rest of the week and definitely quit Friday. But wait. Damnit, hold on. Friday was his day off. He was supposed to go fishing with his Dad.

“Ok then.” He thought. He’ll first check on a calendar what weeks work and fully plan the best time to pull the trigger. Yeah, better to be prepared for something this serious. In that case, nothing can go wrong. In that case, he’ll be mentally prepared. In that case, he- “Excuse me, young man, where can I find a thousand dollars worth of Google play cards?” It took Mark a second to snap back to reality. Once he did, he noticed an elderly woman in a yellow floral house dress and slippers standing right in front of him. She had an old flip phone to her ear, seemingly having two conversations at once. “Excuse me?” Mark questioned. “I said, I’m asking him now!” The woman yelled into her phone. She then looked up to Mark, with eyes as wide as owls’ in her reading glasses. “I need one thousand dollars of Giggle play car-” she paused to listen to the voice on her phone. “Oh, sorry, one thousand dollars of Google play cards for the NFL pass for Albie.” She blinked. “Sorry, I’m not sure I follo-” “iTunes Cards work also.” The woman interjected, phone hovering from her ear. “Who are you on the phone with?” Mark asked. “Oh, this is DirecTV. They need a thousand dollars of Google play cards so Albie can get NFL Pass.” Owl eyes staring Blankly. “Albie?” He responded. “Oh yes, it’s his birthday coming up!” The woman put the phone back to her head. “Oh, they really want to know the status of the Google play cards…” Mark thought for a moment.“Would you mind if I talked to them?” “Oh of cours-” She paused. Mark could hear yelling from the other end of the line. “Oh wait, no, you can’t” “Why can’t I?” Mark asked the woman. “Why can’t he?” The woman asked the phone. After a short pause, the woman dictates, “Because you are not a ‘verified user,’ they said. They said they can only speak to verified users to, you know, protect from scammers.” “Ok, give me the phone, please,” Mark said as directly as he could, and with little delay, the old woman did just that. “Hello?” said Mark to whoever was on the other end of the phone, “Who is this? For a moment, all Mark heard was silence. Then, the sound of papers shuffling.

“Uh, this is DirecTV.” A voice finally responds. The voice sounded young and anxious, and the sound of papers made it seem like he was reading from a script. Without hesitation, Mark hung up the phone and returned it to the woman.

“Oh no! Why did you hang up?” She cried. “I’m sorry, but here’s the thing. That wasn’t DirecTV.” “It wasn’t?” She asked, absolutely puzzled. “No, those people were trying to scam you.” Sternly replied Mark. “Me?” She asked. “Yes.” He answered. “But why?” “I don’t know, they probably figured you didn’t understand technology or whatever, and you wouldn’t question all the weird stuff they asked for you.” “But what about NFL Pass for Albie?” Her owl eye’s bigger than before. Mark paused. He tried to sound as sympathetic as he could, “I’m sorry, there was never going to be NFL Pass for, is that your kid?” “Oh no, my husband, Albie. We’ve been married for over 60 years. His birthday is coming up, and I really wanted to surprise him with the NFL Pass or whatsitcalled.” The woman lit up, “Wait is that something you can help me with.” “I’m sorry. It’s not.” The woman looked down in defeat.

As a last-ditch effort, Mark grabbed a DVD from the Bargain Bin, “But I do have Remember the Titans.” He added. The old woman’s face lit up more than before. Her entire pupil filled the frame of her owlish reading glasses. “Did you say Remember the Titans?” “Yes! I mean, there are tons of DVDs here. There’s gotta be one tha-” “Albie loves Remember the Titans! Oh, we saw this the night of our 42nd anniversary. That Denzel Washington is a real knockout, even Albie thinks so! And don’t get me started on that Hayden Panettiere! Yes, yes, this will be fantastic! How much?” “Please, just take it, on me! Help yourself if you find anything else here. I’ll charge it to my name. It’s the least I can do with what you’ve been through.” “No, No, this is more than enough. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Cheered the woman. “Well, please let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with today!” Smiled Mark. “That will be all! Have a wonderful rest of your day.” The woman then turned toward the exit, took a few steps, and stopped. “You know,” She added, “there was a time when I wasn’t such an easy target for people like that, you know.” “I hear you.” Replied Mark. “I used to understand people and the world and how it all worked. How it ebbed and flowed. You understand?” “I understand.” Replied Mark. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, life is short, and sometimes I get so caught up with my own little problems that I forget to notice an entire world is changing around me.” The woman paused. Her face turned somber and then, in an instant, happy again. “Oh well,” she smiled, “Toodaloo!” Mark tried to think of a reply, but before he could, the old woman was gone. Mark made a B-line to Angela's office.

___________________________ *RIING* *RIING* Gertrude was just about to close her emails when she noticed a number she hadn’t seen before pop up on her screen. Promptly, she picked up the phone. “ Hello! We’re here with Chase Bank to inform you that you’ve had a serious breach of security on your account today! We’re here to help provide service to get your money back!” The voice was strict but friendly. “Oh, dear!” Gertrude responded, “It was these terrible, terrible scam artists. They made me drive all the way to Walmart for gift cards it was awful!” “So sorry to hear, ma’am! Thankfully we are here to help. All we would need to do first is verify your account. Can you please provide us with the last five digits of your social security?” “Wow!” Gertrude thought. After a day like hers, this was the luck she needed. Finally, a break. Finally, a time to-

“Wait... The last five ?” “Yes, ma’am. Just the last five digits, and we can proceed.” “Hmm, I think you mean the last four.” For a moment, all Gertrude heard was silence. Then, the sound of papers shuffling.


It felt strange to have somebody else in my garden.

It was a rather special and intimate place between only nature and I; but now there was somebody else.

I wasn’t angry nor was I scared that he was in my space, it just felt...different.

It was a warm and beautiful day. The sun shone down brightly onto my growing plants and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The birds shared in the joy, singing sweet melodies that merged and mixed together creating one big masterpiece. It was beautiful. Richard was his name, and I thought that it fit him well. He stood calmly in the centre of my backyard, a comically large straw hat placed on top of his short grey hair and a goofy smile plastered across his face. The sun hit his features at an angle that made his bright blue eyes shine splendidly in the light and his face looked almost youthful. He was beautiful. I sighed at the thought, mentally lecturing myself for having momentarily failed Terry as I fondled the dulling old ring on my finger.

I’d met Richard at the local community centre during a bake sale a few weeks back. He’d seemed to take an immediate interest in my garden of which I told him very little about, but with great enthusiasm. I was glad that he had taken a certain delight in my hobby so, with a sudden impulse, I’d invited him over to check it out.

“Wow, this is gorgeous!” He’d exclaimed upon entering my backyard. His mouth had been slightly agape as he’d stared at the vegetation in awe. I had simply blushed and thanked him, tucking a strand of stray white hair behind my ear. Nobody else had ever set foot in that area since Terry, and it took me a strange amount of courage to let Richard in. However, I was glad that I did.

“Alright, so first thing’s first, here are some gloves.” I said, handing him a pair of gardening gloves imprinted with a charming pattern of blue and white flowers. I also pulled on my own gloves decorated with detailed images of ladybugs and butterflies. Then, I led him to an isolated spot near the back corner of the yard. It was a calm and shadowy area under a tall and beautiful oak tree. The light seeped gracefully through the tree’s long and leafy branches, creating moving patterns and pictures on the floor. I had already prepared the soil and filled the vacant garden box that I had decided we could use, leaving the necessary tools laid out neatly in the grass. Richard had a bit of trouble bending over, his legs being slightly stiff, and he chuckled whole-heartedly when he stumbled down onto the ground in a sudden movement. He had a nice laugh, I thought to myself, trying to push away the growing guilt that had begun to overcome me.

“Okay, so all you have to do is dig a little hole,” I began, using the shovel to pull up a section of soil “and then put the seed in.” I finished, plopping a white pip into the ground and covering it back up. He simply rolled his eyes. “I know how to plant a seed,” he said in a mockingly-sarcastic tone, “I’m not that dumb.” I suddenly felt bad and began to apologize. “Sorry, I didn't mean-” He chuckled again, the warm sound reassuring me. “I didn’t mean it like that, Janet. I was just joking.” He said, lightly nudging my side.

“Oh, ok.” I replied, forcing a smile, but feeling taken aback at the sudden contact. Though it was a friendly gesture, nobody had ever really touched me since Terry, and the moment played back over and over in my head, feeling slightly more intimate every time.

There was a brief moment of silence as he proceeded to bury a few seeds himself. “See? I’m an expert already!” He exclaimed proudly with a toothy grin. I smiled back at him before returning to the seeds that I had begun working on.

We remained in a calm and peaceful silence for a while as we both worked away on our separate tasks, exchanging the occasional comment on the beautiful weather or on some bit of news we’d read in the papers. It was pleasant.

Then, I suddenly dropped my shovel and it scrapped the side of one of my fragile fingers just enough to draw a bit of blood. Richard turned to me immediately. “Are you okay?” He asked with concern.

I felt more embarrassed than in pain at the fact that I had made such a careless mistake after so many decades of practice, but reassured him nonetheless. “Yes, I’m fine.” He didn’t persist any further, but took a band-aid out of his pocket and unpeeled it carefully, asking me silently to make the next move.

So, with slight hesitation, I held out my injured hand to Richard who tenderly wrapped the tape around my finger. I was flattered at his kindness, but was completely taken aback when he placed a delicate kiss on the injured spot. I pulled back my hand immediately in shock and fear, trembling slightly but trying to control my nerves.

“I’m sorry, I-” He began to apologize rapidly.

“No, no, it’s okay.” I assured, though I wasn’t completely certain if I even agreed with my own statement. We sat in an awkward silence for a few seconds before he spoke up again. “You’re beautiful, Janet.” I scoffed, trying to cover up my shock and fear. “How?” I asked curiously, pushing all thoughts of Terry guiltily aside.

I stared tentatively into his bright blue eyes. They reminded me of forget-me-nots . Beautiful.

“I’m old, wrinkly, and frail.” Richard shook his head immediately. “No. You’re beautiful.” He assured, turning back to his work without saying another word. I was unsatisfied with his explanation, but returned to what I was doing nonetheless, deciding that I would not be persistent nor pesky.

Once more, I could feel Terry’s presence re-emerge in my mind and I felt miserable. I was seeking two completely different things that could not unite. Both Terry and Richard could simply not exist in the same universe. It was unsettling. We both continued to drop the seeds into the holes and cover them up with soil in silence, the singing birds filling the awkward air as we both remained deep in thought. The sweat was accumulating on my cheeks and I wiped an arm carelessly across my forehead, accidentally knocking off my glasses. I sighed, looking down at my dirty gloves, but just as I was about to remove them, Richard picked up my glasses from in the grass. He wiped them gently on his shirt and placed them delicately back on my face with a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear in the process and gently running his hand down my cheekbone. He apologized again, but did not pull his hand away. Instead, he wiped away a stray tear that had somehow made its way down my cheek.

“What’s wrong, Janet?” He asked, worried and concerned. I felt embarrassed--humiliated--crying in front of Richard. I was overreacting.

He placed a hesitant hand across my back, waiting for my response patiently. I only shook my head, holding my hand with the ring up to my heart and saying his name, asking for either forgiveness or for comfort. “Terry.” Richard did not know of Terry, but he spotted the ring on my finger and from his expression, I could tell that he had guessed. “I’m so sorry.” He said, full of empathy. I onl y continued to cry.

Richard wrapped his arms around my frail frame and pulled me close to his chest so that I could hear his beating heart. He was not going to leave me. “It’s okay, Janet.” He assured, rubbing tender circles on my back. There were a few more minutes of silence before I mumbled hesitantly, “I have to let him go.” “Pardon?” “I have to let him go.” I repeated, a bit louder this time and with more conviction. Richard said nothing, but let me proceed. “I’ve been hanging on to him for so long.” I explained “He’s been gone for so long.” “What happened?” Asked Richard prudently. “A heart attack.” I simply replied with a sigh. Richard said nothing more, but squeezed me closer to his chest in comfort. “It’s been almost twenty years,” I explained, desperate to get everything off my chest “twenty year since he’s been gone. Twenty years since I’ve locked up my heart.” Richard hummed in acknowledgment, letting me know that he was listening. “It’s been twenty years of loneliness, guilt and misery.” I finally declared with a frown. There was another brief silence before I continued. “He’d want me to be happy.” I said to myself “He’d want me to be happy, right?” “I’m sure he would.” Replied Richard slowly. With hesitation, I took the ring off of my finger for the first time in years and placed it delicately on a stone under the tree. “I have to let him go.” I repeated as I stared down at the metal. Then, Richard unwrapped his arm from around me and pulled me down beside him so that we were side by side, leaning against the thick wood of the tree trunk, my small hand in his. For the first time in twenty years, I felt a strong weight lifted from my shoulders and a sense of reassuring peace emerge. I looked back at the ring that I had placed on the stone and noticed that it was glimmering for the first time in years under the bright sunny sky. I told myself that it was a sign; a promise for happiness. We sat in a comfortable silence in the cool shade as the birds continued to sing melodically in the trees. “Thank you for letting me into your heart,” smiled Richard “and into your garden.” He whispered, placing a gentle kiss on my fragile forehead. “ Our garden.” I corrected, smiling contently as my eyes fluttered gently shut and an uplifting sense of happiness overtook me.


Loreal paced the floor of her living room. Too anxious to even notice the beauty of the autumn colors bathing in the sunlight. Her third floor apartment windows offered her a bird’s eye view of the park and the tops of the trees. Leaves dancing along the sidewalks below went unnoticed.

Wringing her hands, she questioned everything. How did she end up agreeing to a blind date? A blind date ! “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” She gave her friend a sharp look. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you don’t stop your frantic pacing.” Andrea sat calmly on the couch. “You’re becoming unhinged.” “I’m a nervous wreck. I’m meeting a complete stranger.” Her friend smiled inwardly. Complete strangers? Loreal would soon find out who the mystery man really was. What was the point of a blind date when she would be too nervous to be herself? Loreal stopped in front of the full-length mirror, turned in each direction to examine all sides of her, and smoothed her dress. At least the dress would make an impression. She hoped. The dark coral colored dress complimented her tan skin. The hem, ending just above the knee, revealed her slender legs. She had switched from bedazzled, eye-catching heels, to a more modest black pair with a strap at the ankle. She felt confident in the way she looked, if only her nerves would settle down to allow her personality to shine through. “You look perfect. Please just try to relax and enjoy the evening.” “You won’t even tell me his name?” She exhorted, hoping Andrea would divulge just a teensy bit of information. She shook her head, “No, that’s the fun of it.” “Then how on earth am I going to know who I’m looking for?” Loreal asked. Smirking, “Hopefully after tonight, you need not look any longer.”

Loreal laughed through her nose. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Andrea gave her an encouraging smile and handed Loreal her clutch, preparing to shoo her out the door. “He’ll be wearing jeans, a black blazer and a red dress shirt. Brown hair. And he’ll have a rose. Now go.” Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a similar conversation was happening. Nolan was pressing his friend for more information on the mystery girl he was meeting.

“How will I know who the rose is for?” He asked, frustrated. A rose, how cliché, he thought to himself. “You didn’t sign me up for that ridiculous Bachelor TV show did you?” “Ha!” Evan cackled. Slapping his knee, he stood up. “Just as long as you give it to the girl in the dark coral dress.”

Nolan was completely baffled. “I don’t even know what that color looks like.” “Neither do I, but that’s the description I was given.” The skin between Nolan’s eyebrows wrinkled with suspicion and confusion. He didn’t bother asking who the description came from, his friend wouldn’t give up any information. “This is going to be a disaster.” As instructed, Nolan headed for the bar to wait for his date. To sit or to stand, that was the question. He first decided to stand, then he sat, before finally settling on a combination of the two, with his back to the bartop. Either way, he felt absurd with the rose in his hand. No matter the age, any warm-bodied female that walked by eyed him up and down. The look on their faces were all the same. As if they were imagining what he looked like with his shirt off, offering the rose. Not that he wasn’t used to lustful glances being thrown his way, but this time he was awfully aware of the banality. Should he order a drink? What if he did and his date didn’t drink? Maybe he should just wait. Questions and thoughts pummeled his mind. A voluptuous blonde walked in in a color dress he couldn’t identify. She stopped. She was searching for someone. He watched her, hoping she wasn’t the one the rose was meant for. He had dated women who looked like her. A flicker of interest crossed her eyes when she met his own. He gave a faint smile and looked away. Closing his eyes, he thought to himself, please not her. Luckily, she spotted who she was looking for and trotted off. After taking too many deep breaths, Loreal felt a wave of lightheadedness come over her. She braced herself on the romanesque pillar outside the front doors before relinquishing herself to whatever the evening would bring. She headed for the bar, as instructed.

The majority of the barstools were occupied. Women. Men. Couples. One of them must be him. But who? Upon further inspection, only one man looked alone. The seat next to him was empty. There was no obvious rose, not from the angle where she stood, nor by the direction he faced. His right arm rested on the black granite surface, one foot setting on the footrest, the other firmly on the floor. The handsome profile of the lone man caught her attention.

He hadn’t noticed her yet. She took several steps forward, just a mere five feet away. Tilting her head ever so slightly in disbelief. The profile was unmistakable. Sucking in a breath of air, it caught in her throat.

Nolan must have heard the gasp, or sensed her presence. He instantly turned, meeting her eyes. “Loreal?” He rose from the barstool, electrifying the air that now sizzled between them. “Nolan.” Was all she managed from her lips as he approached. The look of surprise on her face was unavoidably obvious.

“I’m shocked to see you. I didn’t know you were back in town. What are you doing here?” His warm, brown eyes. His height. The tender, eager look upon his face. All of which brought back a flood of feelings. “I’m here to-” She cut herself off as her eyes drifted down to the rose dangling in his right hand. “I’m here to meet a man...with a rose.”

No way. No way was his blind date his high school sweetheart. Stunned silence inevitably followed the epiphany. Disbelief. Excitement. And most of all, hope infiltrated every corner of his being.

The edge of his mouth tipped up, “So does that mean your dress is what one would call dark coral?” She let out a small giggle. “Yes, this is it. I guess I’m the one you’ve been waiting for.”

Yes. Yes you are, for twelve years . But he knew he couldn’t say those words. Not yet anyway.

Loreal wasn’t sure how she felt about her long lost love being her blind date. There was never a doubt in her mind when they were younger that she wanted to marry him someday. But when she went off to college, he ended their relationship. Would this night dredge up old memories? Would she be left with the same heartbroken feeling from twelve years ago? Just put on a good face and get through this evening. Nolan held up the rose in the center of his torso. “Would you like this rose?” He twirled it in his fingertips. Her heart picked up its pace and then clumsily skipped a beat. What was happening? She peered up at him through her long lashes. “Yes.” She brought the petals to her nose and breathed in the sweet scent. He offered her a seat at the bar. She ordered a scrumptious autumn sangria. He chose a robust whiskey with accents of maple, chocolate and orange. The two former lovers caught up on life and everything that has happened since they last spoke, those twelve long years ago. Nolan let his feelings rekindle and ignite. While Loreal, held back her emotions, making sure they didn’t resurface only to sting her later. “I have an idea.” Nolan’s voice was energetic, his eyes lit up. “Instead of having dinner at a place that was chosen for us, how about we take this somewhere else?” Quirking a brow, she wondered what he was up to. “Where do you suggest?” “Oh, I don’t know...” A playful look clung to his face. He did know. “I was thinking our favorite place to get hot dogs and fries back in the day.” He waited for her initial response. His attention was drawn to her lips as she tried to suppress a smile. “You mean to Jibby’s Hot Dogs?” Her smile was on full display now. “Is that place still around?” Noland released a huff of laughter. “Yeah, it’s still around, let’s go.” He paid for their drinks and headed out for hot dogs. Neither of them saw a reason for her to take another cab.

Sitting outside under strands of lights, they enjoyed the place they spent countless dates. Hot dogs with cheddar cheese and chili sauce, and french fries dressed the same, was always their go-to meal.

Loreal’s nerves melted away like the cheese melting over her food. Both of their forks went for the same glob of fries on their shared plate. He, ever so playfully, swatted her fork away with his. Then shoved the fries in his mouth. Smiling and chewing victoriously. Her jaw jutted forward. Snatching the plate away, she turned and stuffed in the cheesiest of the fries. No longer did she have to worry about trying to be herself. Nolan always brought out the best in her. Their playful nature toward each other was as natural as the autumn breeze. He never forgot how much he adored her. Could this night have brought with it the beginning of a second chance? “So how is it do you think we came to be on this date together?” She took another bite of her hot dog. “Our friends who set this up have to know each other somehow.” “I’ve been trying to figure that out too. They must know our history. We dated, you went away and I stayed here.” He regretted the words the moment they left his lips. He hadn’t meant for the statement to sound flat and direct. The same pang of pain he felt stab his stomach he saw on her face.

The air was never cleared between them once she left for college. She thought he didn’t love her the way she loved him. Never wanting to return his phone calls, assuming he felt guilty. She didn’t want pity. And she never moved back home, until a month ago. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean for it to sound-“ She cut him off.

“It’s fine. It’s in the past. Let’s just enjoy what time we have left tonight.” She averted eye contact.

Unsure if she was avoiding the past, or if she simply wasn’t bothered by it anymore, he decided to leave it.

“I have another idea, if you’re up for it.” He gave a small, hopeful smile.

How could she say no to those soulful brown eyes? They always managed to pull her in. She was lost in them. “What do you have in mind this time?”

“Another place we used to go as teenagers.” Extending his hand, he helped her into his truck. The brief touch of their hands sent shock waves coursing through their bodies. She tried to remain as unperturbed as she could possibly muster.

“Do you ever miss your old truck?” She asked as they drove down the road. “Yeah, that was a good ole’ pickup.” He smiled at the memories. Drive-in movies, stargazing, bonfires and music. “We had a lot of good times with that truck. A certain first I distinctly remember.” He looked over at her briefly with a boyish grin. Luckily her blushing was hidden in the darkness of the evening. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Memories. Dates. Kisses. Embraces. Whispers. All swirling in both of their minds. Remembering made Nolan want more. Remembering made her want to forget.

“The roller rink? You’re taking us to the roller rink?” The inquiry and playfulness was evident in her tone.

With his left hand still atop the steering wheel, he faced her. “Why not take the opportunity to travel down memory lane? Ya know, for old times sake?” Secretly, he was hoping this would draw her closer to him. He suspected she was pulling away. But why? “I hope you won’t mind skating in a dress.” He chuckled as he stepped out of the truck.

They hit the rink with the old roller blades on their feet. Instinctively, he reached for her hand, clasping it firmly in his. She tried not to stiffen, but she couldn’t ignore how comfortable and familiar his hand was. She concentrated on skating, but his focus was solely on her.

Around and around they went, as if they were seventeen again, with nothing ahead of them but a future with each other. He stopped for them to rest along one of the back walls.

Loreal looked around, then back up at Nolan. “This is where we had our first kiss.” Her eyes looked as though the memory pained her.

He wanted nothing more in that moment than to reenact their very first kiss. To take back the biggest mistake of his life when he didn’t follow her to college. But what would a farm boy have done in a city like Duquesne? Back then he thought she could do much better than him. And now, both of them were in their thirties, and spouseless. Wasn’t she, too, wondering if they were meant to be? Still meant to be? Shaking herself from the emotion welling up inside of her, she changed the subject. “So what’s next on our little tour?” The sooner this evening ended, the sooner she could get back to trying to vanquish the hurt. And suppress what she still longed to have. Every moment she spent with him made it harder for her to deny that she still wanted those very same things with him.

He smiled in such a way that made her warm through to her very core. “Ice cream.” Humor lit her eyes. “Angie’s Corner?” He let out a laugh. “There’s no better place. Do you remember its nickname back in the day?” “Utter Relactation. How could anyone forget that?” Coconut cream pie was always Loreal’s favorite. Dark chocolate chunk was his. Shrugging off his blazer, he placed it over her shoulders. To his surprise, she snugged up closer to him while they sat on the bench. Oh how she missed his warmth and his masculinity. There was never a time when she hadn’t felt safe and protected by him.

The evening was coming to a close. She wanted to remain in those moments forever. To press pause and linger in the security of his presence. But Nolan, he was delighting himself in the wonders of what tomorrow could bring. Alongside the excitement that was bustling inside him, there was niggling hesitation. Nearing the end of their blind date, he wasn’t confident with where he stood with her. Had he convinced her of anything? She might not have confidence in where a future with him would go. How could she rely on him as a man when he left her high and dry? Even though he thought he was doing it for her own good, she still didn’t know that. Nolan cared deeply for her. Loved her. This night made him realize how much of those feelings never went away and only intensified the instant he saw her.

Fate stood at their door, offering each of them a second chance at the love they once shared. Nolan was eager to accept. Loreal didn’t want to be abandoned again. How could she accept fate's temptation when there was no guarantee? He reached over and tucked a tendril of brunette hair behind her ear. She could’ve sworn there was a physical spark that shot out when his finger brushed her cheek. He didn’t remove his hand, but instead slid it into the curve of her neck, gently pulling her in. Just before their lips met, she turned her face. Disappointment and the loss of all possibility lingered in the air between them. He placed a soft kiss on her cheek. That was his answer. She would never be his again. “I’ll take you home now if you’d like.” She heard the difference in his voice. Dejection. On the steps leading up to her apartment, was where they were destined to end. Loreal thanked him for the evening and for the reminiscing. They held a long embrace. Neither wanting to let go. He placed a kiss on her forehead, left her at the door, and headed for his truck. When he heard her key slide into the lock, it was as if a bolt of lightning struck him. His fight for her wasn’t over. “I never wanted to let you go.” Her heart stopped. Her breathing stopped. Everything stopped. She paused before she turned to him. “Then why did you?” Taking a few steps towards her, “I wasn’t good enough for you. At least, that’s what I told myself. A pretty girl like you, going off to a big city college, I didn’t stand a chance. I didn’t want to hold you back from finding someone better suited for you.” He shrugged, knowing his reason was just an excuse in her ears. “Don’t you think that was my decision? You broke my heart. But yet I still tried, I tried to love someone else.” She choked back tears as he went back up the steps. “My heart only wanted to love yours. And all the while it only made me love you more.” “Tonight made me realize I never stopped loving you.” Tears streaked her cheeks. “I never stopped loving you either.” Nolan pulled her into his arms as their lips met with fervor. Never again would he let her go. From this day forward, he would nevermore forsake his second chance.


“Ma’am? It’s almost time to meet the ambassador.” Delaney Cohen cracked her neck and buttoned the last button on her top. She puffed out her cheeks and examined her lipstick for any smudges—it’d been a while since she spoke French. Maybe the ambassador would speak English and she wouldn’t have to fake her way through a terrible accent. She grabbed her lucky pebble and slipped it into her skirt pocket. “Ma’am? Ms. Cohen?” “Sorry, Olive.” Delaney smoothed down the fly-aways in her hair and brushed the “I still believe” bumper sticker she’d stuck to the inside of her drawer, where nobody could see. She should’ve left earlier. “I’m ready, I promise.” “Good. We really can’t afford to be late.” Olive scuttled in front of Delaney and straightened her collar, and although Delaney rolled her eyes, she didn’t push Olive away. She might treat Delaney more like a child than a boss, but it’s not like she could complain. Not now, not as late as she perpetually was. “Come this way, ma’am.” Delaney followed Olive until they got to the end of the hallway. There, she overtook Olive, so it looked more like the professional-associate relationship it was supposed to be. “Straighten your back, ma’am,” Olive hissed as Delaney opened the door, and Delaney managed to not roll her eyes a second time as she pressed open the door and squinted in the bright sun. Blinking furiously, Delaney walked briskly towards the circle drive where she stopped. Luckily, the black car that signaled the ambassador’s arrival was just a speck at the end of the mile-long driveway. Delaney curled her toes in. Her pumps were professional, spotless, and so, so painful. She should’ve cut her toenails last night, but she hadn’t, and she hadn’t this morning and now it was too late, and she would meet the ambassador with pinched, swollen feet. He probably wouldn’t notice though. He’d probably see right through her, just like all the other pompous bureaucrats she’d shown around their new homes. “Remember, the new ambassador has an aide who is in a wheelchair, so you’ll want to show her all the—” “Wait, she?” Olive rolled her eyes. “You really don’t listen, do you? The new ambassador is a woman. The old ambassador retired. That’s why there’s a new ambassador. That’s why you’re showing the new ambassador to her new home. We went over all of this yesterday. Are you a fool, ma’am?” “No,” said Delaney, feeling quite the fool. “No, I just… I just assumed.” The black speck was getting larger and Delaney straightened her back. A woman. Not that there was anything wrong with that—Delaney had just been expecting a carbon copy of the old ambassador, in all his windbag-ness. With a cramp in her stomach, Delaney realized that she didn’t remember the new ambassador’s name. The black speck morphed into a real life car, and as Delaney scrabbled at every French woman’s name she could think of, the car came to a stop in front of her feet. By the time the driver had opened the backseat door, Delaney had given up, and she smiled at the short, brown skinned woman who climbed out of the car and looked up at her with strangely familiar eyes. Delaney’s smile almost faltered. There was something familiar about the new ambassador. “ Bienvenue , Madame l'ambassadrice ,” Delaney said, going into an unnecessary curtsy. Olive gave her a murderous look—no doubt just realizing that Delaney had forgotten the new ambassador’s name. “ Je m’appelle Delaney Cohen, et je serai en charge de l'hébergement pour votre séjour dans notre ambassade . C'est mon assistant , Olive Condos.” The French spilled off her tongue clumsily, almost drunkenly. If she’d known she’d be making a first impression, she would’ve practiced earlier. Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. Olive bowed her head in respect, momentarily breaking her stare. “Enchantée, Ambassadrice Desmarais,” she said pointedly and Delaney relaxed her shoulders back. Ambassador Desmarais smiled politely, and suddenly something clicked in Delaney’s head. “Oh! Are you related to the former Ambassador Desmarais? Sorry,” she said, quickly regaining her composure, “I mean, uh, es-tu lié —” “English is fine,” Ambassador Desmarais interrupted. “And yes, I’m his daughter.” She had no accent, unlike her predecessor, and her voice gave Delaney such a sense of déjà vu that it sent shivers down her spine. “Then you would have grown up here, in this house,” Delaney said, gesturing towards the front door. “Yes,” Ambassador Desmarais said, gazing up at the awning. “My father always said that when my brother was old enough, he would have this job and live in this house. Theodore became a stripper instead, and now this is all mine. Guess which one of us has a more heavy paycheck, though.” The ambassador looked down at Delaney and smirked, and Delaney couldn’t help but laugh. When she rumbled down into a giggle, she found the ambassador examining her curiously. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to laugh—she’d just thought it would break the tension that had swamped her every experience with the previous ambassadors. Then, Ambassador Desmarais laughed as well, and took a step towards the door. “It has been a while since I lived here.” “Let us show you around.” This was the part Delaney was good at. She lead the ambassador from room to room, floor to floor, and the Ambassador willingly followed, commenting on her own childhood memories in the house. Still, though, Delaney couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew the Ambassador from somewhere, somewhere else than just her familiar last name. “And here is the service elevator,” Delaney said. Olive fluttered by her elbow—no matter how much she disliked how casual Delaney was acting, there was nothing she could do about it in the presence of the ambassador. “When I was younger,” Ambassador Desmarais said, “my older sister and I tried to put our little sister in there, before our father caught us.” Delaney lead her away, towards the third bathroom. “You must have had a big family.” “Bigger than some. It was us, the three girls, and then my brother, the oldest. My father liked him best. We joke around that he wasn’t paying attention when we were born so he gave us all the same name.” “Did he?” “Sort of. My sisters are Veronica and Victoria and I’m Berenice, of course,” the ambassador said, and Delaney nodded. Of course. “They all mean victory, or something about victory.” “That’s very interesting, This is the largest bathroom in the house.” Berenice Desmarais. That was so familiar. Delaney couldn’t deny it now. She knew the ambassador from something, and from the looks the ambassador was shooting her when she wasn’t looking, Ambassador Desmarais knew her too. They never seemed to make eye contact, though. “It’s very nice. Good tub space.” “I think so too.” “And in here is the master bedroom. It’s got a lovely view.” Ambassador Desmarais pulled open the window. “Ah, screens. I will have to get used to American window screens again.” She sneezed. “Gesundheit.” “Thank you. Allergies, I fear.” “That’s a shame.” Delaney narrowed her eyes at the ambassador. “I get them too.” “Really? Are you new to the area?” “Nope. Lived here all my life.” Ambassador Desmarais examined her again. “Where did you go to school? Grace Hodges Academy?” “No, my mother homeschooled me,” Delaney replied. “I didn’t socialize much as a child. We couldn’t have paid for Grace Hodges Academy. We never did anything on that side of town.” Stalemate. Delaney and the ambassador studied each other. “Do you have family in politics?” “No. My father works in a grocery store and my mother was a professor.” Olive, who had watched this back and forth and understood none of it, nudged Delaney in the side. Delaney got the message. “Alright. All that’s left to show you is the gardens.” Berenice Desmarais, Berenice Desmarais, Berenice Desmarais. Delaney tumbled it over and over in her mind as she walked down the stairs. She didn’t bother mentioning the art that adorned the walls—it had been there for more than twenty years, so the ambassador had undoubtedly seen it. “Careful on the threshold,” she called behind her. “Of course.” “These are the mums—we have them planted each spring.” “Oh?” Ambassador Desmarais bent towards the earth. “Can I choose the colors at least?” Delaney shrugged. “Sure, if you’d like. I can have the gardeners come by next week, if you’d—” “No, no, I can do it myself. Besides, I’d love to be able to have a garden again. I haven’t been able to dig in any dirt in years, but I learned the basics during a summer camp that I—” Suddenly, she stopped, and looked up at Delaney, the flush gone from her cheeks. Delaney took a step back. Berry Desmarais, the only other girl who could speak French at Wilderness Camp in 1983. The only one who had snuck out with her to watch the sunrise. The only other person who had seen Bigfoot that night. The ambassador stood and bowed slightly, never breaking eye contract with Delaney. “Thank you for showing me the house, Ms. Cohen.” “Of course, Madame Ambassador,” said Delaney. “I must be going now,” the Ambassador said, her eyes shining just as brightly as that warm July night when they’d seen Bigfoot emerge from the trees. “I have meetings to attend to.” “I will call a car for you, Ambassador Desmarais,” said Olive, pulling out her cell phone. “And if anything doesn’t fit your standards,” Delaney added, “anything at all, feel free to… feel free to call me. I am in charge of accommodations after all.” The ambassador reached into her pocket and grabbed something, and although she didn’t show it to Delaney, it looked to be about the size as Delaney’s own lucky pebble that she’d stolen from the woods that night to remember. “I’m going to go use the bathroom. I’ll be back before the car comes.” As the ambassador crossed back into the house, Olive finished her phone call and nudged Delaney with her elbow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you and the ambassador seemed to be flirting, ma’am.” “No, not really.” Delaney smiled. The bond they shared was far greater than any romance anyway. Delaney smiled. France-US relations were in good hands.