A thud. The mattress wobbles. “Hey. Marry me.” Anoushka groans, and burrows further into the pillow. ______________________________________________________ Some unknowable number of hours later, Anoushka is finally feeling once more capable of being alive, though not without some bitterness. She finds Jade in the kitchen, sat cross-legged on a chair and hunched over a book. She looks up as Anoushka comes in, smiles at her, soft and warm. “Merry Almost Christmas.” “Back at ya.” She pauses on her way to the kettle, hand coming to rest on the back of her chair as she leans over to kiss her on the cheek. Her mug is already on the counter, she notices, next to the coffee that’s also been left out. She tips out some powder, forgoing the spoon, and then hops up onto the worktop to wait for the water to boil. Jade straightens slightly in her seat, eyes scanning words with marked intent. She finishes up her chapter and sets her book on the table, page marked with an old grocery receipt. The kettle finishes boiling. Anoushka finishes making her coffee. She holds the mug in both hands - the steam warms her face, just the right side of too hot. She looks at Jade. “So. Lunch at Anna’s today, right?” Receiving a confirming nod, she continues. “Presents?” “Still under our tree. We should pile them up before we get ready to go.” “Is Kiran’s -” “Yep. Wrapped it while you were asleep.” Anoushka sighs. “Thanks.” She takes her first sip. Jade shrugs. “No big deal. Nothing else to do anyway, and you were asleep a very long time.” “Awww,” she coos, dropping off her perch. “Missed my sparkling personality, huh?” Her tone is light and teasing, but she moves across the kitchen to drape an arm around Jade’s shoulders in something half-hug, half-apology.

Jade leans into the touch, looks up at her. She sighs, though her tone doesn’t quite manage to hit the faux-exasperation Anoushka’s sure she was aiming for. “I am going to ask Santa to bring you so much coal.” They walk into the living room together, debating the various merits of being gifted coal. Anoushka, being over half a foot shorter than Jade, had dropped her arm at some point out of necessity, so it now rests loosely about Jade’s waist. Jade has her elbow at Anoushka’s shoulder and is leaning heavily onto it, shifting her weight over almost on instinct. The joint digs into her flesh. The tree stands in one corner, a garish, foil affair, loud and gaudy and balanced precariously atop an old cat scratching post that one or the other had appropriated from someone or the other many years ago. Lights smother the structure as if doing so could suffocate the spirit of Christmas itself - Anoushka has been buying a new string of LEDs every year for almost a decade now, and these days their makeshift tree more closely resembles a military dazzler, best only viewed out of the corner of the eye. Every colour found under the sun is present, and, as Jade likes to posit, likely a fair few that aren’t as well. A half metre above the tree, a small bookshelf has been temporarily cleared to make space for cards, while presents lie at the base of the post, scattered without consideration. Anoushka studies the pile, appraising. “We’ve been living together too long. People don’t bother giving us separate gifts anymore.” Jade evidently doesn’t think this observation worth a verbal response, but she presses her elbow a little heavier into her shoulder, deliberately, and Anoushka laughs. They sit down, legs crossed and angled just slightly towards each other. Anoushka begins rifling through packages, checking labels against a mental list of people she’s expecting to find at Anna’s annual pre-Christmas lunch. “Do we open one tonight?” She looks sideways after a moment, when she doesn’t get a response.

Jade looks, not quite present. Not completely lost in thought, but certainly straying. She reaches out and nudges her knee. “Hey.” Jade blinks, twice, then looks up at her. Nods. “Uh, yeah. Same old.” Anoushka waits a beat, and then when it’s clear that Jade isn’t going to add anything else,

goes back to stacking presents. “Pick something out then, I guess.” “You should, um, do mine. If, you know, you don’t mind.” She still seems vaguely preoccupied. She also still seems uninclined to elaborate, so again Anoushka lets it lie. “Sure,” she says, tugging out a long flat package, and nearly toppling the tree in the process. “Not that I seem to have many other options here,” she mutters, voice overdark, and she’s rewarded with a small smile.

They pass the next half hour like that, side by side, laughing and trading quips and just enjoying each other’s company, as they sit relaxed in the rare stillness of an unrushed morning. But all things must end, and eventually the outside world comes creeping in in the form of an alarm Jade had set last night in anticipation of this very event. “We should get moving.” Anoushka groans, but time very rudely does not heed her wordless request to cease moving, so she pushes herself up to kneeling and does a final run through the gifts they’re taking. “Oh, I forgot to give Kiran a card.” “On it,” she answers, standing up and heading into the kitchen to dig one out. “Although, really I should be making you do this. He’s your friend.”

“You’re my hero,” she hears called after her, and smiles despite herself. “Get rid of some of your friends,” she shouts back. “No can do, they’re common property now.” “Ah.” She thinks for a moment. “Guess there’s nothing else for it, we’ll have to split.” She hears a slightly choked sound from the other room, a stifled grunt of pain, and hurries back, worried and equally worried about betraying that fact. “I get Anna in the divorce though.” She rounds the corner of the door and stops, surveying. Jade has stopped moving, but nothing else seems out of place, and she doesn’t look like she’s in pain. She’s on one knee by the tree, right hand pressed into the carpet for balance, and Anoushka feels the corner of her mouth lift as she leans against the doorframe, expectant. Jade looks up at her. She raises an eyebrow. “Divorcing me before I even got a chance to ask? That’s cold.” Anoushka bites the inside of her cheek and breathes, trying to keep a straight face. “That the best you’ve got?” Jade grins. She reaches for her ponytail and tugs it loose, holds out the newly liberated hair band between both thumbs and middle fingers, proffered like a ring. Anoushka brings a hand up to her mouth to stifle her laughter, hoping the mimicry of joyous shock is obvious. “Anu, darling. Light of my life, brighter than even a thousand LED bulbs, a comparison I do feel qualified to make based on my own personal experiences.” Here she nods over at their tree. Anoushka tightens her grip on her face. Jade ignores her. “For days now, I have wandered, lonely as a cloud that exists against the odds in a region where it is in fact unusual for there to be clouds and the sighting of one would be a rare and isolated event, of how, in this house we share -” “It’s a flat.”

She gets a mock glare in return. “Fine. Home, then.” Such a beautiful sentiment has never been expressed with such disparagement . “Wondering how, in this home we share, to ask if you would be willing to forever more share your life with me in this way. For so long did I deliberate over how to ask you, until here and now, sitting with you during this, the most wonderful time of the year -” Anoushka shakes, sliding further down the doorpost. “- all my feelings came rushing out, and suddenly without conscious thought did I find myself here: just a girl, waiting on one knee in front of another, different girl, asking her to marry her.” Don’t laugh out loud, don’t laugh out loud, don’t laugh. Jade stares straight at her, eyes bright, hair long and loose about her shoulders, daring her to crack. Slowly, Anoushka brings down her hand and straightens up. “In other words, you stumbled and fell trying to get up?” Jade slips her hair bubble over her wrist and finally puts her hands back down. “Would be a different but not entirely inaccurate version of events.” “Need a hand?” “Perhaps.” Anoushka does laugh this time, and walks over. “Come on then, lover mine. Let’s head out.” ______________________________________________________ “Hey, toss us an orange.” Something bright comes hurtling at her face. Anoushka just barely brings up her hands to catch it.

A round object, red and smooth. “This is an apple.” “Is it.” The words are flat, the intonation not questioning, and deliberately so. Anoushka continues to stare at her. Jade just smiles back, a sweet, butter won’t melt smile. She picks up the correct fruit and stands up, empty hand reaching for her cane, and starts to walk towards Anoushka and the door. Anoushka keeps staring at her. She keeps staring even as another bright round object is pressed into her hand, and she’s left standing in a doorway in some parody of a modern art piece, weighing up two pieces of fruit. “Comparing apples and oranges, a commentary on modern black and white-ism.” Jade does not drop her vacantly saccharine expression once. “In Ancient Greece... “ she starts, uncertainly. Jade slows on her way towards Anna’s living room, dawdling, the movements of a person desperate to hear what a person has to say, but not at the expense of that desperation being discovered. It comforts Anoushka, makes her think she may be along the right lines as she tries to piece together the various oddities of the day, and emboldens her to continue. “In Ancient Greece, they used to propose like this sometimes. You’d throw an apple at a girl, and if she caught it, she’d accept.” Jade turns around. She looks her in the eye.

They hold each other’s gazes for a heavily pregnant minute. “You know, that’s actually a common misconception, it doesn’t have any factual basis or precedent in the historical record.” And with that, still smiling, she turns back and goes to join everyone else in the main room. “Wait, what? Jay!” ______________________________________________________ It’s late when they finally leave Anna’s and head back home. There was a time when she would have balked at the thought of making such a short journey by car. These days she just drives, hand on the wheel and Jade in the passenger seat. It’s not like she drinks that much these days, anyway. Neither of them do. The same cannot be said for the majority of their friends, and they’re kept out another forty minutes dropping people off. But eventually it’s just the two of them, driving through darkness. Anoushka looks to her left. “So. You gonna tell me what’s going on?” She can’t read her expression. Part of that is no doubt due to the inconsistency of illumination provided by the street lamps they pass, and part will also likely be the fact that she can’t take her eyes off the road for too long, in the interests of safety. But little she does see is guarded, and though no less apprehensive she is at once sure her suspicions are right. Silence. Not an uncomfortable one, but not easy either. The air is expectant, anticipation. “I was gonna wait till we got home.” She sighs. Anoushka says nothing. They’re maybe twelve minutes out now, but she has the wild urge to take a sudden wrong turn or four, just to give them time. Jade breathes.

“Look. We don’t know how long I have left.” Invisible bands wrap around Anoushka’s chest and pull tight. She can’t move, can barely breathe. She has the strangest, most fleeting thought that it’s good the car’s already in third gear, because she’s sure she wouldn’t be able to relax her grip enough to release the wheel and change it, right now. Her knuckles, she knows intuitively, are already white. Jade must notice. Her next words are hurried. “And I mean that genuinely, we really don’t know, it could be years - hell, it could be decades. This isn’t some grand farewell tour or anything. It’s just…” “Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but, you’re it for me. I know we’re not, together, like that, but there’s no one else I’d want to share my life with, you know? You’re my family. “And…” She hesitates. “I’m pretty sure, or, I mean, I’d like to think, that, well… That it’s the same for you.” Her voice has grown quiet.

Silence. She soldiers on. “So, I’m asking you to marry me, because I love you, more and better than I will ever love anyone else. And because friends or partners or roommates aren’t inaccurate labels for what we are, but they fail to express the depth of my commitment to you. And I’m asking you, because I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next few years, I just know that I want you by my side for it. And I want people to know how important you are to me without my having to explain it, and maybe it’s somewhat misleading, but I’d rather people understand the significance of our relationship if not the relationship itself, than undervalue it.” Jade’s breathing a little heavier now. Good , Anoushka thinks. She can pick up the slack for both of them - her own lungs are empty. She’s reading between the lines, and the thousands of unspoken words paint a devastating picture. Jade's eyes are shut - it seems she’s decided the best course of action is to simply not look at Anoushka until she’s done. Usually Anoushka would try and fix that, try to comfort and reassure, but her hands are still glued to the wheel and she still can’t move. Her voice is more measured when she opens her mouth again. “And I’m also asking you, because I don’t want to live the rest of my life with this cloud hanging over me, and I don’t want to have to keep worrying about updating my will, or making sure you’re listed as next of kin in case I’m suddenly hospitalised somewhere and can’t tell them to let you in, and maybe it isn’t fair to put any of that on you, but I’m not sure fairness still has a place around here, so I’m asking you anyway.” It’s impossible to think that they could still be moving. Anoushka’s world has, jarringly, for a moment ceased its inevitable slow spiral out of orbit, and so it is only rational that the rest of the world follow suit. But the engine still rumbles and the shadows dancing across Jade’s face are still in flux as they pass under lamp after lamp. Anoushka notes it all, vaguely, as though from a great distance. She is thinking, lost in these revealed glimpses of an unwelcome future: a Jade weakening; a Jade lying motionless in some cold, unfamiliar bed, and just as terrifying, the thought of that bed becoming familiar in time; a Jade nowhere to be found, the worst vision of all. She blinks hard. Beside her, Jade has opened her eyes. Her tone now is firm, if slightly sharp, as though the words escaping her mouth left a lemon-sour taste behind. “And besides, there’s the Marriage Allowance - you could get some sort of tax break. Plus, I think there’s less inheritance tax or something if you leave stuff to your spouse. So, you know, there’s something in it for you too.” And Anoushka still doesn’t feel completely present. But the idea that Jade might not be enough, that she’d need something to sweeten the pot - well, suddenly it’s the simplest thing in the world, unclenching her hand to take Jade’s into hers. She clasps their fingers, left hand not quite dexterous enough for anything more complicated and squeezes slightly. “Regardless,” she says. “I would be honoured.” Jade stays quiet, and the bands around her chest don’t fall away, but the heavy silence shifts to something lighter, more comforting, and Anoushka can breathe again. “You and me, together till the end. Partners in crime, and now also in law,” she says, as the car finally pulls into their hard-won parking space, and Jade rewards her with a slight snort. She straightens out, then stops the car and pulls the key from the ignition. “Besides,” she starts, opening the door. “I refuse to believe you own anything that could be worthy of inheritance tax.” She’s grinning wide, and won’t make herself stop. “No take-backs,” she adds as she jogs over to open the front door, chased by Jade’s insistence that she rescinds every nice thing she said, and also hopes Anoushka dies. ______________________________________________________ They’re in Jade’s room, sitting on her bed. Two wrapped parcels had lain atop the covers, one each. Jade now wears a beautiful new watch, elegant with deep leather straps. It proclaims the time to be a minute to midnight. Anoushka’s gift is in a tiny square box, topped with a small gold bow. She pries it open to find a ring, nestled in velveteen lining. She looks at Jade, who shrugs. “I have a book stashed somewhere, I was gonna swap them out depending on how you reacted today.” She looks back at the ring. A plain black band, with a single silver line. Carefully, she lifts it from the box and offers it to Jade. Jade seems startled for a moment, but then her face clears and she shuffles a little on the floor to face Anoushka more fully. She takes her hand. “Marry me?” She feels the cool metal against her fourth finger, and answers: “I will.” The minute hand reaches twelve.


I was on a tour in London when this had all begun. It was July 6th of 2030, and it had been pouring since 8 o’clock in the morning. The thunderstorm woke me up at 8 but I went back to sleep after the thunder came in at such a frequency that it established a soothing rhythm. When I finally got out of bed at noon I rushed to the Rivoli Ballroom to get ready for the performance in the evening. It was still as dark outside as if it were midnight.

I stared into the darkness, and asked David, “Is this type of weather normal to you? ” “Aye, more and more normal in recent years. Last year, we had a storm season throughout July, August and September. Streets were flooded everywhere. Thought London was turning into Venice.” David put on a kilt over his pants and took off his pants from inside the kilt.

“Strange,” I looked outside while putting powder on my cheek and nose. I have always insisted on doing my own makeup, even after I went big, I still do my own makeup for any medium and small events.

“Strange indeed,” David chortled. As if he just thought of something interesting, David walked towards me with an intrigued look on his face.

“May I ask you something? ” David asked.

“Of course,” I answered while trying to pick out a color of lipstick for my lips.

“Where are you guys from? ” “New York,” I looked at David as if he was silly. This was not the first year I performed in London nor the first time with David. He knows that my entire team is from New York.

“No, what I meant was just you...and ah, originally, ” David said with a sense of hesitance. The room was silent for half a second. In 2027, 48 countries banned initiating questions for a person’s nationality in public. The UK was one of them, but not the U.S. By ‘a person’ they really mean a Far East looking person. The reason behind these policies is so that Chinese national or ethnic people do not have to live in terror like they did before the Berkeley Terro in the U.S or Paddington or Gould street in Australia…. Ever since the Global Covid 19 Pandemic in 2020, the Chinese-U.S Nuclear War Scare in 2022 and Mainlander Guerrilla Warfare in Philadelphia in 2025, the global anti-Asians sentiment, have been extreme. People have been robbed, raped and killed. “You know I am serious about fight racial discrimination!” David claimed. He said that but they all hate mainlanders. It is in fact both politically right to be against racial discrimination and hating a Chinese mainlander.

After a short pause, I said, “I was a Singaporean before I became an American citizen.” David bursts into a nervous laugh and becomes relaxed after the laugh. “I thought you were. That’s what I would have guessed. Your accent sounds like you are from Singapore.” No, it doesn’t. I have an almost perfect American accent even though you can still tell English is not my native language after talking to me for 10 mins or so. But I do not have a Singaporean accent! “Are you asking to see if I’m a Mainlander Chinese? ” I asked sharply. “No...absolutely not. I am not like one of those people. You see...” David mumbled while approached me from the other side of the room, then the six-foot strong built man got down on one knee next to my vanity.

He reached out to hold my hand. “You are the most beautiful woman and performer I have ever seen and I have been a fan of yours since 2023. I’ve had deep respect and love for you ever since. I do feel strongly about protecting my country from the Chinese communists’ propaganda and nuclear attacks. But I am not a racist against asians. I’m not like those thugs. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to harm or disrespect you! ” I smiled awkwardly after David stared at me sincerely for about 5 seconds. “It’s okay David. I believe your heart is in the right place.” “I cannot imagine what you have gone through these years getting mixed up with the Communist Chinese Mainlanders, those rogue, brutal animals...” David looked at me with real sympathy in his eyes. “It’s not right to kill Mainlander civilians or assault Mainlander immigrants on the streets either, you know?”

“Certainly.” David quickly responded and he put on a very superficial smile. “I’m very sorry if I upset you and about my inappropriate comments.” I turned to my mirror glumly and did not say another word on the subject.

I had a strange and tingling feeling when I took off my smart watch and saw two messages unread on the watch before getting on stage. I put my watch in my performance jewelry box and took off my robe. Out there on the stage, the cheering and the clapping sounds from the audience drags me back to my reality, or is this actually my fantasy? People think performers put on makeup, costumes, a character to be someone else, but I feel more real in my makeup and costumes than any other time. 7 years have gone by since I became famous and I still worry that this has all been just a sweet dream for me, that I will wake up one day and realize that I have never been me. The stage feels like a sanctuary. I took a deep breath and felt that serenity took over my body and swept away all the stress and anxiety I had from the talk with David backstage.

This is my fourth year touring Europe, at the age of 34. I have always believed that the thirties are the best years in one’s life. You are just done with that crisis in your twenties when you think you should start to put your life in order but you are so young and know so little about the world, you are caught by the earlier childhood trauma that you freeze and think you have no value to offer to the world. Then one day at the end of your twenties and when you are heading towards your thirties, you are lifted by fate to take a drastic turn, you manage to snap out of all that negativity and start a family and a career. The family and career are so young too, just like you, they haven't got enough time to go sour yet in your thirties. It's truly the best time in one’s life.

I closed my eyes calmly, felt alive and entered a meditative state. The world quiets down. After a short while, the host’s voice breaks the short silence before the show. “Let’s welcome our Lady Hotaru! ” It was around 2 a.m when I got back to my hotel room. David walked with me and Jenny, my assistant/manager, to my room and kissed me on the cheek to say goodbye. I pretended as if I were too drunk to behave in a proper manner. I waved my purse at David while waiting for Jenny to reach for my finger to unlock the door. Jenny pushed me in bed and hooked my face up with the make up remover machine.

“Are you going to be good? Do you need me to get you some sober-up? ” It was obviously a rhetorical question for Jenny because as she speaks, she’s already pressing buttons on the espresso machine.

“I am fine.” I murmured. I buried half of my face in the sheets and had a peek at the green stuff going into the cup. “Am I becoming an alcoholic, Jenny? ” “Far from it. ” Jenny laughed. “But I have dealt with way too many drunk artists and performers to be a fair judge to that question. Well, you are far from an alcoholic by your profession’s standards. ” Jenny handed me the green gel that was prepared by the espresso machine. “Also that’s an outdated word, alcoholic. Don’t you know kids nowadays are boycotting that word? I am old fashioned on that question: nobody should be pumping poison without any limits. But many of our old morals don't apply anymore, do they? With these newly developed, fixes, drugs, sober-ups, whatever stupid names they have, kids can just drink as much as they want as long as they took some green pills or liquid! ” “Unless they were too drunk to remember to get the green stuff! ” I sat up and had a sip or a bite of the gell-ish “beverage” Jenny offered me. “You are quite right. Sober-ups don’t give people work ethics either, do they? ” Jenny kissed me on the forehead. “Kinsley darling, Now drink up and have a good night's rest. We are leaving early for Warsaw in the morning. Then we can go home! And you can see Jamie and the kids! I know it has been stressful for you. Just hang in there. We are almost done!” “Good night Jenny,” I finished the drink. It really started to grow on me. The sweet, cool aloe taste has already made my stomach feel better.

“Good night, Kinsley! ” As the sober-up started to work, the heaviness of my body was leaving, being replaced by a comfortable relaxing feeling. I was almost falling asleep until I remembered the unread messages on my watch. I sat up and reached for my purse. It is rare that I receive messages from that watch. It was connected with my mac instead of my phone. And my mac was connected to this old cloud account with an email address I haven’t used since I was in college. I hardly ever receive any messages from my watch. I grew curious. Maybe it’s from an old boyfriend or a college friend. My world started to spin when I saw the messages in Chinese on the watch. It’s from a number with a Russian area code. Message 1: “Banny, your father is under house arrest. I’m afraid we will not make it to see you again in this life. I am sorry for how our last conversation has ended. We love you..” Message 2: “We miss you, Banny. We miss you.” My heart sank horribly as I read the messages. I was hopeful that this is a prank, except no one who would make such a prank knows enough information about me to do it and no one who does know enough information about me would prank me in such a cruel fashion. And even if they did, they would not call me Banny.

There is only one person on this planet that calls me Banny...my mother, Jan, who lives in mainland China with my father, Chief Lee, the Chief engineer of No.3 National Factory of Heavy Industry. That’s right. I’m no singaporean. I am a mainlander. My parents refused to move to the U.S. in 2023 when China had first adopted its 21st century closed door policy. That was the last time I saw them. It has been 7 years. During the China- U.S. nuclear missile competition, the western countries had put up a united front against China in trade and adopted policies to decouple from China. The Chinese government established control of 40 African countries and launched vast propaganda campaigns against the west. China created the Afro-China Metro State (ACMS) to promote business and trade between China and African countries. ACMS initiated a series of beneficial policies for Africans including enabling African students to go to top Chinese universities with far more lenient standards than were used to screen Chinese students and provide African students with financial aid. There are other policies for African citizens such as being able to enlist in the Afro- China Metro Military and receive training and benefits in Mainland China. In Kenya and Tanzania, over 70 percent of the adult males are enlisted in the ACMS military.

The forced merging of Africans in Chinese societies did not receive welcome from China’s societies. Instead these policies drove Chinese society to have widespread complaints against Africans and intensified the deep rooted racism against the Africans. The west think the Africans were used as body shields and dispensable soldiers to protect Chinese’s interest. China, however, claimed that it has solved the African problem that the white struggles to solve for centuries. China claimed that states that joined ACMS had doubled its GDP every three years and more children were put in school than ever in the history of these states. Then there is the offended common Chinese people. When they read about the prosperity in Africa in the news they think, is that my tax money being put into building other people’s countries? Sure it would be nice to live in a country where you have everyone join the military and get free money when we are busting our asses more and more everyday while getting less and less.

Nonetheless, the mass surveillance control made sure nobody could do anything to challenge the execution of the nation’s policies. China, as its propaganda claims, remains the safest country in the world while ACMS runs as a close second in the rank therefore makes China the “true savior” for the Africa continent. However, anticipating the economy going soft which would result in undermining the Communist regimes’ legitimacy of ruling in China, in 2023, China closed its borders from all countries, including Russia, except for ACMS and North Korea. The Chinese commercial airplane companies were all merged and acquired by the government at zero cost. China used the new Five Ones policy which was an updated version of the Five Ones policy used during the 2020 Covid 19 Pandemic.

There shall be ONE flight on ONE route every ONE month to ONE ACMS member state from ONE airline company.

Basically except for one full plane after another full plane of African and Chinese soldiers traveling between China and the African countries, no one can get in and out of China legally anymore.

The internet was also replaced by the local area network within China. Although getting connected with the outside world is not impossible technically for many mainlanders, the severe punishment deters people’s online activities. From 2023-2028, 80 million people were arrested or sentenced to re-education camps. Knowing my parents, being the patriots and uptight people they are, they wouldn’t ever do anything illegal trying to contact the outside world, not even to contact me. I didn’t think I would hear from them today, or any day, or maybe at all during my life. I haven’t seen or heard from my mom or my dad for 7 years. I did not know if they were leading a good life or a crappy one. I didn't know if they were dead or alive. We have such distinctively different souls, except that they don’t believe in souls. As a kid, I wished to have different kinds of parents, the ones I saw on TV shows. The warm, flexible, loving ones. On the other hand, I can’t blame my parents for hating me because I want things that are so foreign to them. I am an alien in the family because I don’t worship anything they do, things they devote their lives to: the older family members, the state authorities, and a joyless life. Joy was literally punishable by humiliation when I was growing up. My mom used to rip all of my fiction books while I cried hysterically when I was 7. We stared at each other in my room while the white pieces of papers flew everywhere over my bed, my desk and on the floor. She said she can’t understand how weak I am to absorb those emotions and feelings and the evilest of all, doubts, from the books I read. At the same time I can't understand her cruelty, numbness and inability to appreciate and relate to other human beings. She felt betrayed and I felt disappointed. I believe that the wedge between me and my parents was forever drawn on that day when she ripped all of my books. I developed a ritual to bury my books periodically after reading them. It made perfect sense to me while others found it bizarre. They don't understand, where I grew up, books are just like people, they die sometimes.

When Chinese first announced its policies to close the borders, when most of my mainlander friends in the U.S. managed to get their parents out so they can stay together. My parents rejected with deep contempt my proposal for them to move. My mother called me back after the second last unpleasant conversation which I thought was to be the last. She called me back and stayed silent for a while. “What do you want, Mama?” I asked softly.

“Will you move back? You can still move back.” She asked me, sounding even a little vulnerable.

“I’m sorry but I won’t. ” I answered.

“That’s great!” She got her normal sarcastic voice back. I hung up the phone before she could say any other thing. I want to remember her with that little bit of rare vulnerability. It feels like love.

There is a void in my heart where my parents lie, but I understand their decisions at the end of the day. I know why they made it. I know how different we are and how we are different. The knowledge that comes with the indication of the impossible reconciliation, hurts me in all eternity. But on the other hand, their reasons, morality, and values also hurt me. Everything hurts. I don’t know what to do with their message which seems to carry so much information, yet delivers so little at the same time. What’s going on with them? Is my Dad being arrested? Is my mom sick? She has always had a sensitive nervous system. Do they want to see me? .... Do they still love me?


            A wave of fog gently crashed onto the cobblestone streets of Cortland, New Hampshire. The weather had just begun to turn towards autumn and the inhabitants of the tiny town were tucked into bed. The brick road beneath a flickering streetlight subtly changed color from orange to gray and back again, over and over with no discernible pattern. It was the dead of night yet a single figure lumbered down the middle of the street.

            The silhouette was tall but not wide. They were built like a wire hanger ripped from its functional shape. They even bent haphazardly to the left as if their profile had been snapped over someone’s knee. A slight wave at the edges of the figure revealed baggy clothing. No sound came from them, not even the echoes of their feet against the ground.

            The figure finally lurched into the blinking light and more details became clear. He was a man. Was being the operative word as he was clearly dead. His skin glowed a sickly, greenish-white with the texture of slightly melted Play-Doh. He was mostly bald but it was unclear how much of that occurred during his life versus after his death. His clothing, which he was assumedly buried in, was caked with fresh dirt.

            The man stared up at the lamp with unblinking eyes. It seemed as if he was trying to absorb as much radiation as he could from the quivering light. He reached into his open shirt and fingered a long, diagonal wound running along his chest. The slash was closed with the precise stitches only a trained hand could make. However, some of the stitches had broken, opening a window into the man’s hollow chest. After a few minutes, the light flickered to blackness and the dead kept walking.

            If one were to witness the man, well they would likely run away screaming. But if they were able to keep their composure long enough to study his movement, they would see something very odd. The man’s face was a mask that showed no sign of expression, yet his body language was that of a prisoner. He trudged along as if being pushed; moving in quick increments only to slow to a crawl and then stumble forward once again. At times it also seemed like he was being pulled. His body leaned forward into a dangerously unbalanced position and moved with small, shuffling steps. As far as an average person could see, there was nothing in front of or behind him.

            The push and pull of the dead man stopped again when he was much further down the road. He was far past the village now and surrounded by the forest’s coarse hair of pine trees. A fog soaked winded turned the man towards a drainage ditch. Even through the haze, the dead stared pointedly at one spot in front of him. The glaze on his eyes dissolved and two black pupils circled by maple rings became clear. He blinked for the first time since death.

Another gust of wind blew the fog from the ditch and for a few moments, it was not immediately replaced by more. At the bottom of the slope was a bundle of pictures, flowers, cards, and stuffed animals. The pictures captured the luminous smile of an elementary-age girl. The man lurched forward and seemed to take in the light of her smile in the same way he took in the lamp’s energy. Most of the cards had lost all legibility to the weather, but a dry patch on one revealed a single phrase.             “We’re Praying for You!”             A deeply unnatural sound emanated from the man upon seeing this. A boiling broth gurgle in his throat like bile being emptied from a stomach. The sound had an indescribable tone of sadness to it. The trees were the only ones listening, however, and they showed no remorse for the depressed. The gurgling ceased and a blanket of fog was once again laid over the bundle. The man scratched at his wound again, tearing open several more stitches.             Instead of continuing down the road, the dead slid into the ditch and climbed back out the other side, entering the looming forest. His eyes remained human as he navigated his way through the puzzle of pines. There was a new sense of purpose to the way he moved. He stood mostly straight and no longer constantly changed speeds. Something from that bundle had embedded itself into the dead matter of his brain. From a distance, one may have even mistaken him for the living.

At times it seemed like there was a force trying to pull him away from his destination. He would suddenly jerk to the side, or his leg would become stuck mid-step. The man fought through these battles until he passed the barrier of the tree line. From then on, he was undisturbed in his quest. A strong north wind blew the smell of burning wood into his nose. It was only then that he realized he could smell again. In front of him was a grassy valley. At the bottom of the valley was a wooden cabin with small puffs of smoke exhaling from its chimney. The man tumbled down the hill, soundlessly. He landed only a few feet from the inhabitants’ chocolate Labrador. The dog tilted its head but made no sound. It only watched as the dead attempted to get up. The creature somehow knew that he was no threat. The man rose like a broken Jack exploding from his box in slow motion. Parts of his body that weren’t meant to hang, hung, Parts that weren’t meant to be stiff, hardened. One of his legs had become permanently straightened. He could now only move by pivoting. The dead traversed the circumference of the house in small, half-circles until he was in front of a window on the opposite side. Cozy, orange light glistening on the glass beckoned the man forward. As he grew closer, he could see inside the room. The girl from the photos slept on the bed. A tube running from her arm led to a stalwart IV stand next to her bed. There was an arrangement of chairs facing the girl, implying frequent visitors who needed somewhere to sit as they cared for and cooed after her. A pink blanket, with a unicorn emblazoned on the front, covered the girl up to her waist. Above that she wore a gray knit shirt that covered the majority of a long, crooked scar running along her chest.

The dead man couldn’t look away. He reached again for his wound, parallel to hers, but this time his fingers came away wet. The scarlet stick of blood was unmistakable, and it was oozing from his chest. His fingers were no longer the gray-green of death. He refocused on his reflection in the window and saw the face that had died a few weeks ago. His skin had regained its life. His lips were once again rosy. Even his thick, black hair had returned. All he was missing was a heart. That rested just past the window, under a unicorn blanket, inside the chest of the girl he almost killed. The cavity inside his chest was flooded with molten guilt that blistered his lungs and burnt his ribs. Memories popped into his mind like firecrackers. The bachelor party, the bouncer he fought for his keys, the blinding light refracted through the windshield. After that was darkness for him, but his own memories were not the only ones drifting through his mind.

He became a father waking up with his car in a drainage ditch, finding his little girl ten feet away with her chest caved in. He became a mother paralyzed by fear after receiving the worst call of her life in the dead of night. He became a doctor carving open a chest, his chest, to retrieve a still viable heart. He finally became the girl herself, floating in and out of consciousness for days as her body tried to kill the foreign organ behind her ribs.

The dead man felt like Atlas holding up the grief of the world. But he was not a Titan. He collapsed under the weight and sunk into the dew-covered grass. The man knew that he was not truly alive again. There is a feeling to life that no living thing can discern because they haven’t had experiences without it. This man knew that feeling and he knew he didn’t have it. It was like being carried to bed as a child, rediscovering a memory of a late loved one, or realizing happiness in the moment and choosing to savor it. Even those were only partial definitions. In truth, even though many have tried, life is indescribable.

The man felt his body giving way, not into the dead form he was before, but into the earth itself. He was sinking. Not to Hell or anything that easy. He was being pulled in to be used again. The idea of renewed life in many forms satisfied the man deeply in his final moments. Just like the idea that his love would remain on Earth in the heart of a young girl.


Samantha knew that the only way she’d ever produce an interesting article about the city for the editor of the newspaper she’d finally gotten an interview with was to force herself to concentrate. To avoid any and all distractions, to keep herself behind her desk for as long as it took to find the strong premise for such an article. She had been desperate. Not only for the money, but for a start on the career she wanted. After all, that was why she’d enrolled in all those journalism classes after her divorce. The alimony she received just didn’t stretch far enough, though she’d agreed to it thinking she just needed something to tide herself over for a while. After all, Paul had paid for all those courses she’d taken, and never had complained about how much time those classes and her various volunteer positions (political, tutoring, fundraising) ate up. He’d had dinner alone, then often fell asleep in his recliner watching TV until she finally arrived home. The divorce had been amiable, just a matter of drifting apart, and Paul wanting more companionship, family life. Oh she wanted children—eventually. She was only thirty two, there was plenty of time. “Damn it,” she said aloud to barren little room in her new ridiculously tiny apartment that she’d set up so she wouldn’t be distracted. A desk, comfortable office chair, a small coffee maker so no excuse to drift out of the room. She made herself use the bathroom before entering, not bring her cell phone in with her, put up a small still life she’d owned since she was eighteen so nothing to discover there. She’d even put up heavy curtains to stop her from gazing out the window. And if it were hot, there was a window airconditioner, if cold, two sweater of different weights on a hook she’d put on the far wall. (Ha! Far wall a joke the room, all of 7 X 11, which she’d painted in beige and the carpet was beige as well.) Now what she had to do, clearly, was shut off her wandering brain—focus, focus, on the computer screen facing her. She remembered that one of the articles she’d read on how to be a productive writer had said to simply put her fingers on the keyboard and type. It was okay the author wrote, “If all you typed was gibberish, the fingers would begin to take over.” An hour later, looking at the gibberish she’d produced, she left the room. Dejected, she decided she would treat herself to a latte at the corner Starbucks.

It was surprisingly deserted, at fifteen to ten in the morning, everyone at work she guessed. The Baristas were standing around, chatting. Once one of them broke away and made her drink, she had become curious about their chatting, so she took a table close to them. They were talking about their college days. Her brain started churning. College days, and working at Starbucks. She listened closely, then one said, “Yeah, who’s hiring philosophy majors. My brother dropped out his first year and now owns a nice house, has a wife, and two kids. And my parents are ashamed to admit he’s a garbage man—well, sanitation worker. I am their pride and joy—the philosopher, magna cum laude from a university, and look where I’m working.” The group laughed. And the exceptionally pretty girl I’d noticed, proclaimed, “And look at me—the artist. Not smart enough to land a job in a gallery or museum. Or good enough with my oils to sell anything. I even tried hanging a couple of my paintings on the fence in the park, and gee, sold one to a guy who was trying to get me to go out with him for ten bucks.” The conversation continued a few minutes longer, then one of them said, let’s get ready, it’s almost coffee break time for the techies across the street. A mad rush ensued and I left, knowing I had to lock myself in my “office” again. And so I repeated the same preparations I’d done earlier. Now fingers on keyboard, I cleared my mind and started letting my fingers take over. After ten minutes, I allowed myself to look down. The first words were gibberish, but then bits of sentences, unfinished clusters of words. But garbage man was in each cluster. I violated my rules and turned on Google and typed in “garbage man”. Eighteen pages of entries. I looked up what the salary was for garbage man in New York City: The average salary for garbage collectors in New York is around $76450 per year. Salaries typically start from $36330 and go up to $82090. Moreover they are unionized, have pension plans, and health insurance. But respect. Not really. In fact, lots of jokes about them are easy to find. But playing around some more, I found an article entitled, “Garbage Man – Overlooked and Under Appreciated.” I was fascinated. It began with this paragraph:  “We spend a lot of time in our society recognizing people for the jobs they do. It is great that we do this. But sometimes, there are those who fall through the cracks. We see a Police Officer, a teacher, a fireman, and of course a soldier and we are quick (and rightfully so) to extend warm greetings, a smile and gesture of thanks. It is the norm now in public to see a senior citizen wearing a military ball cap so we stop and ask about their service and thank them. We see the cop in the restaurant we do the same. Indeed, they are deserving.” "But the garbage man, no. We ignore him. We don’t stop to think what our cities would be like if they didn’t exist." My God. I had my story. I would examine the workers we don’t know. From the men who go to the Hunt’s Point Market to fill their carts with the attractive fruits and vegetables, nicer and cheaper than those at the supermarket to the women who clean our offices overnight, to…I didn’t know. I called the editor after emailing him what I’d written so far and saying I’d call later. A couple of hours later my phone rang and I picked it up without checking whose number showed on caller ID, something I rarely do. “Hey Samantha, Joel from Huffington News. I like it. Send me a list of the type of person you plan to interview. If it makes sense, I’ll sign you up for a series.” I took a deep and said, “That’s wonderful. How about the fruit cart men, the office cleaners who work in offices overnight…” “Yes. Exactly. And don’t forget the workers who stock the shelves overnight. Can you interview some people for each category?” “Of course,” I said, wondering how to do it. I didn’t know those people. But I did know one. For the first, I could go to my local 24-hour supermarket. I’d shopped at it at two pm a couple of nights ago after I discovering an email from an old college friend saying she’d stop by early the next morning if I was available. Something about a flight delay. I knew she would like cranberry juice and muffins, after all, she’d had them every morning when I'd meet her in the school cafeteria.  When I got to the market, the cranberry juice was easy, but no muffins? I   stopped a man shelving some eggs and asked him if there were any muffins waiting to be put out. He said, he’d check, and I said, hopeful, cranberry. He didn’t return right away, but when he did, he had someone with him. He introduced me to Carl, who delivered the baked goods for his company. I’d thanked him and explained what I wanted. He said, to my amusement, “Mini, Medium, or large.” I’d examined the choices available and choose medium. I remembered his smile when I said, “Carl, you are a lifesaver.” And so, that night, I returned to the market at the same time and stopped to look at the various trucks double-parked outside the market. I was amused to see them, because I'd never noticed them before. I walked along them looking for Carl. When I spotted him, I said, “Carl, could you give me a few minutes of your time?” “You remembered my name?” he asked. “Yup. By the way, I’m Samantha Nelson. I’m a reporter, and I want to do a story about the people who keep things running in this city. The unknown and underappreciated workers.” “Then you also want to interview Boris. I’ll get him.” I left with two fascinating stories for my first article. Boris, the badly scared Vietnam vet; and Carl, earning the money for college tuition. Boris felt he didn’t have much of a choice other than night work and was grateful to be employed. Carl doing it to find a less invisible future. The paper bought the story, and signed me on as “The New York Night Columnist.” I was a reporter. But I vowed never to forget the qualm I’d felt when I’d introduced myself as one to Carl. He'd made me visible.


Tarnished

Note: this account is based on actual events in the lives of real people. Names have been changed to protect the memories of the innocent.

October 17, 1905 - Tuesday My dearest James, Patience has been staring out the window for miles. We’re nearly a day into the journey, and there’s nothing much to see except for the endless prairie. I suspect she’s looking instead at mental imagery. What must she be thinking?… Feeling?

It’s a tremendous change to make at her age, but I hope it will be for the best. Last night, in the sleeper, I had the hardest time settling myself! The incessant CLACKETY- clackety CLACKETY- clackety CLACKETY- clackety — doesn’t do much for inducing sleep. In that case, Patience has the advantage.

Although… surely the vibration affects her more than it does me.

I don’t know what time it was when the monotony of it lulled me to sleep. The berth is as comfortable as a regular bed, although it does jiggle and jolt a bit and wake me from time to time.

But, oh! The Overland Limited is just marvelous! We’re sitting in the observation car, in gorgeous upholstered chairs that I’d be proud to have in our parlor. The windows are large and clear, with a spectacular viewing area. Although, as I mentioned, there’s nothing notable to see at this point.

You’ll come with me the next time, I hope! The accommodations are as luxurious as a fine hotel. There’s electric lighting throughout (isn’t that a marvel?), velvet upholstery, beautiful polished wood paneling, the best quality linens, sumptuous meals served on fine china. I will be quite spoiled!

(I feel as if I’d just written a travel brochure.) I am so looking forward to seeing majestic mountains, such as I’ve never seen before. And at the end of our journey, the Pacific Ocean! I can’t imagine… Oh James, there’s that woman who buttonholed me this morning. She’s at the end of the car. She won’t look at me now, and I’m pretending not to notice her as well.

I must tell you what happened. At breakfast, a couple with two half-grown children sat at the next table across from us. The woman was eyeing Patience all through the meal. She’s all gussied up in the very latest fashion, the sort of woman who wears her corsets too tight. She’ll suffer for it later, I’m sure. (I know you don’t approve of me using slang, but “gussied up” is the best way to describe her!) When her husband and the children got up from the table, she lingered. She must have said something to them about staying a bit longer, because they waved at her and left the dining car. Her wave back looked more like a shooing motion. She was clearly dismissing them. I had finished my second coffee (indulging myself, as it’s such good quality!), but Patience was still nibbling toast and sipping her tea. They have her favorite variety, such a treat for her.

The woman at the next table whispered, “ Sssst!” and beckoned me to come to her. What could she want with me?

With a quick glance at Patience, I got up and scooted into the chair across from her. “Yes?” “I must ask you,” (really, she ought not have), “Do you think it’s wise to take such a… person as that,” (and here she pointed at Patience. Pointed at her! So rude!) “on such a journey? My children shouldn’t have to spend their time looking at a defective!” James, my blood boiled! I could feel it rising! But you’d be proud of me – I know you would –

because I managed to restrain myself and speak in a reasonable tone. Before replying, I took in a deep breath. I felt my own corset strain a bit, and you know I don’t wear it too tight. “Ma’am, let me tell you a story.”

If you’d been here, you’d have known by my calmness just how very angry I was!

My sister, I told the woman, was born a normal, healthy child. But when she was quite young, long before I was born, a devastating fever swept through the county. The doctor wasn’t sure Patience would live – and when she did, he wondered if she shouldn’t have. She was left profoundly deaf and unable to speak. (I’m not writing this for you, of course, dear; you know all this. I just want to tell you what I said to this woman. And I suppose it’s therapeutic for me.) By the time I was born, Patience was fifteen. She was away at a boarding school for deaf and dumb children. “And just in case you wonder,” I informed my unwilling listener, “our parents did not send her off because they didn’t want her. They sent her to give her the greatest opportunity for a normal education.” The woman was looking mightily uncomfortable by this time, no doubt wishing she’d kept as quiet as Patience does. She had begun fiddling with the clasp of her tiny mesh chatelaine: Snap! Snap! Snap! It irritated me. I looked at her (rather sternly, I suppose) and she stopped the snapping but moved to get up from the table. I put my hand on her arm. Gently. I promise, James, I was discreet. “Please, listen… My sister didn’t merely exist at the school, she thrived. She learned to read and write, and to communicate effectively using sign language. She is so much more than you perceive!

“You called her defective. Patience is not defective. She’s bright, cheerful, curious, and capable. Except for the times she’s defenseless. And when I’m with her, I will defend her!” I nodded to the woman and returned to our table to collect Patience. My sister’s brow furrowed in puzzlement; I smiled at her and signed that I’d explain later. When I turned to look, the other table was vacant. Wednesday

James! The mountains! They are simply indescribable, breathtakingly beautiful and dramatic. I don’t have the words — you will have to see for yourself. You see? We haven’t reached our destination, and I’m already planning the next voyage.

How does this sound? We’ll come out West next summer, and bring Maybelle and Johnny. Patience should be settled in by then, and I’ll be missing her dreadfully, I know!

We’ll spend a week or perhaps two, visiting and sightseeing. Doesn’t that sound nice? We’re in the observation car again. Patience is just as enthralled with the scenery as I am. She’s smiling, gazing at those sharp peaks. So different from our plains! I’m in awe of my sister’s resilience. Here she is, over sixty years old, moving clear across the country to a new life.

Watching her face now, lit up as it is, I don’t think she looks her age. Clear skin, lovely wavy brown hair with just a hint of silver at the temples. No one would suspect, just looking at her, that there’s anything out of the ordinary about her life. And yet — I was thinking, last night, about the rest of her story. The part I didn’t tell. I was seventeen when my sister’s life changed forever — for the second time. Patience had a large room at the back of the house, where there was plenty of space for her sewing. I so envy her talent for needlework. I can’t do half so well; my seams always end up bungled and the ruffles come out uneven. She made the dress I’m wearing, and it’s simply lovely. The bronzy one that you say matches my eyes. What am I going to do for dresses, with Patience so far away? I wonder… If she could hear, and if she could speak, would her other senses be so finely tuned? Especially her sense of touch. She has such deft fingers, and an attention to the tiniest detail. My train of thought has gone off track. Isn’t that an appropriate metaphor? Or is it a simile… No, it’s a metaphor, I’m sure.

If you were here, James — “Back to the story, Georgie!” you’d say.

So I’ll pretend you’re here, and resume. The night that terrible thing happened to Patience, we were all asleep. It must have been well past midnight when the despicable worm (hardly a man!) crept into the house.

He knew just where her room was, knew she wouldn’t hear him, knew she couldn’t cry out.

Now, remembering all these years later, I feel the blood rising again when I think of the first newspaper article to report the crime. It described “a young gent accused of an attack upon a half-witted girl”.

Oh, I was livid! As if, perhaps, the assault was justifiable for any reason at all! As if the accusation mightn’t have been valid, because the victim wasn’t a reliable source. I shudder to think how terrified Patience must have been when she realized there was a man in her room. She told us later, in writing and by signing, that she was awakened from the vibration of his footsteps. She could see the outline of him approaching, and she thought to defend herself. But before she could grab the candlestick from her night table, he was there. She knew who he was right away, she told us. She recognized the smell of his hair oil. That’s another sense she has highly refined. Patience has known him since he was born. She should have been able to trust him — to depend on him for her defense, even. Instead, he betrayed her in the worst possible way. The actions of one human being caused another person’s life to be devastated. It brought about the severing of ties between two families, those having known one another down through several generations.

I’m sorry for the blot, James. I didn’t realize that the tears were running down my face until the ink smeared. But I know you’ll understand. At least, when that vermin was captured, the papers reported him as guilty and described Patience plainly as “a deaf and dumb woman”. Still, their portrayal of her came across as someone undesirable to a man’s attentions. And what did he do? He tried another assault on her, this time on her character. He said absolutely untrue things about her, trying to suggest she’d invited him there. No one believed him, and he went to jail. Not for long enough, though.

The whole community knew that Patience is a virtuous woman. Even so, her life was irrevocably tarnished. That reminds me of the proverb about silence being golden. How does it go? Speech is silver, silence is golden? Is that right? My thoughts are all tangled, just the way my sewing thread always gets. Patience cannot physically speak. She lives in silence. Sometimes that silence has not been golden; it’s been very dark. But her life shines despite it all! Thursday What a glorious day! We’ve come down from the mountains, and now there are gently rolling hills all around. I did expect them to be green, but they’re all golden brown. I’ve seen glimpses of water sparkling in the sun; we’re told they are the bays of the Pacific Ocean. So, so exciting! We’ve had our breakfast, spent the morning packing up, and just finished luncheon. Our last meal aboard.

Arrival in San Francisco will be

mid-afternoon. I do hope we find Theo straight off! As you know, he’s arranged for us to spend the night at the Palace Hotel, which surely can’t be any more exceptional than this train. However, it will be made better by his company!

We are to dine at the hotel this evening, by way of a celebration for Theo’s 28th birthday tomorrow.

Patience is looking a bit nervous, I think. She has every right to be. For me, this is an adventure and a holiday. For her, it’s another life-changing event.

I hope that she will have many happy, healthy years in her new home! She managed to raise Theo into a fine young man I’m proud to call my nephew, and now he’ll be taking care of her. You know, James, here’s a bit of a conundrum. Patience has Theo in her life because of an unspeakable violation committed upon her, and yet — he is a blessing in her old age.

She has just let me know the train is slowing. I hadn’t realized it yet, but she’s right. We’re getting close!

There’s fog surrounding San Francisco. It looks like a cozy blanket.

I’d better finish up and be ready to disembark. In the morning, I will leave this letter for the hotel clerk to send off before we head north on the last leg of the journey — up river on a steam boat! Expect lots of postcards in the coming days. Your loving wife, Georgina P.S. later Theo has met us, and he sends his greetings. The journey is over, and yet it has just begun!


Dedicated to and based on a concept by Danschneider Arroyo, for every scammed author and lover everywhere... Chapter 54 East Vrmlmelmnsk, Syburslovenia At last, Alexis’ heart’s desire was within one GPS turn of fulfillment, and her desirous heart thumped rapidly as she crossed the landfill beyond the village bazaar. The trans-Atlantic journey, the loss of her luggage at the charmingly quaint bicycle-powered Aeropotschk carousel, the succession of taxis and taxi robberies, the bribes to countless provincial cops, the chicken she was coerced to buy at the market, the foreigny threats that bombarded her as she roamed the cobbled streets in search of 12 Zjrchskmsk Avenue, rooster wrestling under her arm — it would all be worth it when she could look her pfisher soulmate in his unpatched eye. “Your destination is in 300 feet, on your left,” Siri cooed. “Please be aware of organ harvesting activity ahead; I can devise an alternative route back to the Aeropotschk…” But Alexis now was guided by her appetites rather than her apps, and she pressed ahead, gently driving away one of the local street weasels that might have been the twin of the creature she’d nibbled at a charmingly retro crate in the marketplace, after her desire-filled gut had throbbed with non-cardiac desire for something beyond the boiled airline chickpeas. Her heart swelled with swollen feelings as she reached the last hovel at the end of the block before the rustic old cell phone/nuclear waste dump. Her delicate, alabaster fist-blossom froze before the warped plank that served as the door. This was crazy – when the private eye her BFFs at the cat café/cupcake emporium had hired for her traced the pfisher’s IP address to this tiny hamlet in a pastorally bombed-out former Soviet republic, she’d poured out her pain and fury at this Facebook scammer before understanding that rage is but the other side of that coin we call love. Between the lines of the badly constructed, clumsy warning that her system had been compromised and the ransomware demand, Alexis could sense the heart of a wounded outlaw soul. Like Beauty and her Beast, Bullock and her Jesse James…

Steeling her desire-saturated heart, the baker/quilter-turned-author rapped on the splintered wood like a desirous heart beating out a rhythm of love. “Come. To. Me; Come. To. Me.” The love-plank finally shifted, and a glacially blue eye peered from the shadows, like the piercing light of Cupid’s lighthouse beacon across the dark and ripply waters of doubt and pain. Alexis now knew her story wasn’t the website romance that “Lance Boyles” had pirated into an internationally acclaimed erotic vampire suspense thriller. Her story began with this rogue who indeed had stolen her desire-riddled heart. “Lance” grunted a series of long words neither Alexis nor most of her readers would have understood even had they been in English rather than some rural Slovenian language. Only her fondant sous-chef Russian Mikhail back home was poly-Slavic, but while he had insisted on accompanying her on her journey, Mikhail himself had found bliss with the lady day-trader from the city who’d finally taken her face out of her laptop long enough to discover the true meaning of rapture and pre-molded frosting at the town bake-off and comforter fair. The ceremony was next week at the old fiction mill by the river, the Reverend Dodge officiating. Alexis thus implored Lance to repeat his declaration into her cellphone. Her Cunning Linguist app translated. “It is you, my Alexis, at last. You have made the future of my destiny a reality!” He shoved the plank aside and emerged. Aside from the gnarled and possibly infected face-navel that had once served as his left eye, Lance was perfect. Hours of hacking and scamming in his dark garret had chiseled his upper arms into Greek statue kind of arms, and his jogging suit-draped legs had been shaped by constant escape from global law enforcement and Bulgarian mobsters. Lance’s was a life lived large, and Alexis felt a stirring in her loins wholly different than her reaction to the boiled garbanzos. Alexis fell into Lance’s arms, and his eye leaked dewy tears of love moisture. Lance grunted again, his Tokarev gun dipping sensually below his pelvis. “Can you forgive me?” Cunning Linguist recited. “Forgive you???” Alexis gasped, catching a lungful of waste dump sulfur. “You silly, beautiful Cyclops! You have made my humble paranormal suspense novella a classic in five Eurasian markets, and Kindled the long-extinguished embers of desire in my heart furnace. And besides…” She displayed the locket she had blinded a cabbie/former surgeon to protect. The woman had gone down hard and valiantly, and Alexis vowed to name a werewraith in her next novel after the driver, adding a few vowels for reader ease, of course. The filigreed gold clamshell was inscribed with her non-nom de plume fake writer name. Lance squinted at the florid mall engraving, then switched to his good eye. A.I. Chatt . Alexis’ digitalized heart swelled with love blood as the thief of that previously mentioned heart realized there was nothing for his future life mate to forgive. No more torture or remorse or fear of mercenary revenge squad retaliation. Lance’s life of underground plagiarism had nearly ended in violence numerous times – the Kindle Unlimited attack on his favorite wifi coffee shop/arms dealer; Nora Roberts’ Mossad-trained hit squad coming after his mother as she prepared his beloved borscht and cloned stolen Discover cards. The grainy photos of the meeting between a coldly vengeful and immaculately put-together Danielle Steele and Ivan the Badger in a Budapest Chik-Fil-A his bro Sergei the trafficker had Messenger’d him. As colleague after colleague had been “Kristin Hannah’ed,” as those in the trade called it, Lance had stayed one step ahead. Now, he had been apprehended by this spunky paperback word-poet, his heart clamped in the titanium grip of Alexis’ love-cuffs. His sentence? Life, in a maximum security prison with Alexis as his love-jailer.

Lance grunted. Cunning Linguist processed Alexis’ newfound language of love. “So. You want to see the place?” “Oh, yes, YES! On the soul of Stephenie Meyer, a million times YES!” Alexis exclaimed, flattening a feral cat as she hurled the plank aside. She felt like a bad Eastern European knockoff of Pinocchio (one of Lance’s top-selling works in the Russian children’s market and unedited, on the YA list). Alexis’ Intel chip glowed warm within her OEM bosom. Tonight, she would become a real woman, if they could figure out a workable interface…


One day as I sat and watched TV, I remembered an incident of a rather unusual friendship which many of you wouldn't have heard of perhaps. It was an experience I had 20 years ago when I was just 18. I used to stay in a rickety, dilapidated old building in Singapore when I heard a sudden noise like a thud and lots of footsteps. I ran across the room, opened the door, and looked at the staircase. I saw this young guy perhaps my age, thin, wearing spectacles, quite tall and well dressed holding something which looked like a bottle in his hand covered with cloth. He looked a bit out of place according to me considering people of low-income groups stayed in my building and this guy was quite well dressed to be in here. He looked at me and quickly ran to the next-door apartment where he had moved in. I waited and looked all around hoping more people were moving in, his parents, siblings, girlfriend, wife but nope there was nobody, he had moved in all alone. I picked up my bag and headed to college carrying on my normal routine. After few days I again bumped into this guy again and since he was after all my neighbor I thought why not make a conversation with him. "Hi there, I'm Ary and you are," I said stretching my hand across hoping to be polite and shake hands, but in return, he said " uh, hi I'm sorry but my hands" he lifted his hand where he was holding a couple of plastic bags which had clams, fish and crabs in there. "Excuse me but I am busy right now," is all he said and rushed back into his apartment. What a weird guy I wondered and quite a manner less fellow did not even tell me his name. That very evening as I sat outside my apartment listening to music he opened his door and said " I'm sorry, I was in a hurry in the afternoon, I am Ryan, I had to keep all those fish and crabs in the water they were alive after all. Why don't you come over someday." ." Yeah sure I will, but I'm curious to know one thing, you stay alone and all those fish and crabs were for you? " I asked surprisingly. " Oh no no, I'm a vegetarian, those were for Jini my pet". " Jini!!" I exclaimed, " you mean your pet cat " though I hadn't heard any meow for days now, " well. no not my cat my pet octopus". "Your pet what? did I hear that correctly, you said Octopus"?, "well yes, I have a pet Octopus, come in tomorrow and I shall show you around". But tomorrow was too late I had heard of people keep exotic pets but Octopus? I went straight into his apartment, and he was very welcoming. It was as if I had entered a different world altogether. Huge glass aquariums covered all his walls full of rocks inside them, and his bed was right in the center of the room with a small table and chair next to it. I could clearly make out he had no guests visiting him ever. "well, you see, when my parents got divorced I decided to move out and live separately so I came in here, and since I have rich parents," he said as if making a statement why he had such an exotic pet and expensive pet, " I asked them if I could keep a pet octopus, they had no reason to deny me that. And I know since it's strange to keep an octopus as a pet and people will make fun of me I chose this building where I could be secluded on my own with Jini", Ryan said. "You see that's Ryan, hiding behind the rocks, he eats live fish and crabs and that's why you saw me carrying all of that the other day," said Ryan while passing me some chips and a bottle of coke. " Jini loves to play games and solve puzzles, I put him in various shaped bottles and tries to find a way out of it, it's actually good fun to watch that", Ryan said while laughing. While I sat there listening to Ryan it seemed as if I was lost in a different world altogether, w=, he was living alone, yet so content had no human company as such, yet so happy. I thought to myself he's actually not as weird as he seemed the first time I saw him but we usually tend to judge people by looks, clothes, and definitely by the pets they keep, which is so wrong. "Can I be Jini's friend too ?" I asked. " well yes of course just that you will have to come every day to visit him and play games with him so he can get familiar with you", " sure, every evening ill be here playing games and puzzles". That day when I went back to my apartment I felt happy that I had made a new friend rather than two counting JIni in too and hoping I could play with him too. It was the most unexpected and unusual pet experience I had ever had and the experience stayed with me forever. Today, Ryan and I are the best of friends though we live in different countries now, we both are married and our spouses are great friends too. Jini would've been a great pet rather a friend too but we lost Jini while Ryan was shifting homes, Jini managed to escape from the container and we only hoped that she had found a nice place in the ocean between rocks along with other friends there. What I experienced 20 years ago is something I always narrate and tell to every young person I come across, never judge a book by a cover and definitely never judge a master by the kind of pet he keeps.


As the morning sun shone through the windows of the apprenticeship building, Emily could feel her heart pounding with excitement. It was her first day as an apprentice chef and she couldn't wait to get started. She had always loved cooking and had dreamed of becoming a world-renowned chef since she was a little girl. Emily had spent months researching and preparing for this day, and she was ready to make the most of it. As she walked down the hallway, Emily noticed that the door to the room that was her cooking classroom was slightly ajar. She peeked inside and saw that the room was filled with tables covered in strange objects and ingredients she had never seen before. Emily couldn't help but feel curious about what was happening inside, so she wandered closer. Suddenly, the door swung open and Emily was grabbed by a tall, imposing figure dressed in a long robe. She was dragged into the room, and before she could even protest, the door slammed shut behind her. Emily's heart was pounding in her chest as the tall, handsome man held her against the cold brick wall. Emily had never seen a man so handsome before. He had dark, short hair, bright blue eyes, and a muscular body that made her blush. His strong hands pinned her arms above her head as he leaned in closer to her. The dark room was lit only by candlelight. The flickering flames cast shadows on the wall and created long, sinister figures that danced along the floor. The man's long robes brushed against her thighs, the soft fabric caressing her legs. The man wrapped his arms around her waist, his strong hands grabbing her hips and pulling her against him. The man was wearing a long, black robe and a tall pointed hat. His muscular form was dressed in loose-fitting clothing, with a long strap around his waist, a belt, and a small pouch attached. The classroom smelled of smoke and spices, mixing with the heat of the flames and the heat of the man's breath. Emily couldn't help but notice that the man's robe was thin and airy. Emily could taste the adrenaline in the back of her throat. She tried to struggle against his grip, but he was too strong. Emily sucked in the moist air of the room, tasting the faint sweetness of the candle wax. As she looked up, she noticed that he was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. His dark hair was matted with blood, and his face was twisted in pain. Emily couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the man who was holding her captive. "What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice shaking with fear. The pounding of Emily's heart echoed against the wall, mixed with the scrape of the man's robes as he moved against her body. The man looked down at her, his eyes intense and searching. "I need your help," he said, his voice hoarse. "I need you to help me get out of here." Emily's heart skipped a beat. She didn't know what to say or do. Was this man dangerous? Was he going to hurt her? She "Let me go!" The figure chuckled, the sound deep and menacing. "I'm afraid I can't do that, my dear," he said, pulling her closer. Emily could feel his breath on her neck and she shuddered in fear. "Who are you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. "What do you want from me?" The figure leaned in closer, his lips almost touching her ear. "I am the leader of a secret society, my dear," Emily struggled against his grip, but his strength was overpowering. She winced as he held her tightly, feeling trapped and afraid. "Please," he pleaded, desperation in his voice. "You have to help me. You're the only one who can save me now." Emily tried to shake her head, to tell him that there was nothing she could do. But he pressed a hand over her mouth, silencing her protests. Suddenly, there was a sound from outside the room. It sounded like someone was running, and Emily's heart leaped with hope. Maybe it was someone who could help her. But before she could react, the man tightened his grip on her even further. Emily struggled against him, feeling trapped and helpless. With a burst of energy, Emily let out a scream. But before the sound could escape from her mouth, he silenced her with his hand. As she caught her breath, Emily looked into his eyes, trying to find some spark of humanity there. "how did I get in this mess?" Emily wondered in silence. still looking into his deep blue eyes. The smell of death was all around him, coiling from his body like a serpent, reaching out to her. She could smell expensive leather and designer cologne and could barely breathe. Emily felt her jaw drop as the guy finally released her mouth. She stepped back and rubbed her sore lips, glaring at him with a mix of anger and confusion. He looked genuinely sorry, but that didn't change the fact that he had just forcefully silenced her. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I had to make sure you wouldn't scream." "Who are you?" Emily demanded, eyeing him warily. He took a step closer and held out his hand. "My name is Draco. And right now, someone is trying to kill me. I need your help to get out of this building alive." Emily stared at him in disbelief. This had to be some kind of joke. But the desperation in his eyes and the urgency in his voice made her heart race with fear. "Why me?" she asked, unable to keep the tremble out of her voice. Draco paced back and forth in front of Emily, his eyes trained on her face as he tried to figure out whether or not he could trust her. Emily met his gaze coolly, her expression betraying nothing. "I've been at the Witchery School for years, and I've never seen you there." Emily shrugged nonchalantly. "I just started a cooking apprenticeship," she said, her voice low and even. "I'm still getting settled in." she was confused since she was still trying to understand how from cooking school she ended up in a witchery school. Draco studied her for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to believe her. "Cooking? he asked "We don't have a cooking apprentice program here" he was trying to understand "You must have gotten the wrong address" he added "Or are you lying?" "No," Emily said almost too loud "I'm not lying, this is the right place, I got an invitation in my mailbox two months ago. Some chef called De Lauret invited me" "There is no De Laurent chef here, this is a witchery school, no human is allowed, or even knows the way here without being invited by one of our principals" he crossed his arms "I'm not lying I can show you the invitation" She spoke too fast, worried that he would change his mind and kill her in seconds. "You don't look too shocked by the fact that I just told you that this is a witchery school and that I am a wizard" he crossed his arms trying to figure her out. "I'm more concerned about the fact that my life depends on you deciding to trust me or not" She backed up a couple of steps. he kept looking at her, it was a weird story, impossible actually, she was a full human, and someone, or somehow she found her way to the most powerful witchery school in New Hampshire. There was something about the way she held herself, something in the way her eyes flickered when she spoke, that made him think she was telling the truth. Draco sat across from Emily in the dimly lit room, his eyes fixed on hers. "I can tell," he said, his voice low and intense. "I can tell you're not from around here." Emily shifted uneasily, unsure of how to respond. Draco leaned forward, his gaze never leaving hers. "And right now," he continued, "I can only trust you." Emily's heart raced as Draco's words sunk in. She had always been a cautious person, but this was different. There was something about Draco, something in the way he looked at her, that made her feel safe. Draco reached across the table and took her hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You're different," he said softly. "You don't belong here. And somehow, neither do I." Emily looked into Draco's eyes and saw something there that she had not noticed before. Emily nervously approached Draco, who was sitting in the corner of the room, his eyes darting around as if he was expecting danger to burst through the door at any moment. "Draco," she said softly, "I want to help you. I feel that for me to be able to get out of here in one piece. I'm gonna have to help you survive whatever you're involved in. So what can I do?" Draco looked at her, his expression guarded. "You'd be taking a huge risk by getting involved," he warned her. "But if you're sure, there is something you can do." "What is it?" Emily asked, her heart racing. "You need to learn a spell," Draco said, his voice low. "One that can help me escape." Emily's eyes widened. "I...I don't know anything about magic," she admitted. "That's okay," Draco said, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'll teach you." He beckoned her closer, and Emily knelt down beside him. Draco began to whisper instructions, and Emily strained to hear him. she didn't understand most of the words, but she could mimic them. "Iculopus energen,tranforem" He said multiple times explaining something about energy, a wand, and dark magic. but somehow, Emily kept losing her mind in his blue deep eyes. "Focus, Emily," he said, his eyes locked on hers. "You need to channel your energy into the wand." She nodded, trying to concentrate on the task at hand, but her eyes kept wandering to Draco's muscular biceps. Suddenly, she noticed a small trickle of blood running down his arm. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw a deep gash on his bicep. "Draco," she said a little too alarmed "What happened to you?" she looked up, and with her hand, she cleaned the blood now dry in his forehead. "Let's just say, that I played the wrong cards" He laughed. "Are you okay?" she asked softly, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Don't worry about that, it will heal" he said acting tough. Draco grunted in response, his face twisted in pain. Emily quickly ripped a piece of fabric from her sweater and pressed it against his wound. "Here, let me help you," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Draco winced as she applied pressure to the wound, but he didn't push her away. Emily couldn't help but notice the way his muscles tensed under her touch. "We need to get you out of here," she said. "Just repeat the words, concentrate on the wand, and visualize a circle moving in front of you. open a portal. accept my magic as if it was yours" his words made no sense to her, but at the same time, they did. "How can you tell me all these things, I'm just a human, what makes you so sure that I will be able to absorb or manipulate your own magic as if it was mine?" she asked tired of so many failures in just so little time. "Because even humans can possess magic. they just don't believe that they can" his hands held Emili's tight. "I think I won't be able to help you" She closed her eyes. Emily was feeling frustrated as she stared at an empty space. She could feel warmth moving from his hands to hers. moving inside her veins, as if her blood had been frozen and suddenly it wasn't anymore. She practiced the hand gestures countless times, but the portal refused to budge. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, feeling defeated. Draco noticed her distress and placed a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?" "I can't seem to activate the portal," Emily replied, her voice tinged with frustration. "I've tried everything, but it won't budge. I just don't belong here maybe that letter was just a prank or a mistake" Draco gave her a reassuring smile. "Just because the portal won't open doesn't mean you don't have magic, Emily. Sometimes it takes time to find your power." "You don't have time. I don't have time. I want to get out of here too" She looked at him "And somehow cant just walk out of this room and leave" She crossed her arms. Emily looked at Draco skeptically, unsure if she truly had the gift of magic. Or if he was just trying so hard because somehow he needed her. But something in Draco's eyes made her believe him. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, focusing all of her energy on his eyes. As Emily looked deeper into Draco's eyes, everything around her began to fade away. She could feel the energy swirling around them, pulsating with a force that was almost overwhelming. The magic between them was intense, and Emily knew that this was what she had been searching for all along. Suddenly, she felt a powerful surge of energy coursing through her body. Emily's body began to glow with an otherworldly light, and Draco's eyes widened in surprise. "What is going on?" Emily screamed "Don't let go" Draco said "This is amazing" he added "Are you doing this?" Emily asked "Is not me" he smiled "Who are you?" he looked confused while his eyes looked at her. As he watched in awe. "Why do I feel like this" She could feel the rush of power moving in her body. It was as if she had opened a floodgate, releasing a tidal wave of magic that she couldn't control. The air around them crackled with electricity as Emily's power surged out of her in waves. And then, it happened. The portals began to open, one after the other until there were five of them swirling around them in a dizzying display of magic. The portals were all different sizes and colors, each one leading to a different place and time. Emily had never felt so powerful before. The energy from Draco must have been more potent than she had anticipated. Draco stepped closer to Emily, and she felt her body respond to his touch. The two of them were lost in the moment, completely consumed by the magic that surrounded them. But before Draco could explain what was happening, a sudden gust of wind caught their attention. They both looked up, only to see a swirling black vortex materializing before them. Out of the portal, emerged a group of black hooded figures, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods. Draco immediately recognized them as dark wizards - the most dangerous kind. "Time to go little human," Draco said. spinning Emily protecting her with his back without letting go of her hand. Without warning, the dark wizards lunged at them, brandishing their wands menacingly. Draco knew he had to attack quickly. Draco stepped forward, his wand already drawn, and cast a powerful shield charm. The dark wizards' curses hit the shield and bounced off harmlessly. But the dark wizards were not easily defeated. "Time to go, Emily," Draco said Draco was quick to react, hurling hexes and jinxes at the wizards with skillful precision. But it was too many attacking them, they couldn't move or reach one of the portals. "What do we do?" Emily screamed. Draco pushed her behind him letting go of her hand. Draco's heart raced as he tried to defend himself with spells, but the dark wizards were too strong for him. "Delubux incantante" Emily heard a voice in her head, soft and gentle yet commanding. It whispered a spell. Emily closed her eyes and repeated the incantation, feeling a surge of energy flow through her body. She wasn't sure of what she was doing, but stepping forward, with her hand in the air, she knew what she had to do. "Emily step aside" Draco demanded, but she couldn't hear him " Emily" he screamed again. But she kept walking, and without hesitation, Emily pointed her wand at the dark wizards and shouted the incantation, feeling a powerful surge of energy flow through her body. The air around her crackled with electricity as a bright light emanated from the tip of her wand, engulfing the three dark wizards in its radiant aura. She heard screams, her name, and a warm energy surrounding her body. When she opened her eyes again, the world had changed. The air crackled with electricity, and the wizards were frozen in their tracks. in her ear, all she could hear was a deep high peach sound, and her head spinning. her mouth dry and in a blink of an eye, she felt the strength of Draco dragging her across a portal. When the portal closed on the other end, she was in a forest, it was night, and Draco was right in front of her screaming. "How you do that?" he screamed "That is not something a simple human could do" he looked mad. "I don't know," she said Draco looked at her in despair, confused. "I don't know what happened" Emily looked a her hands, they were red and hurting. "What happened to me?" she said in tears. but Draco didn't have an answer all he could say was. "You are not human" he stepped aside "Then, who are you?