She awoke in a dungeon of her own creation. The physical manifestation of her mind: a semi-circular room offering dust-gray walls, ebony doors, black marble floors, and an ebony table and chairs. This was her first time seeing it—but not her first time trapped here.            She had expected no better. Her surroundings represented a life fragmented by memory lapses, blank spots that she struggled to explain to puzzled coworkers and her boss, to whom she couldn’t afford to reveal her affliction. Some days, she woke in the morning, and, next thing she knew, she saw the moon in the onyx-black sky, and she spent the rest of the night wondering what she had and had not done during the missing hours. She could not plan; how could one know what one was going to do at any given time if one didn’t know who they would be at that time? She had hoped that her father’s death would solve the problem, but it hadn’t. And so she had had to seek help elsewhere. She had found it via an online advertisement. “Struggling with Dissociative Identity Disorder? I can cure you in as little as one session!” written in navy blue Courier New font on a lavender background. Beside it, a photo of a thirty-something woman with a white smile and perceptive-looking brown eyes. Adeline Carrigan, M.D. Jeanie had had her doubts but found the prospect of a quick fix for a condition she’d expected to struggle with for years, if not the rest of her life, too enticing to pass up. The following day, she’d landed on Dr. Carrigan’s burgundy velvet chaise lounge, telling her story. Dr. Carrigan listened, nodding and scribbling on floral-print stationery. When she finished, Dr. Carrigan said, “I’m so glad you found me, Jeanie. I’ll have you healing in no time.” She explained the process, after which, eyes sparkling, she proclaimed, “As I’m sure you know, nobody’s ever tried anything like this. It’s a huge breakthrough—and a huge help to people like you.” They got right to it. Dr. Carrigan told her to lie back and shut her eyes. At first, panic gripped her, as it always did when she did so, but then Dr. Carrigan started talking, sculpting her words with cashmere-soft hands. She felt herself slipping away, into darkness. Only this darkness didn’t scare her. This one embraced her. Now, she found herself wishing for that darkness again.            The door on the straight wall opened, and in walked her doppelganger. The sight stole her breath, and she collapsed against the nearest chair. Yes, she’d known what she would face, known that Talia was her, at least in the physical sense. Yet seeing her in the flesh brought a weirdness no one could possibly have foreseen.            “What’s the matter, Jeanie?” Talia drawled. “Astounded by your own beauty?” She sauntered to one of the chairs, sat down, and folded her hands on the table. “We need to talk,” Jeanie said. “Yeah, I know what you’re here for.”            “You…you do?”            “I’m not an idiot.”            Her father would have begged to differ. He had declared both of them as such what seemed an infinite number of times, like during his conference with her seventh-grade algebra teacher; the teacher had told him that Jeanie had been having a hard time with variables, and he’d snapped, “Well, what’d you expect? I’m sure you know by now, kid’s more than a few beams short of a house.” Jeanie’s cheeks had grown so hot that it seemed a wonder that their flesh hadn’t melted off their bones.            Much like what she felt right now.            Talia gestured to the chair before her. “Park it.”Legs wobbling, Jeanie did so. Talia speared her with a glare. “So you wanna get rid of me—after all I’ve done for you.”            “No, I wanna integrate us.” She’d read enough articles on the topic to know that alters were not the other one felt they were, but, rather, another side of oneself that would, rather than disappear, meld with one’s “host” personality when one achieved integration. Apparently, Talia either didn’t know that, or didn’t want to acknowledge it.            Talia leaned back, the parentheses beside her lips darkening. “So that’s that. You take away my autonomy, and, boom , a happy ending?”            “I didn’t say that.” She didn’t know whether she’d have a happy ending, even if she did get what she wanted. She simply knew that failure to do so would make that impossible.            Talia shot her a glare icier than any of which she’d thought her own eyes capable. “Don’t play with me. I know what this is: You got what you wanted outta me, and now you wanna dump me. At least own up.”            “I’m not saying you never did anything for me,” she said, bristling. “I’m just saying, I can’t do this anymore.”            Talia’s face reddened, her eyes glinting like fiery coals. “You don’t get it, do you?”            “Get what? What’s there to—“            “He called you a waste, did you know that? A waste of a body.”            She felt as if skewered through the chest. She didn’t remember that. Why didn’t she remember?            “And he shocked you,” Talia continued. She shook her head, a humorless smirk stretching her lips. “Man, he loved that taser. Bought it just for you. It hurt like hell…But you don’t remember that, either.”            No, she didn’t. It sent her mind spinning, recalling cop shows on which she’d seen people enduring what Talia had described, writhing in agony, their screams stabbing her despite the crimes that had invoked the punishment. Talia had committed no such crimes.            “Oh, and the time he tried to drown you in the bathtub. Remember that?”            Jeanie slammed back against her chair, the room tilting and smearing into a whirl. Drown her. He’d tried to drown her. She’d had no illusions of him, with any facet of his being, loving her as a father typically did his daughter. But she’d had no clue that he’d despised her enough to do something like that. And Talia had had to find a way to live with it. She opened her mouth but, for several moments, couldn’t speak. Finally, she managed, “I…I had no idea.”            “No, you didn’t.”            “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”            Her gaze sharpened still more. “I didn’t have to go through it, Jeanie. I chose to go through it, for you. ‘Cause, if I didn’t, that would’ve been it.”            A part of her wanted to argue, but she knew that Talia had spoken the truth. She’d barely survived what she had endured at his hands. If she’d suffered the events Talia had described, she wouldn’t have held on to the very little sanity that she still possessed.            Twisting, searing pain bloomed in her chest, coupled with longing to fold within herself until nothing remained. Instead, she told herself to focus on here. Now. Regrets would not make amends. Finally, she asked, “Would you…would you wanna talk to someone? Get some help?”            Talia’s expression changed in such a way that it left her face nearly unrecognizable. Her eyes flickered and then sharpened, staring at Jeanie as if seeing her for the first time, and shocked that such a creature could exist. She said, “You know, with this little shortcut and everything, I didn’t think you’d go that way.”            “What—“            “You wanna integrate? Is that what you want?”            “Yeah, but—“            “As long as you know what you have to do.”            Questions danced in her head, but she didn’t have time to sculpt them into words before Talia closed her eyes, leaned back, and started fading, becoming translucent. That rattled her so much that she still couldn’t articulate her inquiries, or anything at all. Talia continued fading, fading, fading. A ghost. A film. A wisp. And then nothing at all.            She stared, eyes nearly popping out of her skull. A rumbling sounded. The room vibrated. The wall crumbled, revealing the rest of the chamber, which looked identical to this half. A pile of splinters had formed on the floor, but, soon, they, too, disappeared.            She felt her mind stretching. Expanding. Remembering. Standing in the living room, a paperweight slipping through her fingers and shattering on the floor. Her father screaming. Worthless. Pathetic. A waste of a body, a waste of space. Her mother should’ve aborted her.            Her father gesturing toward some laundry she’d folded. Telling her that a five-year-old had more sense. Reaching into his pocket, producing the taser, aiming, and shooting. White-hot pain wracking her, agonizing even in the abstractness of retrospect. Weeping on the floor while he sneered above her. Praying that he wouldn’t go another round.            Her father confronting her as she came in the door two minutes past her curfew. Remarking, “If you’re not gonna be here on time, don’t come back at all—Actually, my life’d be a helluva lot better if you didn’t.” Tears running down her face as she apologized. Her father telling her that he’d had enough of her whining. Grabbing her by the hair. Yanking her into the bathroom, where he filled the tub. Pushing her head under the water. Scorching pain wracking her skull where it hit the porcelain, her nasal passages and throat as water rushed in. Flailing, clasping, desperate for something, anything, to relieve the pain, finding nothing. Her father letting go. Her shooting up, coughing and sputtering, flames in her chest. Wondering whether she should allow herself to feel relieved that he’d stopped this time, or whether she should feel terrified because, next time, he may not.            A flash. The sense of zooming through space and time. A jerk. She opened her eyes to see Dr. Carrigan looking at her. “All good?” she asked.            “All done,” she said. But definitely not “all good.”


“Ever Since I was young, I couldn’t have been more than six or seven, I’ve lived in fear. You’re probably sitting there thinking how much of a liar I am. I couldn’t be living in fear when I barely showed any emotion ever since you’ve known me. But that’s the thing Maureen, that’s what I fear. I fear letting myself feel anything because if I let myself feel anything good, I know how quickly it can be taken away. So, I choose to see the negativity in everything. And I know that makes me cynical and you’re probably hearing this and thinking how dramatic I’m being or how much of a damaged cliché I am, but hear me out. I’m going to tell you something crazy, and I need you to listen through this whole recording for me, ok? Don’t turn it off or skip to the end because I need you to understand why I’ve been the way I’ve been. And once you’re done listening to everything I’ve said, I need you to remove the cassette tape and burn it. I trust you, Maureen. More than anyone. And that’s why I’m going to trust you not to tell anyone my biggest secret, no matter how much you might want to.” Maureen sat in front of her dust-filled, half-broken cassette player that’s sat in her garage since she’s stored some of her mother’s boxes when she died 22 years ago. What reason she kept it all these years, she never really knew. But when an anonymous envelope came through her door this morning addressed to her with an unmarked cassette tape in it, she’d immediately remembered the boxes piled against the walls of her garage and knew her mother’s cassette player would finally come to use. This was the second time Maureen had pressed pause on the decaying machine sitting on the kitchen table. The first time was when she realized whose voice was coming out of the speakers. Even though most of the words were filled with static from the rusty cassette player, she knew immediately who it was. Caleb Brownstone. The last time she’d heard that voice was probably no less than ten years ago now, when she had told him to never contact her again. She admits it was slightly harsh of her at the time considering Caleb had always been a great boyfriend for the most part, but he had one huge flaw. Caleb Brownstone was quite possibly the most negative, cynical person in the world. He would always have a negative view on anything, no matter what happened to him. Maureen remembers the time she realized Caleb would never give up his cynical nature, when he got promoted at work and instead of celebrating like Maureen suggested, Caleb frowned and told her he should’ve gotten the promotion years ago. Maureen knew Caleb was a great guy deep-down, but his negativity was starting to rub off on her, so, although she still loved Caleb, Maureen knew the best thing for her to do was to walk away. And so, with the bittersweet taste of unfinished love, Maureen clicked play once again to hear the hushed tones of her ex-boyfriend. “I’ll start from the last time I truly felt something. I was six years old, and I was sitting on my mother’s bed, cradled in her arms while she screamed for someone to help her. Even as I say this, I can feel her tight grip around my chest and her long nails puncturing little holes like daggers into my tiny arm. You’re probably pretty confused by now because I always told you that my mother gave me up for adoption when I was really young, and my father was never in my life. And you always said this was the reason I could never truly open myself up to you. Well, you’re right about the opening up to you part, Maureen. I don’t know if I ever told you that. But the part about my parents was a lie. They were both in my life until that day in November when I was just about to turn seven, I think only two weeks later. How sick is that, huh? Anyway, I’ll get on to why I’m actually telling you this.” “So last Thursday I was awakened at around 3 AM by my partner Jim calling me again. I bet you don’t miss those late-night calls to run to a crime scene, do you? So, Jim woke me up and told me to get down to 31 Bakerstreet. You know the dilapidated house on the end of the road that no one other than kids smoking pot uses? Yeah, that one. Anyway, I got down there as fast as I could and saw at least 5 police cars outside. A few more than I thought for a drug-fueled brawl that I expected in this building. Now, before I go any further, I want you to brace yourself Maureen, because what was inside that house isn’t going to be easy to hear.” Maureen paused the tape once again and sat back. What the hell was she even hearing? It sounded like the ramblings of a mad man. But Caleb sounded completely normal, if not slightly panicked, but nothing that suggested a voice that was going through psychosis. As a registered mental health nurse, Maureen was trained to spot even the smallest of differences in someone’s voice that meant they were going into psychosis or needed to be admitted to a psychiatric unit. But all she was now was confused. The words coming out of Caleb’s mouth were erratic and he rambled on for what felt like hours, even though the clock only showed around ten minutes. So, as confused as ever, Maureen hit play once again. “So, I was just in the front entrance of the house before I saw a man’s shoe sticking out of the door to my right. Once I investigated further, I saw that the shoe was still attached to the man that wore it, who was face-down on the ground with his limbs splayed out to his sides. He was lying in a thick pool of blood, so I assumed he’d been dead for at least a couple of hours. Once I stepped over him and into the room a bit further, I could see a small handgun beside his right hand and an ax, still gripped tightly in his left. But then, I whipped my head behind me as I heard a small whimper. My eyes widened as I saw a young boy, no older than seven, holding his mother’s head in his tiny, shaking hands. My heart felt as if it was in my ears as I called for Jim to give me some help. I can’t lie, I froze. I froze because the boy looked so small and helpless, cradling his mother as if his natural instincts told him to hold her for as long as he could because it would probably be the last time he would be able to. But the wave of sadness that came over me wasn't why I froze, Maureen. It was the complete and total fear that took over my body when I looked into that little boy’s pooling eyes. I looked into them, and I saw my own eyes in them. You see, Maureen, my mother didn’t put me up for adoption and my father wasn’t absent. Yes, I was put up for adoption when I was six, but that was because my father killed my mother.” “Huh, ok, here I go. My father was an extremely abusive alcoholic that started his torture when I was too young to even remember. He’d call my mother every name under the sun, before he moved onto more physical threats. He would beat us senseless any time he would drink. But on one night in November, his fists just didn’t seem good enough for him. Remember when I told you about the night my mother was gripping me so tight, she was almost choking me? Well somehow, I fell asleep but was awoken again by the sound of my mother’s screams. I ran downstairs to see my mother laying on the floor, gripping her stomach and my father standing over her with a bloodied kitchen knife. Now, remember, I was only six, so what was I to do?" "I ran. I ran into the cupboard under the stairs and locked it behind me. I’ve never felt fear like it. My limbs felt numb yet full of electric static. My heart felt as if it were about to burst from my chest in a violent thwump. My breath came in short, uneven puffs. But the worst feeling of all, was that I was alone. No one was there to protect me, and with my father pounding on the small wooden door before me, I knew I needed to do something, and quick. So I grabbed the only thing I thought could have helped me, a baseball bat and opened the door. It swung in front of me, slamming my father backwards. He obviously didn’t expect me to come out at that time and was taken aback by my small figure standing over him with a baseball bat that was probably heavier than I was at the time. I swung as hard as I could at him with my eyes closed but the bat didn’t encounter anything. Once I opened my eyes, I saw my father below me with the knife in his chest. I ran back into the room beneath the stairs and locked the door behind me again. I didn’t come out until the next day when our neighbor had sent over a police woman to do a welfare check. Turns out, when I had opened the door, the force had made the knife burrow into his chest, killing him in a very slow and painful way.” “Yes, I had killed my father. The police ruled it as a murder-suicide, and I never said anything differently to this day. You’re the first person I’ve ever told the truth to. And the reason is, when I saw that young boy at the crime scene last week, I felt that fear again. I saw it in the young boy. The heartbeat in my ears, the tingling of my numb limbs filled with adrenaline. I felt how it was to be that boy. And in that moment, I realized, I didn’t look at this boy and think it was his fault that his father was dead, the way I have been blaming myself for years. And most importantly, I wanted to tell him that it was ok to feel again. That this feeling of fear will pass, and you shouldn’t be scared of it the way I have been. I’ve realized Maureen, that’s why I find the fault in everything. You always told me how cynical I was, how negative I had always been, and I knew deep-down it was to do with my upbringing. But I was always ok with being cynical because I was afraid of feeling that fear again, of feeling anything that intense again. But now I’ve realized, I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to celebrate the life I have. I’m lucky to be able to live and feel, just as that young boy will, because I could have been killed that night, very easily. But I wasn’t. I’m alive and I deserve to live. I know I sound crazy, but this is the first time since I was six years old that I’ve truly felt alive. So, I’m moving to Mexico and starting a new life. Once I’m set up, I’ll contact you Maureen, but for now I need you to do something for me. Please burn this cassette and never mention to anyone what I’ve told you. I trust you to do the right thing here. I’ll be in contact soon. I love you, Maureen.” The tape wound to a complete stop, but Maureen continued to sit in silence. She sat and sat some more before she reached for the tape and put it in her jacket pocket, grabbed a lighter from the countertop and walked out the door.


Blanket Party Vickie Riggan 2895 words “Is no one going to say it?” I asked looking around the room at the curious faces of three of my best friends. “You know you’re all thinking it. Am I the only one willing to state the obvious? Roberta took a long draw on her cigarette hiding her face behind the exhaled smoke. Rhonda focused on the fingernail she had been diligently tending with a worn-out emery board. Mary Jo looked me square in the face and started to giggle. “Sorry about that, but you know I always giggle when I’m nervous.” “You also giggle when you’re drunk,” Roberta chimed in. Rhonda stops grinding down her nail to add, “And when you’re sober. When don’t you giggle?” Now everyone is laughing especially when Roberta admits she’s glad to be wearing peepee pads, the mere mention of which sets Mary Jo off again and the whole room is roaring with laughter. Even I have joined now because this is my tribe. These “sisters” that I have bonded with since moving to The Glades. The Glades is our carefree final home for an active senior lifestyle to enjoy our golden years.  Or so the brochure wants you to believe. Don’t get me wrong, I have come to love it here. At first, I missed my big house and perennial garden but my knees and hips don’t miss climbing the stairs to the second floor bedroom and I’ve come to love container gardening. Bob is off most days playing golf with his new friends or at home sleeping in his recliner. But the best part for me has been finding my tribe; girls who think like me.

Yes, I said girls. There might be a wrinkled old lady in my mirror in the morning but she’s hiding a wild and dangerous 21-year-old underneath. Even more dangerous now than when I was 21. If I get crazy now and get caught what can they do to me? I wear bifocal contact lenses, my teeth are implants, my boobs are fake (rebuilt after the originals were sliced off with the cancer). I mean, I’ve survived so much bad shit that I didn’t ask for, why not take a chance on surviving shit I plan for. “Ladies,” I raised my voice and my glass, “a salute to sisterhood.” Glasses clinked as the girls chimed in. “I’ll drink to that. Me too. Me three!” Then I set my glass down and began to speak in a serious tone. “Back to my original statement. If no one else will say it, I will. We have to give a sister a hand.” The others looked around confused looks on their faces. “Who are you talking about, Terri?” asked Rhonda. Other voices started to chime in, but I silenced them. “It’s Sally Wright, the cute redhead at 316 Rose Lane. They bought June’s place after Carl died and she had to move in with her kids back in Indiana. Poor June, taking care of Carl through his cancer nearly killed her.  After the funeral and the medical bills, she had to sell out to dig out of debt,” and with that, I raised my glass again and offered a toast to keeping the life insurance paid up. Mary Jo giggled so hard she choked on her gin and tonic. Roberta raised her hand like we were back in school. “So may I ask what Sally Wright needs our help with?” “Is it cancer?”  Rhonda asked with a tired look. Her first two husbands died from the dreadful disease – one lungs, one brain. Fortunately, her third husband only has heart trouble she reminds us of often. “Not dementia. I hope you’re not suggesting we all jump in to help her with that. I went through it with my mom. In the end, we had to put her in a home. It’s a 24/7 job,” added Roberta. “No, it’s worse, I’m afraid,” I added as I sat down my glass. “He’s a bully,” I admitted seriously. All the girls nodded. “There is nothing worse.” “Wait a minute,” Mary Jo interrupted, “maybe she’s ok with being bullied. I mean if they’ve been married a long time and she hasn’t done anything about it before, why should we get involved?” The other girls looked to me for a response. “That’s why I called you all over here. I ran into Sally at the grocery and invited her to happy hour. She got this panicked look in her eyes and said “No, her husband wouldn’t allow her to.”  A loud groan erupted in the group. Roberta stood up rattling the ice in her empty glass. “Anyone else ready for a refill?” Everyone held their glass out. Once the refills were done and everyone returned to their seats, Rhonda said, “Mary Jo’s right. Why should we get involved if she’s used to it?” “That’s just it. She’s not.” I could see I was confusing everyone. “After I got home and put away groceries I took some snickerdoodles down to the office for Marge, the girl on the front counter.” “You mean information central? “Roberta snapped. “It’s true. She knows all. She sees all, and she tells all.” “Exactly,” I said. “So, I explained that I ran into the new girl Sally Wright at the bakery department and she seemed really nervous for some reason. After that, I just nibbled on a cookie and listened. Seems that Sally and her husband, Gary have only been married 2 years. She was married to her high school sweetheart for over 40 years. Then one day he steps out of the shower, walks into the bedroom where she was laying out his clothes for a party they were getting ready for, and he just dropped dead from a massive heart attack right in front of her.” “Ooooh, damn,” Roberta cried.

“Better than cancer,” Rhonda added matter-of-factly.

“So, then,” I continued, “according to Marge she knew Gary from church and his wife had died the month before. Sally was lost without a man to take care of.” This elicited a groan from the group.

“I could draw her a map. Too bad she didn’t come to see me,” Roberta added snarkily. “Oh, Bert, don’t be so cynical,” remarked the ever-romantic Mary Jo, “maybe it was meant to be.” “More likely he just needed another victim,” I stated. “Bullies don’t just become bullies overnight. It’s in their DNA or something. He probably bullied his first wife to death.” “So, what else did Marge tell you,” Rhonda said trying to get back on topic. I continued with the Marge report about how he told her which activities she was allowed to participate in – no water aerobics because she didn’t need to be in a pool hunching and spreading her legs in public where anyone can see.  This one really bothered me because my doctor prescribed the aerobics to help me with my balance issues. Then I went on about the “marching orders” as he calls them. “Three meals a day always at the same time. She has to prepare a menu a week ahead and he approves it then gives her an allowance for the groceries, plus he takes her to the grocery store and waits in the car for her. If she’s not done in what he thinks is the right amount of time he goes in looking for her.” Roberta stopped me there. “That’s enough. I’m convinced. He’s a bully. I’ve seen it before, but what do you, what does she expect us to do?” “Is he type 1? If he’s a diabetic, I can help get rid of him. I know a few things she can do,” Rhonda offered. From her years as a nurse, I imagine she does have a trick up her sleeve. “No, I don’t want to kill him. Then Sally will be all alone again. That’s not what she wants. Marge says Sally told her about how kind he was the first few months of their marriage. She just wants that Gary back.” “Oh well, why didn’t you say so before now? Let me run home and get my magic wand and we can run over to their place and I’ll clunk him on the head and be done with this,” Roberta added with a laugh. That started Mary Jo giggling again. Rhonda applauded and smiled. “Well, since I know your magic wand is a Louisville slugger, I think we should veto that plan,” I said trying to bring everyone back to a serious tone. “I was thinking more along the lines of a blanket party.” Blank faces looked back at me over the highball glasses. “Okay, let me explain. In boot camp, we had a girl with long hair who refused to cut it and never got it put up right to pass inspection. Every inspection she would fail which meant the company failed, which meant we didn’t get liberty that weekend. The first time it happened we offered to help her, but she refused. The second time we warned her we would be helping her in our way if she didn’t do something. The third time we gave her a blanket party – after she went to sleep in the barracks, we threw a blanket over her head and took her to the showers where a couple of girls took scissors to her hair while the rest of us held her down.” I stopped to take a swallow of my sangria while the others thought about my explanation. Mary Jo spoke first. “So, you think we should sneak in to their bedroom, wrap Gary in a blanket and cut his hair to make him treat Sally better?” “No,” Rhonda’s voice rose excitedly, “we drug him, we beat the crap out of him and tell him he’ll get more of the same if he doesn’t start treating his woman right.” Her eyes gleamed and I could see she was thinking about what supplies we would need to get him in a state we could handle. I almost choked at seeing how easily she came up with that plan. One of these days I need to ask her exactly what kind of nursing she practiced. “I have something in mind along those lines without the assault and battery charges. Marge also told me that Sally is going back to Tennessee to help with the birth of her new grandbaby. We strike while Sally is away, so that she has no involvement. In fact, if we do it right she will never know what happened to change him back to sweet, adorable Gary.” Roberta groaned, “Just let me whack him a few times with my magic wand, please.” “No,” I answered, “we aren’t going to lay a hand on him. Rhonda I’m leaving the key part of the plan up to you. We need him out enough to be able to walk and maybe look a little drunk, but we don’t want to harm him other than maybe a heck of hangover the next day.” “And then we beat him?” Mary Jo asked with a giggle. “No then we load him into his own truck and take him out to that strip club on the edge of town and make sure he has a good time with several of the girls there, with our help of course,” I explained. “So this blanket is wrapped in blackmail, I see,” exclaimed Roberta. “Count me in but make sure I have copies of the pictures!” After all the laughter settled down, we set to work on our plan. I didn’t ask Rhonda what GHB was or how she knew where to get it. I just trust her knowledge that it’s what we need to make our victim, let’s say, pliable.

Six days later, while Sally was 3 states away Rhonda and I arrived at 316 Rose Lane with a plate of cookies and mugs of coffee. Gary was surprisingly hospitable and invited us in accepting the housewarming gifts and answering our questions about the new grandchild. He finished off a third cookie and washed it down with the coffee we brought and tried to get up from his chair. Rhonda grinned at me. Let the party begin! I found his truck keys on a hook by the door and the two of us walked him out the kitchen door into the garage carefully loading our “guest” into the back seat of his own truck. The drive out to the “Boobie Hut” (good grief what a name) took only twenty minutes. We pulled into the lot and parked next to Roberta and Mary Jo in Steve’s SUV.

It took all four of us to get him out of the truck and stand him against the side. He kept sliding down and crawling back to his feet, with help. “How much of that stuff did you give him, Rhonda.” Mary Jo asked with a nervous giggle. “It’s not an exact science you know. He might have had a beer or something stronger before we drugged him, but I gave him enough to make him feel really bad tomorrow,” she said proudly. Finally we had him standing and started to formulate a plan on how to get him in the club to get the incriminating photos and whether to take him back home of leave him in the parking lot to add further insult when a siren whooped behind us. We froze. “This was not part of any blanket parties I’ve been to in my past,” I whispered to the others. “I got this,” Roberta spoke up confidently. “Just follow my lead.” “Good evening, ladies. It looks like you might be having some trouble with this gentleman here. Are one of you ladies married to him?” the deputy asked eyeing the situation with great curiosity. “No,” Roberta answered with the sweetest southern drawl I’d ever heard, especially for a California girl. “You see, he’s actually my friend Sally’s husband but she’s back home in Tennessee helping with the birth of their new grandchild. And well, as you can see, he decided to come out here and celebrate in his own, I guess you would say “manly” way. We were just heading home from Bible Study and Mary Jo said, “Isn’t that Sally’s husband stumbling around out there in that parking lot?” Mary Jo held back her giggles for this most important part of the sudden new plan. “That’s right, officer, I recognized the truck and then we saw him all drunk and trying to find his keys so we had to stop for dear Sally’s sake. I mean what would it do to her to get a call that her bullying, old husband was out drunk and watching hoochie dancers to celebrate becoming a grandpa?” I had to turn my head so the deputy wouldn’t see me roll my eyes. I’m not sure which was harder to believe, Mary Jo’s sudden ad lib to the story or Roberta’s sudden change of heritage. “Yes, sir, I even tried pouring some of my coffee down his throat to sober him up. He didn’t want to give us his keys or let one of us take him home. He said something about a woman knowing her place….” At that I let my voice drop off and looked the deputy square in the face. “What can we do?” “Well, ladies, you did a fine thing but why don’t you let me handle it from here. This man is obviously too drunk to drive tonight but we’ve got a cot downtown where he can sleep it off. While he’s a guest of the city we might just need to have a discussion with him about treating that wife better. I mean, really, out drunk at a strip club while she’s back home helping.  Maybe it’s time he did some thinking about how he treats his lady.” The deputy was clearly taking over our plan. It was almost too good. “Do you need our help getting him to your car, officer?” Rhonda asked politely.

The deputy beamed a knowing smile at the four of us obviously proud of himself for getting us out of a difficult situation. “Don’t worry yourselves. I’ve handled worse, Maam. You ladies should be getting home. It’s getting late.”

We thanked him and began to walk away. I glanced inside the truck as we passed by to make sure we left no trace of our presence, then we all piled into Steve’s SUV , but Mary Jo was too nervous to drive. “Bert, you get us home. I need to sit in the back and collect myself.” Five minutes later Mary Jo started giggling loudly and pretty soon we all joined in. “Bible Study? Really? I can’t believe he bought that!” I said. Rhonda had an answer,” He was all of 30 years old if that. To him all old ladies drink iced tea and go to Bible Study. But I want to know when Roberta  became a Southern belle?” As we pulled up to a red stoplight she smiled behind the wheel,” It just popped into my head, and well, it worked, didn’t it?” The light changed to green and we made the turn toward The Glades.

“Yes,” I thought to myself, “it worked better than we had planned. Is no one  going to say it?”


I stop dead in my tracks. I’ve heard that the place is huge, but the rumors couldn’t prepare me for what I see. Neat, yellow stalls fill the space as far as I can see, their counters cluttered with goods from all around the universe, walls decorated with banners, garlands, and illusions. Between them hangs a silken cloth, shielding merchants and customers from the scorching light of two triangular suns. But the worst thing is, most of the people here are not even humans. It's hard to say which species is the most abundant since there are so many! Furry kas’shams with big eyes and expressionless faces strolling leisurely, browsing silk clothes and carved combs. Stumpy chavikii with eight spidery eyes, trumpeting for attention. Tiny, reptilian miyangua slithering about, twitching their fleshy whiskers, their vocal sacks working like bellows. There, a ssothian is barging through the crowd, a mountain of orange fur with horns curling down and dropping almost to the ground. I’ve never seen a nonhuman before. I am Tarvissi; our people are considered speciesists and shunned by other species. Now I am surrounded by others and I don’t know what to do. For a moment I’m taken by a sense of alienation so strong, I feel as if I am the only Tarvissi in the world. Then something soft and wet touches my shoulder and I whirl around to what looks like a giant snail, its front half raised above my head. It’s bright yellow, with red and dark blue ends to its flaps and two additional, smaller flaps in front. I step aside and the u’xui-shi slithers past me with surprising speed. I glance back at the market. The nearest stall has a silken banner, red with golden margin, and covered in writing I cannot read. The counter is filled with jewelry of gold and sapphires. Despair wells inside me. What right do I have to be here? I’m just a simple farmer. Where I come from, the jewelry was made of leather straps and carnelian. But then I collect myself. I’m not a simple farmer anymore. Yesterday I got my first Mespanian pay and I could probably afford the gold if I wanted to. But I don’t; Varxi, a Xzsim who trained with me, told me it was the place to go to buy food and I am sick and tired of Dahlsian rations. I clutch my bag closer and enter the market. The ground is covered by a soft, spongy pavement, the same material used to line training grounds. I thought the cloth above our heads would offer respite from the tropical heat, but the proximity of a thousand bodies makes the market feel like a steam bath. I spy another ssothian, crouching, with three miyangua dancing around them with scissors, trimming their orange fur. I feel sorry for the big guy. Or gal. Or whoever they are. The scent I detected a mile away is stronger here: human and inhuman sweat, fresh wood—the market was only finished a few tendays ago—fur, spices, perfumes. The air resonates with the voices of merchants trying to outshout one another, customers, and caged animals. Above them carries a song and as I follow it, I see a besheq singing, tentacles whipping above their heads, weaving a basket of silvery willow. The goods on display are as varied as the people who sell them. Jewelry and weapons; silks and linens; utensils of wood, ivory, and plastic; books and parchments; obsidian mirrors. The u’xui-shi that passed me before is now standing at one of the stalls, flapping their frilly fins over a selection of colorful powders. The first food I see is sold by chavikii and comprises dozens of plants—fruits, vegetables, or other parts—I don’t recognize. They’re bright and shiny, but I give them a pass; chavikii are naturally resistant to plant toxins and their foods could prove deadly to me. A bit further, a kas’sham offers a selection of sausages, and a familiar scent of naya spice reaches my nose, but the predatory look of the merchant’s face scares me away. I keep walking. The place is like a maze, the stalls identical, the crowds oppressing. My head starts spinning and the images blend together. So many goods I’ve never seen before, many I wouldn’t even know what to do. Fabrics that shimmer like beetle-shells; tools I didn’t know how to use; clothes made for inhuman shapes. Instruments emanating unheard of sounds and flowers that danced to their rhythm. Half-birds and half-fish with fantastic plumes, locked in cages of gold and glass. Tableware carved from single pieces of jade. What am I even doing here? A procession of chavikii pushes past me, each carrying a basket full of fruits that look like human eyes leering at me. A vhariar tries to sell me a potion to increase magical potency. My heart is racing. I struggle for breath. Are there no humans on the market? A few times I catch a glimpse of human skin, hairless Chaarites, or brown Varpulians, but they vanish before I can even see if they're merchants or customers. And none of them is Tarvissi. Am I the only one of my race here? I lean onto one of the pillars supporting the silken roof and try to calm my breathing. Despite my light clothing, I’m drenched in sweat and my insides churn, I’m not sure from hunger or anxiety. “Are you lotht?” I jerk and look around to see the kas’sham manning the nearest stall eyeing me. Their face is almost animalistic, but their big eyes shine with intelligence. Their body is lean and supple, covered in short slate fur, large hands hide claws long and sharp as daggers. I feel a cold shiver running down my spine as I realized they could jump over the counter and rip my throat open with their bare teeth before I knew they were coming. Mechanically, my hand rests on my wand. “I’m fine,” I murmur, not letting my gaze off the merchant. They look at me for a moment longer, but their face is unreadable. Finally, they flick their tail. “Tarvithian merchanth gather around the dome-thide gate,” they say and I can glimpse their canines, each as long as my hand. They must be the reason the kas’sham struggles to pronounce s . Then the meaning of their words finally worms its way through my apprehension. Embarrassment washes over me. I let go of my wand and drop my gaze. “Thank you,” I say. I pick up the trek, but suddenly the place doesn’t seem so scary anymore. It’s different. Probably bigger—and busier!—than our entire colony. But it’s just a market. And no matter how the people look or how they speak, they’re just that: people. I spot a small clearing and walk towards it, hoping to locate the dome and find the Tarvissian quarter, but the smell of flowers gives way to smoke and roasted meats. The square is surrounded by food stalls, manned by Chaarite humans. There’s a large grill with a wide assortment of roasted meats and a big pot of some kind of soup. To my left, a woman in loose robe sells steamed buns. Behind her, a chavikii fries some vegetables, the banner at the side of their stalls portrays a human with thumb and index finger raised in a Dahlsian gesture meaning everything is all right. My mouth fills with saliva. I realize I may not need Tarvissian merchants anymore.


Natalia Grimwood, an overly cheerful girl with terrible cooking skills, hasn’t peed in over eight hours.

In fact, she hasn’t moved anything other than her fingers since this morning. (Get your head out of the gutter; she’s been typing .) She’s simply stumbled out of bed, made a poor excuse of scrambled eggs and hasn’t strayed for her computer since. Her breakfast, now long forgotten and emitting a smell that not even the poets could put into words, sits next to an empty carton of OJ that was full not five hours previous.

Hence Natalia’s ungodly need to visit the ladies room.

She doesn’t notice, of course; as far as she’s concerned, her body doesn’t even exist. Her mind is trapped in her world of words where she is currently creating a rather gruesome interpretation of… well, you don’t want to know. Point is, it’s no surprise that when two very tan and very loud teens come crashing into her room, she doesn’t even lift her head.

“It’s not going to spoil , Johnny,” the girl drawls, then tries not to smirk at the boy’s expression. “I don’t even think watermelon can spoil.”

“You know I hate that nickname,” the boy—John—mutters. “Only my mom calls me that.” The girl shrugs, then freezes. Taking a big inhale through her nose, her hand flies to cover her mouth. The boy notices the smell too, though his reaction is far less dramatic than his companion’s.

“Ugh, not today ,” the girl gags. “She had to pick today ?”

“Maybe she’s almost done?” John offers half heartedly. The girl, now pinching her nose between her fingers, makes her way to the back of the room to find Natalia hunched over her glowing screen, abandon eggs beside her.

“This’s become a problem,” the girl scolds, though she knows her friend can’t hear her. John lumbers up next to her, taking the cold plate with a grimace. “I mean, just think about all the starving people who would kill for those… are they eggs?” The boy nods, scrapping the yellow blob into the garbage and tying the bag shut.

The girl starts tapping her foot, lips retracting behind her large front teeth. John, recognizing the look, pales and shakes his head. “Don’t do it, Meg. Remember what happened last time?” he tries to warn.

“It really wasn’t that bad. Plus, she’d been ten hours in. She can’t be over nine today.” A pause. “What time do you think she made breakfast?”

“Meg, she’s in the Coma and she hasn’t eaten yet. Double jeopardy.” He counts on his fingers for emphasis.

“We’ve been planning tonight for ages. She’ll have to suck it up.” Meg leans over the girl’s shoulder, eyes narrowing as she reads. “She just spelled ‘in’ with an e at the end. I’m waking her up.” John starts to argue, taking long strides towards them, but he’s too slow. Meg grabs Natalia by the shoulder, making the writer physically jump in her seat. A noise that can only be described as assorted strangled like sounds escapes her throat as she yanks out of Meg’s grip and whips around.

“It’s us, it’s us!” Meg half shouts, waving her arm to get her friend's attention. The panic on Natalia’s face slowly glazes over into sleepy confusion.

“Oh, uh… hi,” the girl manages in a husky voice. Rubbing her tired eyes she mutters, “What are you guys doing here?” Meg rolls her eyes and sighs.

“The beach party’s tonight.”

“What time is it?” Nat says over Meg’s response.

“Six,” John answers dutifully. Nat’s eyes widen, fully pulled out of her world now.

“ Six ?” she repeats incredulously. “No, it’s, like, noon.”

“Nope, it’s six,” Meg confirms.

“Oh man.”

“Get off your butt, we’re going to the beach.”

“How’d you guys get in?”

“I never gave the spare key back.”

“I’ve really been sitting here the whole day?”

“Come on, we’ll miss the sun set.”

“Holy shit, I have to pee.”

“Nat!” Our girl’s head snaps up at this, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah?”

“Beach night.”

“Pee first.”

“Fine.”

“And food.”

“You can eat in the car.”

“The waterlemon’ll go bad before we get there anyway,” John supplies.

“It. Won’t. Spoil!”

“Give me five minutes.”

“Three.”

“Deal.” ……….

It may be occurring to you that Natalia didn’t ask for time to change. This, my friends, is because it is summer in Nantucket, which means bathing suits for underwear and sunscreen for lotion. Especially if you happen to be a late teen who borders on the edge of adult demands and a tax free life. Which our trio happens to fit the description of perfectly.

This also happens to explain why they are currently doing what all teens do best; terrible, sincerely horrifying car karaoke.

“So I put my hands up to play my song, the butterfly’s fly away,” they shout between mouthfuls of overly ripe watermelon. Their screaming is accompanied by sporadic and severely uncoordinated arm movements, which successfully earn them annoyed glares from the older island residents. None of the teens seem to notice (or care), so they finish the song off without hesitation.

John gently eases them to a stop at a red light, the wind quieting in their ears and letting their loose hair fall into their eyes. Nat pushes hers aside with a grin, leaning forward between the front seats.

“And then he’s going to die at the hands of his own brother,” she says enthusiastically, then sticks her tongue out between her teeth in concentration. “Or maybe he gets caught in the crossfire. Anyway, he’s gonna die during the final battle.” Her eyes take on a wild shine. “It’s gonna tear people apart.”

“You’re a terrible human being,” Meg confirms, shooting her friend a sad look. “Why would you kill off the hot one?” John lets out a deep laugh, making Nat break out into a big smile.

“Remind me to not let you write my life,” John jokes, pushing his foot against the gas pedal, which sends Natalia thudding back into her seat. She quickly recovers and climbs back to her perch.

“I really think this could be the one, guys.” She’s practically buzzing with excitement. Taking another big bite of fruit, juice squeezes through her teeth and proceeds to poor down her arm, dripping onto the carpet. John sighs, but doesn't say anything. Meg only giggles, sticking her arms through the sunroof, creating currents of air twisting through the car.

“I’m so happy for you, Nat,” Meg says, turning her dazzling blue eyes to the back seat. “I told you that you’d be the next New York Times best selling author.” Nat blushes and tucks a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, well, I’m not there yet.”

“ Yet .” The three grin, then Meg lets out a shriek when Harry Styles starts to croon about love from their old stereo. They let the music carry them the rest of the way down the old cobblestone streets. Quant two story houses turn into blurs on either side, oranges and pinks streaking across their open windows like a colorful record. The girls’ hair gets hopelessly tangled and sticky with pink watermelon juice, but neither try to tame it. They reach the edge of the beach just as the sun starts to dip dramatically down the horizon, sending a flush across the crashing water. If you were a local watching these three fling themselves out of the car and onto the rocky sand, you would just shake your head and not think twice. You might envy their carelessness, or consider telling them to watch where they’re stepping. But the truth is, you wouldn’t remember this site years later. You wouldn’t nudge your friend and go over and ask for a picture. Wouldn’t stop what you were doing to ask yourself, “Is that Natalia Grimwood ?” Why would you? They’re just another group of happy teens lucky to be living off of their parent’s money just a little while longer. But soon, like everything else, things will change for these three. Even as they hop from foot to foot and curse at the burning sand, their time together is already drawing to a close. They’ll try to keep in touch even after their day’s under the salty sky are done, and maybe they’ll succeed. Or maybe life’s current will sweep them down separate streams. So as Nat watches the other two argue and lug an oversized cooler down to the water, her head tilts to one side with a goofy grin. Then her face falls, mouth hanging open. She scrambles reach her back pocket, pulling out a small notebook with a black pen hanging from its pages. Bending her head down to block the sun from her eyes, she scribbles furiously on the crowded pages. After a moment, she leans back, a look of relief and satisfaction relaxing her muscles while a small smile plays at her lips. “Now that is good.” “Nat! You gonna stand there all day or help us?” Meg calls from where she’s leaning on the cooler. Nat stuffs the notebook back into her pocket and runs the rest of the way down the sand to her friends. Quickly picking up one end of the box, they trudge across the shore, grimacing at the especially sharp pebbles that dig into their feet. “What were you writing?” John asks in between gasps. A far away look melts Nat’s eyes, and her friends don’t notice her mischievous grin as she looks at the two infront of her. “You’ll see.”


Silence is deadly. Asmund puffed his smoking pipe as he marched through the snowbound forest, his eyes darting to and fro as they scanned the pristine taiga around him. Several men had gone missing in these parts several days ago - a normal facet of life here in the monster-infested Northern Province, but because they were members of the Ecclesiarchy he was ‘volunteered’ to find the clergymen. Or what was left of them at least, as his friends at the tavern had jested. The chirping symphony of birds danced across the frigid winter air as Asmund trekked onwards, mulling over what manner of beast might have done the priests in. Perhaps a particularly large Snowsnapper, tunneling beneath the snow with its serpentine body and striking from below with a powerful pair of extending jaws? Or maybe an imposing Northpaw did them in? Those urcine wolverines were preparing for hibernation around this time of year, and a group of lost priests from out-of-town would have been quite the preparatory feast. Asmund stopped for a minute to stuff more dried smokeleaf into his pipe, taking note of the slowly lowering sun barely peeking out from between the trees. He’d have to set up camp soon, get a fire going. Smoke repelled all manner of awful night terrors, but even then he wouldn’t sleep easy. Not here. Small beasts don’t make carriages go missing, after all. After a solid half-hour of making sure the local area was devoid of tree-dwelling Pine Vipers, Asmund decided on a small clearing that offered him a solid twenty feet of open space in most directions. It was the best he had found so far, and he wasn’t going to find a better location before the creatures of the night began prowling about. The chirping of insects buzzed just beyond the treeline, a comforting ambience alongside the crackling of firewood. Asmund sat next to the fire, pouring a little water and scooping some snow into a small metal pot and hanging it over the flames. Fishing around amongst the many pockets adorning his winter coat, the hunter retrieved a rune-marked thermal stone and set it down beside him. Reaching down into his collar, Asmund pulled out a shimmering blue crystal connected to a chain necklace via metal wiring. Tapping the thermal stone with the glowing crystal, Asmund watched as magic flowed into the etched runes and filled the rock with purpose. Returning the crystal to its place around his neck, Asmund picked up the now-humming thermal stone and felt a wave of heat wash across his hands. Although his was rather rudimentary, the otherworldly energy of a glimmerkey was important for those who couldn’t manipulate mana by themselves. Like himself. Asmund watched the embers drift upwards, wafting above the looming pine trees and disappearing into the pristine night sky. This place had a haunting beauty to it, marvelous at a distance but teeming with death up close. A log split open, sending a host of embers flying out and renewing the crackles of the flame. Asmund jumped, caught off guard by the sudden noise. Shaking his head, the hunter grumbled to himself. It had been practically deafening in the silence of the night that had settled in. His hand hovered over the thermal stone he had dropped when the realization hit him. It was quiet. No insects chirping, no birds hooting. Nothing. Pure, unadulterated silence. And silence is deadly. Asmund gulped, his eyes shifting around the treeline to see what had caused the forest to fall so silent. His hands shifted as well, reaching to the rifle laying at his side with an expedient yet gentle grasp. It was a rugged implement, the furniture crafted from the same stern wood that surrounded him. But whereas a mage had a wand and a priest had a staff, he had this. It lacked the theatrical finesse of those more natural magical implements, breech-loading and then firing pre-packaged spells wrapped in enchanted paper as opposed to simply channeling raw mana, but it got the job done and packed quite a punch. Aethercasters like the one he was loading were notoriously expensive - Asmund only had his as a souvenir from his time in the military - but their effectiveness was what allowed him to hunt the otherworldly beasts like the one skulking around the edges of his camp. Asmund’s heart began to pick up its pace, and the hunter sprung up to a kneel as he looked about with an increasing unease. Flicking the lever around the rifle’s trigger forward, Asmund reached a hand into the hardleather pouch on his waist containing the spellfire charges and slid one of the paper packages into the open breech as a small cloud left his lips. The lever slid back and the breech closed, a satisfying metal click telling him it was ready to cast. Each thumping heartbeat, each bated breath, each snow-crunching step - all were deafening in the silence of the forest. Asmund turned around once more, and his figure froze as he finally saw what it was that had drawn so near to him. A great white stag was standing at the edge of the clearing, a pair of large and ornately-curling antlers hanging above its head. Asmund tightened his grip on the caster, an icy dread seizing the back of his neck. The animal stood several heads above him, larger than any other stag he’d seen. Its thick white fur was matted in places and stained in others, and a set of strong pillar-like legs supported its massive frame. But what made Asmund the most uneasy were its eyes. They were human. And they were staring back at him. The two stood there, flame-licked shadows dancing around them as they looked at one another. Asmund’s finger inched towards the trigger, his breaths slow and anxious. The beast watched, unblinking and unmoving save for the occassional snorting from its nostrils. If he pulled the trigger, in an instant the glimmercrystal in the rifle would slide forward and tap the spellfire cartridge, bringing it to life and sending a burst of arcane hatred flashing out of the barrel. But he only had one shot. And at this distance, it’d be his only shot. The stag’s gaze shifted ever so slightly, as if sizing up the hunter standing in the clearing. Asmund shouldered the rifle and leaned forward, preparing to raise the caster to bear if the beast decided to step out beyond the treeline. No words were exchanged between them, a tensely quiet conversation not breaking the tense silence of the night. A hoof raised somewhat, ploughing the snow-covered dirt beneath it. The campfire continued its crackling, unperturbed by the standoff occuring only several feet away. The snow was steaming now, slowly sinking into a rising tide of freshwater bubbling with excitement. With a loud and final huff, the stag turned its head and vanished back into the darkness of the trees. Asmund let out a huff as well, lowering his rifle and taking several deep breaths as the adrenaline stopped pumping through his veins. Looking around, Asmund kept the caster in one hand he wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead. Slowly, the sounds of life trickled back into the air as the night progressed, heralding the departure of his midnight visitor. Whatever it was. Asmund sat by the fire, gnawing on a jerky stick as he ruminesced about the encounter. He hadn’t seen such a creature before - was it responsible for the missing clergymen? Asmund shook his head. The carriage was a much larger target with several more people than just him on his lonesome - if the stag had killed them it could have easily killed him . But it didn’t. And those eyes … Asmund felt a shiver run up his spine. Whatever that thing was, he hoped he wouldn’t have to see it again. He’d have to ask the guys about it back at the tavern - with such a uniquely dreadful description, he’d either get answers or volunteers for a hunting party. Maybe both. Nonetheless, though, he couldn’t return with nothing but chatter about strange beasts in a forest full of strange beasts. He had a reputation to uphold, and nothing less than concrete answers would do. When the morning came, he’d set out all the same and search for the missing clergymen until he had something to bring back. Reaching into his winter coat once more, Asmund procured a small pouch containing a handful of coffee beans and popped several into his mouth. He wasn’t going to be sleeping tonight. Not that he had been feeling particularly tired, anyways. Asmund had been dozing off when the sing-song symphony of morning birds roused him from his half-slumber. The fire had gone out some time ago, but Asmund spent little time worrying about how long he had been exposed as he covered the ashes and pocketed the thermal stone. Taking several gulps from the steaming water, Asmund spent several minutes packing up before resuming his journey. There was a large lake not too far away from where he was that had several rivers and streams feeding into it, with the lake itself flowing into a waterfall that continued downhill. That was where he was going. The crunching sound of boots on snow filled the air as Asmund strolled through the forest, one hand resting on the strap suspending his aethercaster from his shoulder. Puffing his smoke pipe, Asmund watched a pair of four-winged snowdoves twirl about overhead before flapping off deeper into the forest. Those birds were quite tasty when cooked, the hunter thought to himself. Especially when they were mixed in with some garlic, rosemary, thyme, a sprinkle of sage… His stomach rumbled loudly in protest, reminding Asmund of how long it’d been since he had had a proper home-cooked meal. He’d been out here for the better part of a week; and although the rations he’d brought with him weren’t bad, they weren’t good either. Most of the big game was gone too, so he hadn’t been able to bag any big helpings of meat like venison. The only large animal he’d encountered, Asmund thought to himself, had been the large stag last night. Other than that, the forest was oddly deserted wherever he went - not even a cursory glance at some unsuspecting wildlife. The rumbling quacks of rusty bluebills signaled that he was almost to the lake, and Asmund welcomed the idea of seeing a flock of the little feathered dragonfowl swimming about. Following the sounds, they grew louder and eventually became accompanied by the sounds of splashing water and flapping wings. But before he broke the treeline and made his way to the bank, a loud crash rung out as something big broke the surface of the water, causing an uproar of quacks and flaps that eventually fell silent. Silence is deadly. Whipping the caster off of his shoulder, Asmund held the rifle at the ready as he stepped out into the open bank bordering the lake. It was a gradual, snowy slope ending in a conglomerate of weeds and reeds and other coastal plants that broke up the waves before they hit the soil. It was a beautiful sight, really - a lake several miles in circumference framed by picturesque evergreens and standing at the foot of distant snow-capped mountain ranges. But the only thing he heard was the gentle lapping of the waves and the gentle roar of the waterfall halfway across the water. Asmund scanned the treeline, wondering if some beast had jumped in after the bluebills, but saw nothing. He puffed his pipe, uneasy at the fact that it was so quiet. Lowering the caster, Asmund took a minute to pop some more coffee beans in his mouth before his gaze meandered back up towards the lakefront where a small modicum of commotion seized his attention. A bluebill was sitting among the reeds, bobbing up and down with the water, pecking intently at something. The creature’s uncaring disregard for what had caused the noise relaxed Asmund somewhat, and he walked over to the dragonfowl to see what it was pecking at. The sight of a severed forearm was not what he was expecting. The flesh was in some degree of decay, largely fought off by the sheer cold of the climate. Asmund puffed his pipe, the sense of calm retreating to the back of his mind. There was a torn and tattered sleeve around the forearm, whose elaborate trim and symbolic eye embroidery identified it as belonging to the robes of a clergyman. Or belonged to, actually. Asmund came to a stop at the edge of the water, watching the bluebill peck and tear at the arm. The limb’s hand, clad in black leather gloves, was holding a chained and ancient-looking medallion in a tight death-grip. He was tempted to reach for it, but he knew better than to get between a bluebill and its food. Fortunately, he had something in his packs that bluebills loved: blue-banana nut bread. The iconically-colored loaf was a provincial staple, made using the hardy and nutrient-dense Musa-Cenizo banana. Unwrapping what was left of the loaf he had brought, Asmund ripped off a chunk and tossed it several feet to the bluebill’s left. The dragonfowl took a moment to turn its blood-stained beak towards the disturbance before splashing over to the floating chunks with a surprising speed. Asmund took the moment to use the butt of his rifle and nudge the frostbitten limb within arm’s reach. Setting the loaf down beside him, Asmund pried open the frozen hand and hung the odd medallion around his neck. He had his evidence. Time to head back home. Asmund slung his caster over his shoulder and picked up the arm, wondering where he was going to store the limb as his eyes analyzed the damage. Near the end of the arm, where it would have connected to the elbow, the sleeve was pinned to the limb by a large white tooth. Pulling it out as the bluebill hopped up onto the bank and zipped towards the unguarded loaf, Asmund realized why it had gone so quiet. This was the tooth of an ursinus orca . A Black Pilgrim. Twenty-foot long, several-thousand-pound amphibious sea bears that lived in groups called congregations and made annual pilgrimages across the continent to terrorize new feeding grounds. Possessing a striking black and white coloration, four powerful, clawed limbs, a jutting spike of a dorsal fin, and a large tail, Black Pilgrims were a nigh-unstoppable natural disaster to everything they came across. Like the carriage. Asmund looked out towards the lake as the bluebill waddled up to him expectantly, a cold sweat running down the hunter’s back. A loud huff startled Asmund, causing him to drop the arm in surprise and frantically shoulder his rifle. The stag from last night stood at the treeline, staring at him with its unnerving gaze. Asmund pocketed the tooth, staring back at the stag. It blinked, huffing out another cloud of vapor and gesturing its head towards the lake before quickly turning around and galloping off. Asmund turned his head towards the lake. A tall, black fin was rising out of the water. And then another. And another. Heading straight for him. A shocked “ Oh, ” was all Asmund could muster before the bluebill’s expectant quacking snapped him out of his daze. Taking several hurried steps backwards as the fins gained speed, Asmund practically threw himself up the bank and broke into a desperate sprint through the forest. Behind him, the trumpet-call of blowholes sounded off accompanied by the noise of large beasts charging up from the depths. Their footfalls were fast and heavy, their jaws open and their breaths hungry. Asmund didn’t look back. A tree cried out as it was forced aside, and the shrill hunting calls of the Pilgrims haunted his ears as he ran, the monstrous creatures shouting to one another as they pursued their quarry. His head start was small at best, and the Pilgrims were much faster than he could ever hope to be. Asmund ran nonetheless, hoping to come up with some last-minute plan with the few extra seconds he had. And then he came into a clearing. Unslinging his rifle, Asmund got it to his shoulder just as the first Pilgrim ran into view, leaping out from the treeline like an instrument of divine judgement. Asmund pulled the trigger on his caster, sending the glimmercrystal in the rifle’s mechanism flying forth into the rune-laden paper wrapping of the spellfire cartridge. In an instant, bouts of arcane energy came crackling out of the barrel as an imposing fireball burst into existence. The flaming orb surged forth, colliding with the Pilgrim and causing it to come to a halt with a shrill shriek of pain. Hurriedly sliding in another cartridge, Asmund brought his rifle back up as a pair of Pilgrims came into view on either side of the burned one. The three beasts looked at Asmund with a hesitant hunger, primal gears turning in their head. The burned one stared at him, seared flesh marring the right half of its face. Several minutes passed before the Pilgrims called to one another, slowly taking several steps back. Asmund exhaled, taking a step back himself as a set of thundering footsteps to his left announced the presence of a fourth Pilgrim bounding up on his flank. Asmund barely had time to aim his rifle at the gaping maw of the predator before it was slammed to the side by the great white stag. Their attack routed, the Pilgrims retreated back into the forest with the rest of its congregation, leaving just the hunter and the stag alone in the clearing. Its eyes glanced down towards the medallion before looking back at him. The guys at the tavern weren’t going to believe this.


“‘We’re running out of time.’” “Shut up, Mike,” Linda groaned and adjusted the thick collar of her bomb disposal suit. “I’d say that’s famous last words, but I don’t know if anyone heard them.” Mike stood on his toes to see the long line dwindling to a speck in front of the pair, to the limitless white that was the group, horizon, and sky, then to the line behind them just as long. “Our radios were open. Someone heard it.” Mike shifted the weight between his feet and looked down at the fluffy white wisps billowing around his shins. “What’s taking this so long?” “It’s the gates of heaven, of course there’s a line,” Linda said with an eye-roll behind her face shield. “I’m sure the rate of deaths is a lot higher now than when it was built. Think of how much I-696 gets backed up at rush hour. Except it’s always rush hour.” “I didn’t realize you were such an expert in the afterlife.” “I’ve thought about it often in our line of work.” “So what went wrong?” Mike asked. “We traced the circuit, eliminated the false ones. I’d stake…” He paused with a chuckle. “I was about to say I’d stake my life on being right. You know what I mean.” The pair shuffled forward to close up the gap forming in front of them. Linda shrugged, her heavy suit barely moving with the motion. “Maybe the timer was counting down to ninety seconds, maybe there was another device, maybe a meteor landed on us. Maybe we can ask when we get to the front of the line. Maybe we’ll never know.” They shuffled forward again. “At least we’re moving,” said Mike and craned his neck to catch the first glint of light off the distant pearly silver. “Ever wonder why heaven has gates? Are they keeping something in? Or something out? Do gates mean there are defined borders?” “It’s all symbolism,” said Linda. “We’re limited mortals that can’t truly comprehend the abstract. We have to label and categorize everything, know how it feels and tastes, how it reacts under an electrical current. We’re just creating a visual representation of input our minds can’t comprehend; seeing what we expect to see.” Mike scratched at the hood of his suit. “I’d expect this line would move faster.” They shuffled forward. “I just realized…” Mike started. “We’re dead. This sucks, but I expected to be more broken up about it. I just sort of feel hollow.” “I know, right?” They kept pace in silence for a while before Mike broke it. “You really have thought about this a lot. We worked together for four years and I don’t really know you, Linda.” “That’s intentional, Mike. Our job is nothing but stress and I want nothing to do with it when I’m off the clock.” Mike grunted thoughtfully. “Makes sense. So now that it doesn’t matter, tell me, who did you leave behind?” “A wife, a hamster, a crippling mortgage.” “A wife? No shit.” Mike repeated with a wide grin hidden behind his mask. “My boyfriend was about to move in. We’ve been together two years, but his cat hates my dog.” He paused and let the conversation drift away. “I’m sad thinking about Jace, but it’s more than I’m sad that I’m not sad. Being upset about the lack of something I know should be there.” He paused and licked his dry lips. “Am I making any sense?” “I didn’t finish my novel,” Linda whispered. “I worked on it every morning before Jean woke up. She didn’t know about it, but I was going to give her the first draft on our tenth anniversary. Now when she gets the dump of my digital legacy cloud backups, she won’t know to look for it.” They stepped forward. “What’s it about?” Mike asked. “It’s trash, just a gigantic pile of the worst tropes. A big city lawyer — Jean’s an attorney — goes home to the ranch — like what I grew up on — for the holidays and falls for the lady shepherd her family hired. It’s stupid, something that would be on an off-brand Hallmark station after midnight on a Tuesday.” “I mean, I don’t know Jean at all, but that sounds like just about the most romantic thing someone could do; create something to symbolize your love.” Linda chuckled wryly and wiped pointlessly at her mask. “Thinking of that has me thinking about Jean. I’m finally starting to miss her, not just sad about the lack of sadness, like you said. Actually missing her.” The group in front of the pair shuffled closer, forcing Mike and Linda to retreat a step. “Rude,” Mike grumbled. “How were you going to have Jace’s cat and your dog to get along?” “I suggested we let them share a steak,” said Mike. “Food is always the best unifier.” “Unless your dog runs off with it.” “Ser Corgnealius is fifteen, toothless, and not stealing anyone’s steak. He’d just have the juices while Steve eats the actual meat and growls the whole time.” He sighed. “What?” The group pressed at the pair again and they stepped back. “Thinking about Jace, I felt nothing. Now I’m on the verge of collapsing into a blubbery mess, thinking about what we won’t have together. Like you and the book with Jean. Jace is an installation artist. He had cosmic-level plans for my loft apartment with all that exposed brick.” A stab of pain shot through Mike’s chest, doubling him forward. Linda dropped to a knee in her bulky suit. The group before them pressed back, pushing the pair from the line that quickly closed up. The agony shot through him again, like his heart would explode from his chest. He struggled to breathe through burning lungs, though he couldn’t remember needing air while standing in line. As he collapsed to his knees, then to his side, he faced the line of recently deceased that shrank and lost focus with each labored hammer of his heart. Mike struggled to turn toward the pearly gates once more, to catch a last view of the light glinting so far away. A regular, high beep crept into Mike’s mind, instantly recognizable as a heart rate monitor. He took a thin breath, cringing at the ache in his chest, but the tube across his nose helped to press oxygen into him. Mike struggled to open his mouth that felt like it was full of glue and moaned instead. He felt pressure on his right hand, a soft squeeze perhaps. Someone made gentle shushing sounds and a plastic straw touched his lips. He sucked in the tepid water that burned all the way down to his stomach. Despite the discomfort, he drank more to unstick his mouth and form a single word. “Linda?” The silence lasted long enough that Mike was unsure he’d made any sound. “She’s alive,” Jace whispered. “Focus on you right now.” Days passed until the bandages were removed to let Mike see the world again. The doctors told him the concussive force of the device stopped his heart for two full minutes. Other than burns and a pacemaker at twenty-nine, he was whole. Saved by the protective gear, Linda was as well off, but had yet to wake. Three weeks later, the doctors release him. Though he could walk, Jace wheeled him to the exit, in accordance with hospital regulations. Mike stood and walked back in, aiming for the long-term care with Jace on his heels. The ward held six beds. A woman with dark hair pulled back in a tie sat near the window, holding the hand of the room’s only patient. She quickly snatched her hand back to her lap and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes that hadn’t seen descent sleep in a month. “It’s okay, Jean,” Mike said and started, unsure of how he knew her name. She relaxed and returned her hand to Linda’s. “You must be Mike. Linda never told me much about you, but if you know of me, you know why.” “It’s the weirdest thing,” Mike said and sat on the edge of the nearest empty bed. He looked down at Linda, looking restful with a few light bruises on her cheek and a suture on her forehead. “I feel like she and I talked for hours on everything. I know all about you, your hamster, the summer cottage, her secret boo—” He caught himself quickly and raised his voice to cover it. “But don’t remember having the actual conversations. We must have talked while on the job and the adrenaline did something to my memory. Getting blown up jostled it all to the front.” Jace sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist. With a sudden gasp, Linda jerked upright, her hair tangling around her shoulders and her eyes wide as though she couldn’t see everything fast enough. Her shoulders relaxed and her gaze settled on Jean as she grinned. It just as quickly twitched to Mike and drifted to the one beside him. Her voice was a strained whisper. “You must be Jace.”


Chinnappa was considering himself as a lucky fellow. He somehow escaped the gang of hired men meant to join the rally and shout slogans and lend their support to the ongoing farmers’ strike. The strike initially was a big draw and drew attention of all alike. People really sympathised the ‘food-giver’ the other name of farmer. But when political parties interfered them with their vested interests it took a different turn --- an ugly turn. The agitation had neither farmer’s agenda nor political agenda. Certain unethical divisive elements also surged and usurped the platform. The police had a tough time to bring the mob under control. Chinnappa was lucky. He limited his participation to the first day and then he withdrew himself. He had come all the way from his small town in Kadappa to this big city Pune in search of better ventures. He was himself a farmer and when they were on call for a strike, he willingly and wholeheartedly supported them. But instead of joining them in the capacity of a farmer, he joined hands as a political party worker, which later got precipitated. His main issue was still hanging. A job if not a lucrative one, at least to sustain him with dignity was his urgent need. Even though he readily agreed to be a partner with his friend Munisamy in a self-employment plan, he still needed to strengthen himself with some more activities till his partnership venture picked up. He went back to Kittappa, an old friend from his village. The same man who assured him to get some work at his construction site. Kittappa took him to his boss who simply said that job could be offered only on leave vacancies. There was no roster for calling additional hands to fill the gap of absentees. Neither there was any agency to handle such issues. So, the only alternative was, jobless men hang around the mason on a daily basis and look for opportunities. Because Kittappa was aware of such happenings, he assured his friend Chinnappa that he too could be employed. Chinnappa went back to Kittappa to find out if any leave vacancy existed and he could be absorbed. Mason said the day’s work schedule and the required labourers for the work were already chalked out and there was nothing that could be meted out to him. Better luck tomorrow. At the same time, he said, “There is very good chance for next week as year-end festival is fast approaching and a few migrant labourers are sure to go on leave. Christmas is not like Diwali when all of us want to be with our family. But those labourers who are coming here for work from nearby towns and villages will surely go on short trips. Around new-year time we ourselves shut down everything and you will again find yourself left out. So be prepared for that also.” Kittappa then told mason, “This my friend Chinnappa is a very good drummer in our native place. His band ‘Dol-Tasha’ is equally popular during the Ganesha Festival. People come from nearby villages also to watch the drum beating. It is a big draw. We call it ‘mela’. In our good old days, we used to get ‘Laavani dancers’ also. Because of widespread poverty, these cultural activities are dwindling. I wonder if our children will ever get to see such colourful shows“. Mason looked at Chinnappa with an appreciative look. “Oh! very nice. Good. You are multitalented. Let me see if I can get you into Christmas Carols or Christmas parties. But many of them insist that the participants should be Christians only. So, I can’t promise you. But let me try.” Chinnappa instantly refused. “Sir, I cannot pretend to be somebody. Just recently I joined a rally where I was neither farmer nor a political party worker. But I will do that mistake again. When I am not a Christian, I shall not pretend to be one, just for the sake of being a drummer. I shall be what I am. No doubt that I enjoy drum-beating and I will love to perform. Even if I am not being paid, it does not matter. I will perform. Please make it clear to them also.” Mason was again struck with an appreciation. ‘Honesty is good, but not always. Call yourself Chinnappa Jacob and carry on. Who is going to find out?” Chinnappa did not agree. “Whether anybody finds out or not, Ganapathy Bappa knows all. Then how can I play for Him at Ganesh festivals? I will remain what I am. I am very clear about that.” “Then it is doubtful. But let me ask and find out. Here again it is a case of leave vacancy. All parties have their own troupes and normally don’t prefer outsiders. If only if there arises any shortage of artists, you get a chance.” So saying, he called a few people from his contacts. The problem with all performing artists was that when they approached others for chances, they got ignored and often paid lowly. On the contrary, if they were contacted by organizers for delivering a performance, the artists could bargain and hold their prestigious positions with dignity. Chinnappa did not carry any great hopes nor did he dismiss it totally.

Mason lost interest when two of his contacts bluntly refused. Dol-Tasha had nothing to do with Christmas Parties. Most of troupes had their own artists. Even if one or two of them happened to be absent, the troupe would carry on with existing available crew members. The third one did not assure but neither did he say no. ‘Ok. Let us see’ type. Mason almost gave up. Then he suddenly remembered his own colony-man who was into innovative initiatives. This worked. “Oh. Yes. Send him. It will be a novel idea to try this method this year. Our colony people are already accustomed to local band bajaa. Last year they enjoyed film music. We played all-time favourite Bollywood film numbers. This year we plan to have an all-night show night-long event. He should come prepared for that. Before engaging him, I have to get his performance approved by our team-leader. If everything goes well, then he can be there with us for the event. Send him right now. All depends on his performance.” Mason smiled. “Chinnappa, you are lucky. Go and see him. Show all your prowess and prove yourself.” Kittappa also congradulated him. Chinnappa was not all that happy. He did not have his drums here in this town. He had come to Pune in search of job, not for playing drums. How could he perform without instrument? All hopes turned into despair. But Kittappa did not let him down. “Let me see if our colony Ganesh Mandal can spare their dol-drums.  Since you are a total stranger here, I have my apprehensions. Let us see.” Chinnappa took the address from Mason. Later at the end of the day, Kittappa met his local headman in his colony and asked for help. He was a staunch caste-conscience man. He did not approve someone singing for other communities. Much less to talk of lending instruments to guys not known to him. He was showering advices on how a person needed to be proud of one own caste and community, particularly when people of other castes never encouraged artists from other communities. Kittappa tried another mandal of another locality, where he was residing earlier. Here too, it was same story but not that staunch or strong. He repeatedly requested and finally convinced him, but on one condition that first he should perform for his colony and one more condition was that whatever remuneration received, half of it belonged to the band owner. That was the charges for taking the drums on hire. Now Chinnappa was happy. He got a feeling that he was slowly marching towards success. He strongly upheld the fact if at all he achieved anything, it was all due to the concerted efforts of his friends, partners and well-wishers. He might be poor of money wealth or riches. But not poor on the count of well-wishers. Kittappa, Mason, Munisamy and other partners …. List would be long. He prayed to his favourite God Ganpathy Bappa for showering good-luck and always leading him on right path. He prayed. This time it was not for him or his family alone. His prayers gracefully included all his well-wishers. It will be so hereafter also.


We all have that one friend in our life that knows everything about us, who has seen us at our best, and our worst and still likes us. The friend that we can laugh with about anything and when you laugh it is so hard that you start to cry. That one friend that we almost ended up dating but for whatever reason, we didn’t. Don’t act like you don’t have that friend. You have one and are probably thinking of them as you read this and if you don't, at one point I bet you did. I have a friend like that. I am in my 40’s now and have known him since my 20’s. I met him when I was single, and newly broken up with by an ex-girlfriend. I was sitting at the British pub near me, with a friend, and I was speaking Spanish with said friend. He was sitting next to me at the bar, and he looked over at me “You speak Spanish?”, He asked.  I took a sip of my beer and looked at him.  He was cute. He had dark wavy hair, almost curly. He had very deep brown eyes. I could feel my light green eyes aglow. “I do. I used to be a Spanish teacher." " Wow. You speak it better than I do”. I would come to find out that I did indeed speak better Spanish than him, as he spoke what I would jokingly call middle school Spanish.  His name was Fernando. I would call him Nando or Nandito. I was Laurita to him. We became fast friends after that. We would go to the pub together, we would play pool together, we would stay up late watching episodes of Aqua Teen Hunger Force together. If we hadn't hung out I would get a call just to see how the night was. If we had been out together but ended up separate places, I would get a call asking if I needed a ride home. Wherever I was he was. Wherever he was I was. It got to the point where people just started to assume we were together, and we awkwardly had to tell them we were friends. He was preparing to move to Colarado and I was not ready to get back into dating after what was a dumpster fire of a relationship.                I remember one summery night. I had to have been 28. I had a small apartment on a quiet street. It was warm out, my window was open. I had a fan going. There was a breeze from the fan and the open window. I could hear crickets chirping. I had my head resting on his chest and his arms were around me. I am not sure what happened, but we ended up kissing. It was bound to happen. It wasn’t bad. It seemed right. We still hung out like normal. We just had a new dimension to our relationship. Nando was an attractive man. He was Puerto Rican, with light skin and freckles. We looked like total opposites. I looked a tom boy with baggy shorts and flip flops and short wavy dark hair that would go behind my ear; he had his timberlands and baggy jeans. We looked more like bros. There came a point where we drifted apart. He was going to move, and I was not looking to feel feelings for anyone. I guess what we did was just ghost each other. Except we didn’t fully.                He ended up not moving. I saw him out and about and just like that we were friends again. This time, I lived in a studio apartment, and he would come over late at night, and we would have what I would call our rendezvous. I was single. He was single. I don’t know why we didn’t make a go of things then. We saw each other most weekends. I didn’t try. He didn’t try. We just had fun together. He had mentioned that he would like to have a partner. We should have tried. I sit here kicking myself as I write.                Let’s fast forward and be glad for the advent of Instagram. We connected on there. He was making flan and coquito for Christmas, and I needed some. So, he dropped it over before Christmas. Then, came Springtime. He had been dumped by a narcissistic scene chic. He was really thrown for a loop. He needed a friend and a listening ear. It started out just Instagram conversations. Then it was meeting out places. Then we were going on walks. Then there was a can I come over text wich he apologized for. I had a boyfriend at the time. I could feel it happening. It was 3am. We were standing on the top of the roof of a space he rented to play pool. We had plaid pool but hit the roof top. It was a beautiful view. The lights of the city twinkled. We almost kissed. Almost. I was ready to break things off with my partner. Nando wanted me to. I wasn’t able to as I was living with my boyfriend, and I was scared to. What if Nando didn't work out? I guess our timing has never been right. Ever. He is now happy with his girlfriend of a year. She is very pretty. She looks like she treats him well. I am glad he is happy. He deserves to be happy. He is a good man. He is an evolved man. He deserves a good partner. This isn’t the end of the story. Things change every day. I hold on to a sliver of hope that the timing will be right for us one day. Maybe he won’t be the one that got away, but the one who came back. Time will tell. I am honestly not the best at relationships, and neither is he. That is why I feel like we would be good together. The great thing about Instagram is that you can tell who checks out your story, and he still checks out my stories now and then. It isn’t much, but it makes me happy. I solemnly swear, if my chance arises again, I am going to take it. I have in writing, so I have to stick to it.


Anastasia felt fear, reluctance, about leaving her tiny village in Greece’s Dodecanese islands. For her entire life, she made her home in Aperi, a wee village on the island of Karpathos. Living near the Aegeian Sea, she breathed the ocean breezes every day of her life and gazed upon the extravagant splendor of the deep turquoise ocean. Today, she could not breathe at all, her very breath became a suffocating gasp of fear. “I cannot leave,” she thought, “How can I leave my home, my patritha ,* with a man old enough to be my father?” That man, Panayioti, was her husband, their marriage arranged by Anastasia’s father when she was an infant. With bags of all the belongings they were allowed to take, Anastasia and Panayioti sailed for America, a huge country across the ocean that seemed to Anastasia to be a celestial, magical place where everyone found their fortunes. She was thinking, though, that her fortune was in Aperi and could never be anywhere else. She thought to herself, “What more fortune could one want when they already see life as a beautiful blue graced by accents of white — blue skies, sparkling blue ocean waves cresting with white, glistening foam?” Anastasia obeyed her father like a young Greek girl always did. She left with Panayioti and their children — baby Fotene and toddler Vasso — to build a new life in the land of promise. She had read about the words engraved on the stately statue that seemed to rule over New York Harbor: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

“How odd,” she thought, “I cannot breathe at all in the presence of this most beautiful Lady Liberty, who lifts a torch that offers a light of welcome.” Then she entered the long, crowded, unfamiliar lines at Ellis Island. There were lines of immigrants as far as she could see, and she thought that the mothers probably felt just like she felt, probably were just as afraid as she was. “Perhaps they can’t breathe either, fearing this new land, fearing for the children they are bringing here.” At Ellis Island, the lines of immigrants seemed endless to Anastasia. The air was damp and heavy, with a musty smell of people who had crossed oceans to get there. It was a difficult kind of air, with smells and unpleasant scents. She couldn’t breathe. Because of the dank air, because of her fear? She really didn’t know. She did know how it felt being completely surrounded by strangers, and she felt tears falling down her cheeks. Before long, the immigrant families began to talk to one another. They shared their names and where they came from, their stories, their feelings, their lives. Anastasia began to breathe again, at least a little easier, because she discovered that all the new friends around her also began to breathe easier. “It’s because these strangers became friends,” she thought, as they shared their stories with one another — how they were feeling, what dreams they had, their hope for the future, where in the United States would they go. The hours and hours of showing passports, health records, spelling your name over and over were almost coming to an end. The hours had been grueling, exhausting. Everyone feared they would have to be quarantined after their medical examination. They even feared being separated from their children or even losing them in the crowds. Anastasia always believed that they could even be deported. Back to where they came from — an idea not so troubling to Anastasia, who never wanted to leave her home country in the first place. “What will it be like to adopt a new home land? Or maybe I should say a home land adopts us. Either way,” she thought in a pensive moment, “I never dreamed of being here in this unpleasant, disconcerting place.” So Anastasia was in a line that felt like the last one, spelling her name and her children’s names one last time. “Thankfully!” Anastasia thought. While still in her village, she had practiced spelling her name in English over and over, but still she simply could not, as hard as she tried. She had never spoken any language but the Greek of her village. So her newly found friends met while standing in the immigration lines had now scattered . . . en route to Birmingham, Charleston, Chicago, Wheeling, everywhere, to places Anastasia had never heard of.

“Strangers again,” she thought. I have brought my baby girl and my little boy to a land of strangers. I have separated them from aunts and uncles and cousins and the people in Aperi who loved them. What have I done?” ”Let me get up from here and go, immediately, before I start to cry.” Anastasia had no time for tears, so she stood up and moved on, resolutely, with baby Fotene in her right arm, Vasso holding her left hand and Panayioti walking behind her. It was a scene to never forget in Anastasia’s life drama. The young woman wearing a nice dress and a flattering hat was a sight to behold, standing as tall as she always had and walking with a confident, determined stride. She had pushed out her fear hours ago. Now she moved ahead, ready to go with her two little ones into a foreign environment. She knew she could survive this life change, and from that moment, she steeled herself to live and learn and accomplish everything she encountered on this journey. When they arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, they were greeted by a host of cousins and aunts and uncles who were overjoyed to see them. Some of them Anastasia had never met before, but they were definitely not strangers. They were countrywomen and men, compatriots who never spared a thing in the grand welcome feast they had prepared. After an almost endless round of hugs and kisses, Anastasia was graciously guided to her seat of honor at the feast table by a cousin she had never seen before. This cousin was instantly not a stranger. Instead, she would be a friend, even more than a friend. She would be a mentor and guide, an interpreter and teacher of English, a “godmother” to Anastasia’s two little ones.

At that huge dining table, surrounded by dozens of TV trays for those who could not fit around it, Anastasia looked around and realized that these strangers had become her friends. Then she took a long, deep breath. * Patritha means homeland.