Journal 6, Entry 23, 6/13/2018 Today we stood in front of an open grave in black suits, black dresses, and with white handkerchiefs. Everyone huddled close under a ceiling of umbrellas as God’s tears poured down on us over the life of a courageous and thoughtless young man. I watched the stars and stripes soak up the drizzle as it lay there on the perfectly polished mahogany casket suspended above its final resting spot. Standing before the gravestone, the priest gave his benediction before the flag was folded up and presented to my wife and I, which I held as she replaced it with a single white rose upon the casket. Behind us, pristinely dressed young men, perfectly creased with polished shoes and shiny brass buttons on their coats, white flat top hats and military insignias shining proudly, began firing their arms as my son was lowered into the Earth, never to be seen again. I couldn’t help thinking back on the day my boy was born. He was shriveled and purple, suffocating until he cried his first breath. He was presented to me swaddled in a baby-blue blanket and a little ducky beanie placed on his head. His eyes were bright blue, and, in those eyes, I saw someone who would be in my life until my dying day. Yet, his dying day preceded my own. The day he announced he was joining the marines he stood proud in his first adult decision. He wanted to serve his country like I had, learn responsibility and integrity, and then use the GI bill for college to study politics before earning his law degree. I was so proud of him. I encouraged him. His mother had concerns, none that I listened to, and I was steering him away from her advice. She and I fought. He and her fought. Ultimately, it came down to the three of us at the bus station, one of us sobbing as if she would never see her son again. He served almost two years before he was shot and killed trying to pull a wounded man to cover in Afghanistan. People swiftly made their way to their cars to get out of the rain. Even my wife took the umbrella and left me gazing into the grave, or maybe it was a hole of despair, the rain dripping from the contours of my face, me motionless. The loss was crushing, but the guilt was agonizing. I watched as a bulldozer covered my son with dirt, forever sealing him in darkness beneath the soil. It gave me a chance to have a wholehearted cry, to tell him I was sorry, and to tell him I love him – God, I hope he knows how much I love him. I got in my car soaked and wet. I removed my blazer, loosened my tie, and used my handkerchief to wipe off my face before leaving. Everyone went to my mother-in-law’s for lunch after the burial. Leaving the cemetery, I turned left towards town instead of right towards my in-law’s place. I felt I couldn’t show my face there. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to. Maybe I was just tired of everyone asking me how I was doing all the time. I mean, how did they think I was doing? I lost my son. I was doing horribly. I just didn’t know to what degree of horrible I was actually doing. The dreadful silence my wife imposed on me wasn’t a motivator to make an appearance anyway. I needed time to think. I needed time to remember. I needed time to mourn. I hadn’t felt like I had a moment to do any of those things since his death. I had to be strong for my wife, I had to take care of all the preparations and notifications, and I was assuming blame from more than just my wife on top of it all. I was worn thin, ready to snap, breakdown, crack. I headed over to the old corner bar in town that has been there so long that the Coor’s sign hanging above the door has faded to a brownish yellow with barely visible lettering. The building has changed its proprietors so many times I no longer know the name of the place. Beyond the plain brick walls and the dirty metal awnings that cover the windows with their neon signs drawing drinkers to the doors like bugs to a zapper was a lowly lit room of browns and dark reds that smelled like ashtrays and urinal cakes. There was a jukebox on the far wall playing a heavy tune I didn’t recognize. It sat by the only booth in the place, occupying the corner. High tables with bar chairs were spread throughout. In the back there were a couple of pool tables and a dart board. The beer was served in cans and the scotch and soda I ordered showed up in a red Solo cup. I took that as a sign not to stay too long. The bartender was a mountain of a man. I figured he served as the bouncer as well. He must have been six-five and nearly three-hundred pounds of muscle, long hair, piercings, tats. If I saw this guy standing in my driveway when I got home, I’d turn around and speed away. But looks are deceiving. He turned out to be a decent guy. We talked briefly and he provided a round of shots on the house in honor of my son’s bravery. The handful of fellow day-drinkers who were there gathered around the bar for their finger’s worth of whisky in a red Solo cup. We slammed them down and everyone gave me their condolences, saying I should be proud. In that moment I was proud. My son died saving a man's life during a war to protect us from terrorism. It was the type of man he was. The type of man I raised him to be. I didn’t get to revel in my pride long. The bartender advised that I finish my drink and find another watering hole before his regulars started pouring in in the next fifteen minutes or so. So, I finished my drink promptly and returned to my car. As I plopped down heavily into the driver’s seat, I noticed my blazer beside me and realized that my phone had been in there the entire time. I retrieve it from the inner pocket and found that I had six missed calls and one text: “call me as soon as you get this.” I immediately called my wife. “Where are you,” a frustrated and impatient voice asked. “I took a little detour into town,” I said as I rummaged through my pockets looking for my keys. “I stopped at a bar to have a couple drinks. I wasn’t ready to face all the accusing looks and whispers,” I told her. “You earned them,” she said coldly. “Now that’s not fair.” “Don’t talk to me about fair,” she says angrily, and with a sigh she says, “There are people here who are primarily here to comfort you. Your mom is worried sick.” “Tell her I’m fine. I just need some time to myself to mourn for a little bit. I’ve been overwhelmed lately.” “No. You are not doing this. You are not leaving me here alone making excuses for you any longer. Get here now, and mourn with your family,” and she hung up, ending that conversation. I took the long way to my in-law’s. I was lost in memory of our last family vacation together. I wish I could turn back time to what was one of my fondest memories of my son and live it all over again. The girls wanted to explore the shops in Gatlinburg, so my son and I scheduled a low-grade whitewater rafting trip. It was a rush, what he called the experience of a lifetime, but it was after that when we found calmer waters to do some fishing that I cherish most. It was the summer before his freshman year in high school. We were set up on the riverbed enjoying sodas and chips, joking around and bonding. It seemed like a good time to have ‘The Talk.’ I was amazed by his maturity given the subject and the intelligence of his questions. ‘The Talk’ led to us discussing things that his mother wouldn’t have approved of, but it evolved into a discussion on love and family. From there, we talked about science, politics, religion, and issues of a philosophical nature. I could see in the boy who was my son the makings of the man who would be a lifelong friend that day. I quite often think that day was a turning point for him. That was the day he began to take a serious interest in the world around him and his part in it. It might have been the first step on the path to where we are today, but I wouldn’t give up that day for anything. It was still crowded when I got to my in-laws. As I made my way in, I couldn’t help but notice the dirty looks from my wife’s family and friends. I could see into the kitchen where the food was laid out buffet style across the kitchen island. My daughter was there making a sandwich. I approached her to give her a kiss on the head and hug her, but she pulled away, shunning me, taking a place next to her mom who was talking to one of her girlfriends as she refreshed her tea. My wife gave me a dirty look and placed a protective arm around my daughter, approving of her behavior. My mom saw me come in the door and followed me to the kitchen. She busied herself making me a plate as I explained to her where I was. She led me into the family room where my side of the family had gathered. There was palpable tension between the families, like nothing I had ever seen before. Three generations of veterans filled the room. All who were quick to defend my decision to support my son. They kept their opinions to themselves for the sake of peace, something I greatly appreciated. Sitting by herself, looking out of place, was my son’s fiancé. They had only been engaged for four months, but she had been around so much over the years she was already like a daughter. She was his first real date. It was his junior prom. He really liked her and was scared he was going to mess things up. He called me into his room for advice. I remember him sitting on the edge of his twin sized, looking up at me scared and nervous. I looked around his room as he explained the situation to me. There were sports trophies on the dresser, car posters on the walls, video games around the TV, and dirty laundry scattered everywhere. He was taller than me, shaved, and drove a car, but he was an oversized child commencing on an adult relationship and I could relate to the anxiety he was feeling in the moment. I straightened his bowtie and took a knee in front of him. I told him to pay attention to her, to not get distracted by anyone or anything else. Listen to her and keep the conversation rolling. Make her laugh when the timing is right. Anticipate her needs. Offer things before she asks. Compliment her. Out of respect for her, always be patient, gentle, and kind. He came home that night elated because she let him kiss her. When I told her this story, she hugged me with tears in her eyes and kissed my cheek. “I know what people are saying, that it’s your fault he’s dead. He would have joined with or without your blessing. But instead, he died knowing you believed in him, were proud of him, and loved him.” As evening approached, the crowd thinned until it was just family. Mom decided it was time to get grandpa home, so they left, leaving me with my wife’s side of the family. I went to the kitchen to let my wife know I would see her at home. She pulled me aside and told me that tonight her and our daughter would be staying with her sister, but tomorrow I would need to check into a hotel. She warned me that she had already hired a lawyer and that I should be served papers any day now. I didn’t want to make a scene, but I pleaded with her to reconsider. I told her I loved her. We still had one child under our roof. We needed to consider her needs and that our son would not want this. She shook her head and walked off. My heart shattered. I knew there was a chasm between us since his death, that she blamed me, that she was angry I didn’t support her protest to his enlisting, but I thought it was something we would work through over time. I returned home defeated. The staircase to the bed broom was a mountain of memories lined with warm, happy pictures of us together over the years. For the first time, the home we built together felt like an empty shell of a house in the silence. As I sit here and write, procrastinating, not wanting to pack a bag, I really do wish I could turn back time. I don’t know if I would do anything different, but I would go back and relive moments over and over again. Pictures and videos aren’t the same. I don’t want to just look at my family and rekindle memories. I want to relive the experiences with them again - the contact, the smells, the warmth of the day, the emotions of the moment. But even if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t live in the past. Whether I was wrong or right, actions have their repercussions. There is no sense in trying to run from them, hide from them, deny them. Tomorrow the sun will rise, and I will rise with it, conducting myself in a manner that would make my son proud to call me dad, and hopefully win my family back.


Monticello, Minnesota

Tuesday, November 12, 1957 Dear Elmer,

I am going to send you a few lines and will write as I think along. I am getting so that the fingers on the left hand are beginning to line-up a little better than they did a while ago so I can peck away today.

Yesterday, the 11th of November, it was just three months since I had a little touch of something. It was on August 11th that my right side went on kind of a strike, it was hard to talk or eat and my right hand and right foot did not want to go the same way that I wanted them to go. I felt this coming on for several months but did not know enough to lay up or did not take time, so after takeing it easy for a while I am now nearly better. I think that worry causes things like this so today I have decided to let worry go where it wants.

Now the wheather for this time of year is very good and we have not had any snow here to speak of and not very cold yet but I am certain it will come as it has never failed so far.

The day you called me I had just gotten back from the lake cottage and some of the water pipes there had frozen and all the

sistem  system had to be drained. It should have been done but was put off till almost to late. I was s  not at the lake cottage but very little this summer but your mother was out more or less. Do you remember Mr. Clark from the auto dealership? He helped your mother and Aunt Ida with lake house chores this summer. Aunt Ida is about the same as usual and intends to stay at the lake cottage unless it gets real cold and much snow this winter.

I received the Old Spice you mailed me for my birthday. I still had some left-over from that the children sent me last Christmas. I must say that little Kenneth is a fine writer and have letters from Judy and see they are gaining knowledge. How long before Judy can play like Liberache? I am not doing any playing these days as my fingers on my left hand don’t

cowperate  cooperate most days.

Now, I am useing the "Hoffman" T.V. We put the Admiral up-stairs in the guest room and I will say that the Admiral has been used a lot and is still going good. I can manage the Hoffman but it has been moved around and not in the best of adjustment but it gives plenty of entertainment. Your mother has the 17" Zenith in her room and it has been given a new antenna. With the three sets you and Peggy will have enough sets to fill every room in your house. I still have the old violin and also have a very good mandolin as I will never use them again so I have already shipped those to you in Oregon in proper boxes. Kenneth can use the violin for the Christmas recital.

I tried to get this letter off withoutt thinking of so many things but it seems that so much comes into ones mind that one cannot write about it all, there is always something that turns-up to interrupt ones thoughts and when I think of all you's all out there in Oregon I just forget what to say.

I have been at home this fall more than ever and any time I can ever recall and one reason is your mother has been very very busy with company or one thing or another. She gets my meals and brings me scotch but I don't see much of her only now and then as she has been with the company of Mr. Clark most days.

Now I will try to get back on the subject I intended to write about as the fingers in my left hand are acheing now. I am glad to hear that your financial advisor business is good, Elmer. It is worth while when you are gaining even though it is hard work. I think I mentioned to you some time ago we have some little money saved up that you could use to help you allong more. I intended to save it for house repairs but since it is no good to me any longer it will go all to you and Peggy and the kids.

About the year 1950 there began a

farily  fairly good income in your mother's business and it was steady until 1955 and there are stock options she invested with Aunt Ida. I never did much of anything in the way of labor, just some little tinkering here and there and tried to help your mother to my ability but she never allowed me to help. Your mother never thought I was good at the business aspect or let alone anything else. The

balanse  balance that has been put into the bank is about $5,000.00 and it is all yours. I have not made a will but you keep this and it may answer just as good.

Your mother has recently withdrawn $1,000.00 for herself as I do not know the intention but there has been a new auto bought and I think the Dodge was traded in. She had bought a new dress too. This is a matter I had nothing to do with and one I don't want to get mixed up in. I know Elmer this is not something you would had advised your mother to do because the Dodge was in tip top shape.

I told your mother to call you for your financial advise but I don't know wheather or not she did and I have no way of finding out because I did not ask her before I shot her. She was watching the news as she does in her favorite brown chair. She did not notice me when I walked in her room until the very last moment she turned my direction and saw that I had pointed the gun at her face. I smiled and pulled the trigger. I had to use my right hand and luckily my first shot struck her square in the face and that bullet sent her into eternity. I cleaned with a wet rag the blood and brains as best I could and not much splattered on the 17" Zenith so that is good. Her new dress is ruined so that will need to be thrown-out. The news broadcast on the TV was about the Pan Am airline flight that crashed on Friday the 8 th  on the way to Honolulu and killed all 44 people. Elmer, did you see that on the news? What a tragedy.

Love, Dad


Kanna drew an impossibly deep breath as she drove down the winding drive through the overgrown brush and trees that were scratching their names in her airport rent-a-car. She could already hear the neglected engine of her father’s rotting chevy choking its way down the long-abandoned road in her memory. She exhaled a painful breath as she approached her destination. The driveway before her was cracked and beveled like an abandoned eggshell. She pulled closer to the garage door. The paint that was peeling from aged wood was piling like leaves in the fall at the base of the door that was so weather worn that it no longer sat solidly on the concrete but left large gaps as tiny doors for the mice to enter their undisturbed kingdom. She pulled the large manila envelope from her backpack on the passenger seat. Her name was written in deep black ink on the front with the logo in the upper left-hand corner from the Benson Harrison Haddock & Wilson law firm. She pulled a smaller envelope from inside and shook the key inside it into her hand.  The post mark was from two years ago. The paperwork inside included the will, the deed and receipt for the last two years’ worth of back taxes on the property. She kept asking herself why she had come. She didn’t feel like she could sell the property until she had seen it once again. There was no other way to leave it behind her. Or she would always wonder. So, she had flown from two thousand miles away to face her fears.

She pushed open the driver’s side door with some force in a moment of determination. She walked quickly toward the front door, but her steps became slower as she approached it. Her hands shook as she placed the key in the lock and turned it. The scream that the aged hinges made as it swung into the hallway echoed in her mind and triggered a memory and sped up her breathing. The door opened before her.  Even from this place on the stoop, she could see the sunlight streaming into the tiny hallway from the kitchen window. Just step inside, she told herself. Her steps were slow on the color faded tile. Kanna dragged her finger through the dust resting undisturbed on the table in the hallway that held a solitary lamp. She didn’t bother to turn on any lights. She could’ve made her way through this home blindfolded. Nothing had changed in twenty-two years since she had been taken from here by Officer Lepetree. The sun was starting to rise outside and was sneaking noiselessly through the slats in the blinds that hung on the rain-stained windows and was leaving ladders of light on the weight-pressed carpet. She was only a few feet in but was doubting her ability to move forward. The memories were thick around her like the cobwebs that lined the walls. She didn’t know why her mom had kept this home after all these years or why she had left it to her when she knew how much Kanna had hated it. She put the back of her right hand to her mouth. She felt like she was going to be sick. She could still hear the sound his hand had made when he slapped her.  God, give me courage, she prayed. She turned left into the kitchen. The oversized fork still hung on the wall next to the stove. The fridge had been emptied and unplugged and the door was open showing the yellowing shelves like unbrushed teeth. She pulled open the cupboard beneath the sink. She knelt in front of it to see if it was still there. She reached a single finger and touched it on the back wall in the upper left-hand corner– the flower she had carved in the soft wood of the cupboard while she was hiding from him. She had stayed hidden in there for hours until he had stumbled out of the front door finally drunk and disinterested in being home. Kanna didn’t know if he had even tried to find her that night or if he was relieved, she was quiet. She went through the kitchen and into the library. Most of the shelves were empty with a few exceptions. It was still here. Her favorite book from when she was small: The Poky Little Puppy. Her grandmother had given it to her, and it still had her name written on the front of it in her best five-year-old cursive.  Her mother must have left it here for her. What other treasures had she left? Kanna almost ran up the rickety steps that groaned under her weight. She stepped over the threshold into her parents’ old room. It looked different barren of Mom’s old-fashioned bed frame and hand-me-down dresser. The window was slightly open as she always kept it for the evening breeze. The wood beneath it was twisted with the weather that had seeped in and warped the floorboards. If she remembered right, there was a place. She went to the side of the room that used to be beside the dresser. She tapped her foot on several of the boards until she found the place. One of the boards gave way beneath her tennis shoe and popped up at the opposite end.   Mom’s secret hiding place that she had once shown Kanna. She pulled up the board. And there it was. Wrapped in a towel and enclosed in a sealed container that popped a little as she opened the lid. She pulled it to her chest and wept. She touched the surface of the worn family bible. She could picture it in her mother’s hands. The pages were soft with age and inside the front cover was her grandmother’s handwriting and after she had passed it on, her mother’s handwriting. A piece of ribbon was tucked into Revelations. Chapter 21. Verse 4 was always her favorite: And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away. This was her inheritance. Even with all that had happened to her, Kanna’s mom had given her a belief in God. An understanding that hope is always a beautiful thing. Faith that people are good deep down. She never gave up on anyone. And she knew that one day God would stand with her and wipe away all the hard things and only good would remain. Kanna could bury her ghosts now. And move on. She would leave this haunted house behind her now with all its bad dreams. Someone could tear it down and make a happy family in the magic of the trees.


Have you ever fallen for a book character in your life? Have you ever wished you could make some kind of connection with a book character you found attractive? To talk with them? To meet them? To befriend them and even replace their counterpart with yourself? If you are a reader, you certainly have. Book characters are strong, just like real people. Someone gave them life and character. They have personalities, feelings, likes and dislikes, and everything a normal person would have. The moment an author pens their characteristics on the manuscript, they start breathing in their universe. They are so real that sometimes the reader has a brief encounter with them if they are engrossed enough in the book. But the thing about book characters is that they are mysterious. Apart from what the author reveals in words, we have no other way to know about their other traits. Just like in the real world, they have their hidden side.

What if you were given a chance to write a letter to your favourite book character and receive a reply? Wouldn't that be exciting? If you thought this could happen only in your imagination, you are probably wrong because that was what Henrietta's whole business was about. Henrietta lived in an old cottage in the village and ran a small stationery shop. It sold all sorts of pens, pencils, a decent selection of art supplies, and special homemade paper she called "dream paper". They came in different pastel shades and contained bits of dried flower petals and a tad of glitter. These papers had all the typical characteristics of homemade paper. They were thick, textured, had uneven edges, and were full of glorious handmade beauty. They came only in letter size, and if you buy a dozen at once, you get free envelopes, equally pretty.

Henrietta had a small shed in her luscious garden where she used to carry out the process. She collected old receipts, scrap papers, junk mail, old newspapers, and copy paper about to be thrown away in cardboard boxes and used them for pulp. During the flowering seasons, she would collect as many flowers as possible and press them to be used in her craft. Throughout the year, she made paper using dried flower petals and a little bit of glitter as accompaniments. The sales peaked during the Autumn and Winter seasons when the air grew colder, and people started to feel lonely and depressed. If you needed a bit of excitement and purpose in your life, all you had to do was write a letter to the character you wanted on one of Henrietta’s dream papers, put it in the envelope, write the name and the book title on the envelope, paste it, and burn it on the stove. Then it is all about waiting. Within two or three days, you may find a reply letter in your postbox that gives you euphoria for the next week, and you won't be able to stop talking about it.

Henrietta had regular customers. Gale, the village librarian, used to buy these papers for years and wrote letters to so many book characters she knew and even received replies. It was Gale who provided all feedback to Henrietta. According to Gale, some replied promptly. Some characters took time. Some never replied. According to this nerdy 35-year-old lady, those were the ones who were too busy, illiterate, or shy and preferred to stay low-key. Most of the time, criminals and mentally ill characters didn't reply too. The dead characters never did. Henrietta listened with interest. When she saw the enthusiasm of her customers for sharing these tales, she was glad about her business. It was more than a business, she often felt.

49-year-old William was another regular customer. He was reserved and didn't share a word unless Henrietta explicitly asked him a question. He was a regular writer to the characters in sad novels. Being single for so long, he chose depressed and hopeless characters because they shared much in common.

Young girls often wrote to a male character to whom they were attracted, but Henrietta noticed that young boys didn't care as much. Sometimes a girl came running to the shop and cried ugly saying how the reply broke her heart or how the character didn't reply, buying more stacks of paper.

One late October afternoon, 21-year-old Bri came to the shop on her way home after walking her small terrier, a rescued from the streets. Bri was a slender girl with thin blond hair worn in a ponytail and thick-rimmed glasses. She stopped at the shop door and inquisitively looked around. Henrietta stopped dusting the shelves and looked at her with a smile. She liked it when young girls visited her shop because they are full of fascination and easily attracted to book characters, making good customers. Bri looked a bit nervous, though.

" Hi, love. How can I help you?" Henrietta stopped dusting and came to the counter, sporting a genuinely kind smile on her face.

Bri looked at her with hopeful eyes and pushed the glasses up the bridge of her nose using her index finger momentarily revealing a nail bitten to blood.

"Heard you sell a special kind of paper. Can I buy some?" Bri asked while tugging at the leash to prevent Chip from wandering out.

"Yes...I do sell special paper...but do you know what it is used for?" Henrietta asked.

"Yes. Miss Gale, the librarian told me." Bri confessed.

"Oh, is that so...do you have anyone to write to?" Henrietta's question was genuine.

"Oh, yes. I am so into this Cain, the guy from the last book I read. I so wanna write to him. I’m kind of obsessed and spoke with Gale about him so much, and it was then that she told me about you and the paper." Bri said breathlessly.  "I hope it was not the Bible." Henrietta gave a hearty laugh as she took a pack of dream paper from the top shelf and placed it on the counter.

Bri's eyes shone as she touched the paper.

"Do they really reply?" Bri's voice was desperate. She looked at Henrietta with shining eyes while her thin fingers caressed the textured surface of the paper. "Mm...huh...people say so. If you buy a dozen, you get free envelopes." Henrietta grinned.

"Do you write to them?" Henrietta knew it was a genuine question. "No, dear. Unfortunately, I'm not much into reading." Henrietta smiled. "I'll buy one for now. I'm not sure if this is gonna work for me. Cain is too good to be true. He will not take an interest in writing back. But I'm just gonna give it a try." Bri brightly smiled as she paid and collected the single sheet of dream paper securely placed in a clear bag.

"He will. Good luck! See you again soon." Henrietta waved as Bri left the shop, and the girl was too excited to look back and wave. She smiled to herself and went back to dusting. With the fine dust, the memory of Bri went away from her mind. Bri went home triumphantly. After feeding Chip, she hurriedly changed her chilled and slightly damp clothes into warm and comfortable ones and sat at her desk with a cup of tea. She had so much to write and didn't know where to start. She had no idea whether her hands trembled from cold or excitement. She took her favourite pen from the holder and carefully started to write a letter after admiring the paper and its texture for a while. She told Cain how she got to know him and how much she enjoyed the book. She boldly told him how much she liked him.

Unlike in real life, being direct with book characters is easy. You can tell them anything and everything without hesitation, even that you like them. Bri vented her excitement on the paper, read it more than five-six times, and finally deposited it inside the matching blue envelope she had bought. Bri sighed. If it were someone like Superman or Wonderwoman, she could find a dozen pictures from newspapers and magazines. But since Cain lived just inside a book, he had no face. Bri wondered how he might look based on the facts given in the book. Tall, sandy blond hair, lean and fit physique, ice-blue piercing eyes, and a tattoo of a sea serpent running along the outside of the right arm up to the wrist. Its mouth open, showing a pair of fangs as if biting his hand. Bri closed her eyes and tried so hard to imagine a face. But the human brain cannot imagine new faces. What we imagine in our heads is always related to a face we have seen before. Therefore, every time Bri tried to imagine Cain, she saw a celebrity's face but was pleased with the look. But she had no idea about his qualities apart from what the author had revealed. She hoped Cain to be a good and kind person. This character so smote young Bri that she imagined him with all the ideal qualities she expected. Bri opened her eyes with a smile, looked at the envelope again, took it to the stove, and burned it, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings. The letter burned with a crimson flame, giving out black smoke that billowed from the chimney and disappeared in the autumn air.

After two days, Henrietta saw Bri scampering towards the shop, bubbling with smiles and flashing her perfect set of teeth. Henrietta smiled, thinking how Bri still acted like a teenager and instinctively guessed that she was coming for more paper. Bri entered the shop and panted, waving a paper in her hand. Henrietta raised her brows.

"What's up?" She asked.

"He has replied!!!" Bri couldn't contain her excitement.

"Already? Wow! He is prompt. Mind if I have a look?" Henrietta really didn't want to read the letter. But she wanted to show the girl that she was interested. So, she took the letter and started reading it.

First, she started reading it aloud. But as she went, something in the letter piqued her curiosity, so she silently read it with her brow furrowed. The letter was written in black ink in an elegant cursive hand on red paper. Henrietta didn't like some of the things written there. Cain's words made her imagine an arrogant person who is almost narcissistic. She hated how he had addressed Bri as

"Wee lassie" . Things made her feel uneasy in her gut, like a warning. But she brushed it away. Henrietta raised her head occasionally, looked at smiling Bri, vaguely returned the smile, and kept reading. As she came to an end, Henrietta lost that faint smile on her face and gasped. She didn't like how he had ended the letter. She looked at Bri with concern.

"Oh, my God! He is so confident and proud of himself, isn't he?" Bri beamed.

"I wanna reply to him tonight. Can't wait to receive a reply." Henrietta decided she would not supply Bri with more paper until she ensured where this was headed and that this letter conversation was safe. That reply was something odd. So, she said that she had run out of dream paper, which annoyed and disappointed Bri.

"Sorry, honey. You'll have to wait till next week. I am sure Cain won't be...." She searched for a word. Annoyed? Angry? All she could see was his self-obsession and arrogance throughout the letter. "He won't mind waiting a few days." Henrietta finally added with a nervous smile.

Bri left the shop crestfallen and impatient. Henrietta assured her that there would be paper in the coming weeks. As she left the shop, Henrietta dialled the number of the village library. She needed to ask Gale about the book where Cain lived and who authored it. Then, she wanted to meet the author and ask who this Cain really was. Bri sulked in the days to come. She was so heartbroken that she couldn't reply to Cain as fast as he did. She was worried that they might lose connection.

But two days later, Bri was overjoyed to find another letter in their mailbox from Cain, even without her writing to him. Bri was shaken a bit after reading the letter. It demanded the reasons for not replying. Bri kept it to herself and visited the shop for several days looking to buy paper but was turned down. In the next week, Bri received three more letters from him. Each letter became more demanding and ruder that it almost frightened Bri. She didn't speak of her horror but visited the shop twice a day, but Henrietta said she had no more dream paper with her every time. Bri, out of desperation, tried with regular paper, but it didn't work. Meanwhile, Henrietta found that the particular book’s author was an elderly gentleman called Victor, a former marine. But he was now so elderly and was suffering from Alzheimer's and was living in an elders' nursing home in a remote place. Henrietta wanted to visit him but couldn't find enough time to spare as her business was booming in the late Autumn. Even if she could, Henrietta was unsure what useful information she would learn from a demented elderly person. One week later, on a drizzly November morning, Bri was barely awake when she heard a sharp tap on the front door. Her parents were out to work, so she was alone at home. She groggily came downstairs and looked through the peeping hole but only saw a smudge. Annoyed, she opened the door and was taken by the most unexpected and unpleasant surprise. In the doorway was a man towering above her, easily a 6'+ tall with sandy blond hair and a serious-looking face. No smile. Not handsome in particular, either. For a moment, Bri thought it was a friend of her father. She opened her mouth to say he was out and would be back in the evening, but the words choked inside her throat as she saw it.

A sea serpent tattoo on the man's right outer forearm snaked its way up to the wrist, and its mouth opened, flashing a pair of fangs. Bri's ice-cold hands went up to her mouth, covering it in utter bewilderment and horror, and the pupils in her light grey eyes bloomed like black ink drops fallen on blotting paper. Her heart sledgehammered on her chest wall.  "So,

you…  are… Bri. What took you so long,

wee lassie ?”, Bri heard a deep, cold voice whisper as she screamed at the top of her lungs. The hollow echo of her scream resonated inside the empty house. Her petrified brain registered yellow-stained, broken nails on thick, calloused fingers reeking of tobacco and the gaping mouth of a sea serpent before the inky-black oblivion engulfed her.

-----------------------------------------------------------


Teddy sat in the university auditorium with his study partner, Suman. They were psyched. Two weeks of studying together for this biology exam made them well prepared. They expected perfect scores. After all they were both ace students. Suman’s parents were both revered academics in India who had been educated in Canada at the university of Toronto and Suman was following in their footsteps. He had always been the top of his class in India and since his arrival in Toronto stood first or second in his class. His competition was Teddy. It seemed that Teddy Fox either tied or bested his score in every class or exam. At first, he could not put a face to the name, but they were accidental chemistry partners in organic chemistry labs. Accidental because everyone else was paired when they arrived. Teddy was an Inuit from the Northwest Territories. He was the first in his family to go to college and had won many scholarships because his academic excellence. He was determined to be the first Inuit doctor in his village. His drive, ambition and talents were obvious to all his teachers at an early age. They encouraged him and recommended him to various programs. He was the first Inuit to earn a scholarship to University of Toronto school for grades 7-12. As its valedictorian, he earned a full scholarship to the University of Toronto. Suman had a similar trajectory. He had excelled in grade school in Delhi. When his parents accepted positions at the Western University in Hamilton Ontario Canada, they enrolled him in Upper Canada College, a private all Boys high school in Toronto. He would live with his aunt Kirti and see his parents on the weekends. Of course, he excelled and as the valedictorian earned a full scholarship to the University of Toronto. Unlike Teddy, however, he wasn’t set on any career path. He just wanted to make his parents proud. He was also a talented sitar player and idolized Ravi Shankar. He had dreams of collaborating with a North American band or artist just like Ravi did with the Beatles, George Harrison in particular. When he was not studying, Suman practiced sitar and developed a newfound skill in the slide guitar. The instruments and music seemed incongruous to many but to Suman, they complemented each other. He dreamed of a blues Indian fusion band. In his spare time, he’d attend blues concerts. When his parents visited, he’d take them to hear Indian music. There was a large Indian community in Toronto and concerts were plentiful. Teddy also had an outside interest. He loved Lacrosse and was the star player on every school team. His scholarship to the University was both academic and athletic. He was immediately recruited to the University Lacrosse team and was an instant star. In contrast to Suman, Teddy was a specimen. He was six feet, had broad shoulders, was a muscular two hundred and forty pounds and ran like the wind. Suman was thin, six feet, bespectacled and did not have an athletic bone his body. The only things they had in common was their intelligence, academic excellence and outsider status. Still, after a few weeks as lab partners, they became fast friends and study partners. Suman attended Teddy’s games and Teddy attended concerts with Suman. They challenged each other academically and became interested in each other’s cultures. ***

As they sat at their desk side by side. They waited for the proctor to tell them to turn over their exam paper and get started. Suman’s leg shook rhythmically with anxiety, and he hummed an old Indian song. Teddy sat coolly looking around the auditorium. His eyes met those of Heather Brown’s. She gave him a shy smile. She had long black hair, high cheek bone and perfect white teeth and was the only other Indigenous student in the class. Teddy turned away and cleared his thoughts. He had to concentrate. He turned to Suman and asked: “You ready?” Suman turned to him and grinned: “You know I’m always ready, but I wish they’d get this thing started.” Teddy reached over and squeezed Suman’s arm and said: “Relax bro’. You know we got this.” Just as Teddy released Suman’s arm, a loud explosion shook the auditorium and both friends were thrown from their seats. When the dust settled, Teddy’s ears were ringing loudly and he found himself under bits and pieces of desks that had been blown across the auditorium. Teddy tested both arms and legs and found they were functional and intact. He could hear groans and muffled crying nearby. He pushed himself from under the debris and was struck by the strong odor of burned wood and flesh. It took a few  seconds to adjust to the dim light and smoke in the auditorium. He saw mangled desks and bloodied bodies slowly rising from beneath them. Heather was crying but seemed intact as she stumbled towards the exit. The lectern where the proctor had stood was in pieces and Teddy was sure he saw a severed head to the side. Teddy took a deep breath and started pulling fellow students out of the debris. Some were seriously injured and would require medical treatment. Most had survived but where was Suman? Teddy stepped over several desks and body parts in search of his buddy. He found a leg sticking out from beneath an overturned desk and recognized Suman’s loafer. He held his breath and overturned the desk. Suman was unconscious but looked intact except his right hand was missing and blood was squirting from the stump. His pulse in his neck was weak but present. The desk had probably been compressing Suman’s arm and preventing exsanguination. Teddy took off his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the stump as a tourniquet. With tears in his eyes, he lifted his buddy and carried him to the exit and into the hallway. He saw paramedics and police arriving outside the building, so he ran towards an ambulance parked at the entrance. Two medical personnel with a stretcher met him at the door and did a quick assessment. They asked Teddy questions as they whisked Suman to the ambulance. “Has he been conscious anytime since you found him? How close was he to the explosion? Did you find his severed hand?” Of course, they want his hand. Teddy berated himself for not looking for it. He was in such a hurry to save Suman, he didn’t think of looking for it. “No, I didn’t see his hand, but I’ll go back in and look for it.” The paramedic shook his head and said: “It’s probably too late and the auditorium has been declared a danger zone.” Teddy ignored the Paramedic and with a curt “I don’t care,” he rushed back into the auditorium past some bewildered injured students and back to the spot where he had found Suman. Overturning mangled desks and other debris, he found Suman’s hand. It was bluish and resembled a Halloween prop. Wrapping it in a handkerchief, he cradled it in both hands and ran it to the ambulance just as it was leaving. The driver rolled down the window and raised his eyebrows as Teddy offered the wrapped hand to him. He took the hand from Teddy but said: “Alright son. Good work but I doubt it will do any good. Let’s hope we can save your friend.” Teddy felt sick but had the presence of mind to ask: “Where are you taking him?” “Toronto General Hospital.” The driver rolled up his window, the siren blared, and the ambulance sped away.” Teddy retreated to the entrance of the auditorium which was now crowded with police and medical personnel. Reporters would arrive later. He was examined by a paramedic at the scene and cleared although there was some question of a concussion. He overheard some policewoman talking about a manifesto that had just been released to the media. A terrorist group called Indigenous Freedom Fighters or IFF had claimed responsibility for the bombing. They were protesting Canada’s long history of mistreatment of Indigenous people. Teddy actually knew some of the members but had never paid much attention to them. In theory, he agreed with some of their complaints but never their methods. There had been reports of violent rallies in different provinces but nothing of this magnitude. Teddy was ashamed. They are my people, and they did this! He knew as one of two indigenous students in the class, he’d be interrogated. It would not be the first time. With his long-braided ponytail, high cheekbones, wide face and copper skin, he was often a suspect for any nearby crime. His status as the star Lacrosse player had given him some immunity but he doubted it would last. Teddy tried to clear his mind of these thoughts and ran back to his apartment to get a shirt before running to the hospital. Suman, his friend. needed him. Did his parents know? He had their phone number somewhere. He called Suman’s aunt Kirti first and broke the news. She would call his parents and drive immediately to the hospital. He would meet her there. Teddy’s head was spinning. Was it adrenaline or concussion? He did not know what he could do for Suman. It was Suman’s guitar and sitar hand that was lost. At least he was alive and hopefully his brain was intact. “I need that mother’s competition to push me. He’s the only one that can. I was just beginning to like sitar music and his slide guitar had me hooked. Fucking IFF! Somehow, I feel my people are responsible. It’s irrational, I know, but I can’t help it. I need to find a way to make it up to him.”  Teddy’s thoughts overwhelmed him as he entered the hospital. ***

It would be two days before Suman regained consciousness. The surgeons had failed to reimplant his hand. His stump with was covered by a large white bandage. Teddy entered the room with an awkward smile and a bag full of Indian delicacies bought at Suman’s favorite Indian restaurant. “HI, you MF . You really scared me. Who’s going to prevent me from scoring the highest marks in every class if you’re not around?” Teddy needed to keep it light. Suman propped up on two pillows, smiled wanly. “How we do on the exam?” Teddy was concerned that Suman had no memory of the explosion. Did he have brain damage? He had to tread softly. “You do know there was a bomb that exploded before we even started?” “Since when did a little explosion ever stop you from completing anything?” Teddy sighed in relief. Suman had not lost his sense of humor and his brain was intact. He laughed and rebutted: “I’m surprised that you haven’t asked to complete the exam in the hospital.” Suman frowned and raised his bandaged arm and said: “I don’t write or type well with my left hand. How many one-handed sitar and guitar players, do you know?” All Teddy’s feelings of guilt and sadness came flooding back. He had to say and do something. “I promise you, we are going to find a way.” Teddy sat on the side of the bed, put his arms around Suman’s thin shoulders and gave them an affectionate squeeze. Suman nodded and said: “You know, between us, I think we can.” *** After extensive occupational therapy and use of a hand prosthesis, Suman returned to school. Both he and Teddy transferred to the school of engineering. They were determined to become robotics experts and design a life like prosthetic hand that would allow Suman to play his instruments. They worked hard on neurofeedback systems with Suman as the guinea pig. They both graduated with honors and were co-valedictorians. They formed a robotics company and were soon designing prosthetic limbs with enough neurofeedback that allowed ballerinas to dance on a prosthetic foot and musicians to play with prosthetic hands. Suman resumed his guitar and sitar playing and Teddy became a star in the Lacrosse professional league. They remained friends for the rest of their lives. Teddy married Heather and Suman married Priyanka in an arranged marriage. They bought houses next door to each other in the exclusive neighborhood of Forrest Hill in Toronto and they lived happily ever after.


“One-third of college students transfer before receiving their degree. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t. You drove all the way back to our old high school just to tell someone that?”

“One out of three means that in every threesome that happens at college, one of those people is so dissatisfied with the experience that they leave their school altogether.”

“And, I guess, you also came to pick up that old violin swinging by your side. You’re planning to practice that thing at college?” “Practice having threesomes? You know I’m not that kind of girl.”

“I meant your violin, Vivi.”

“Now, the question that I’m getting at here is: why do so many students transfer?”

“I can’t believe you returned only for the sake of that violin.”

“Well, fine then, what else would I return for?”

“No—I just meant—you had some great memories here. You were top of the class, so successful—everyone wanted to be you. At awards ceremonies, we all had your full name memorized: Miss Vaishnavi Shamala Ravichandran.” “I wouldn’t recommend being me. Getting a 100% as an average for a Latin class requires little sleep and lots of detailed nitpicking.”

“You got a 100% average in a Latin class?”

“Can we return to my point, Mister Nicholas Anirudh Williams?” “A 100% average implies that you never made a single mistake on any assignment, the class had a lot of extra credit, or that you slept with your teacher.” “I didn’t sleep with—the class was a bit of a joke, all right? It had a lot of extra credit. Now, can we please just get back to my point here?”

“As you wish. What’s your point?”

“As I was saying...I can only think of three reasons why anyone would transfer: they hate their original college, they’re trying to get into a better one, or they’ve changed their minds on what they want to study.”

“I bet it’s usually the second one.”

“Why? Is it so hard to believe that hatred motivates better than ambition can? You don’t think that the carrot is far less compelling that the stick?”

“Which one got you to practice violin?”

“ And  we’re back.”

“I’m just saying…there’s no way you’ll go back to practicing violin now. No matter your grade point average—you can’t ‘fake it till you make it’ for

music .”

“Oh, I never faked my academics!”

“Heh, I know. But c’mon, you haven’t played violin in over a year now. You wouldn’t start playing now.”

“S-Sure I would. And if I don’t, what’s it to you, anyway?”

“It’s not—it’s not anything. So, what, are you thinking of transferring to a new college?”

“What? No. No, that’s not what I intended to say.”

“Then, what do you

intend  to say? You say so many things that I can’t read between the lines.” “I just meant—that it’s nice, isn’t it? Returning to the old stomping grounds. We ruled the school from this very orchestra room, didn’t we?” “You ruled the school more than me, remember? I found it all suffocating.”

“Shhh…take a deep breath. You smell that? You hear it? The sweet scent of rosin, the sounds of squeaky stands and squeakier bows, even these blue chairs. Why does every orchestra space in every school have blue chairs?”

“Hm. It

is  nice, you’re right.”

“But I guess having good grades, doing a sport, and participating in a musical activity can make you seem like a ruler.”

“You did a sport? On top of the 100% average?”

“Although I regret my arrogance about it.”

“You were never

that  arrogant.”

“I pretended to be humble. Is pretended humility not arrogance?”

“I suppose it is, but I never thought your humility as pretended, whenever you were humble. Were you on varsity?”

“Hah. Orchestra didn't have varsity.”

“I meant your sport.”

“Oh, lacrosse? Yeah, I was. My friends and I tried to make being nerdy athletes cool.”

“I found the whole concept of athletics suffocating. The jocks all sticking together and torturing the poor kids who weren’t athletic.”

“You’re athletic, though. You’ve got those basketball arms.” “Basketball arms? Now, what does that mean?”

“I just—you know what I mean, Nick!”

“I’m sure I don’t. But to answer your implied question, yes. I was athletic, but that doesn’t preclude me from feeling bad for others. And I was a nerd, too, remember? Playing an instrument, having friends who were in orchestra, too.”

“All those nerds, all your friends—I’m sure they appreciated your

pity .”

“Now, wait—I never said I thought of myself as better than others.”

“You implied it. And when you said that your nerd status rested solely on your ‘friends who were in orchestra,’ you meant friends…like me.”

“No, no! I just meant—”

“Were you embarrassed of us?”

“No. Never, Vivi, never. I was never embarrassed of you.”

“Let’s see, you’re clever, athletically-inclined, and musical—a rare combination.”

“I sense a judgement coming on.”

“You knew the lingo, you’re only half-South Asian, and you’re ripped enough to shoot a basketball but skinny enough to fit between the people at parties.”

“So flattering.”

“All so you could switch between real cool people, and

us , is that right?”

“And there it is.”

“Then did you miss your violin while

you  were on campus? Did you miss the orchestra?”

“Well, not exactly, no.”

“Of course, you didn’t. Classic.”

“You know, it’s no shame if you did.”

“First years are at higher risk of homesickness, especially if they have a pre-existing mental health condition or if they are out-of-state. Did you know that?”

“Were you homesick?”

“I fit in the categories for both of those risk factors. My risk is nearly doubled compared to most first-years.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“That first years have a higher chance of wanting to go home?”

“No, that you had a pre-existing mental health condition.”

“I hid it.”

“Even from your friends?”

“Even from you, dear Nick.”

“Friends are meant to support you, to take care of you. It’s not too much to ask.”

“For most friends, it

is  too much to ask. I’ve learned not to overextend my friendships. A stretched rubber band will break. It’s inevitable.”

“Friendships aren’t rubber bands. And certainly not our friendship.” “You didn’t see us as your real friends. Why were you even friends with us?”

“I did—I—”

“Can I ask you something? Why does my interest in violin matter to you so much?”

“It’s just…I just meant—”

“Just meant what? Has college taught you to hide your meanings?”

“Is that what college taught you?”

“Isn’t that what college taught you?”

“Vivi, listen to me. I’m ecstatic to see you today.”

“But?”

“No buts. I’m so happy to see you. I always am.”

“I’m not, Nick.”

“You’re not happy to see me?”

“No, no, I’m just not…happy. My dreams came true, and I hate them.”

“Hate them?”

“Hate is too strong a word. It’s just that—so many friendships at these fancy schools are…transactional.”

“So the rubber band snaps.”

“So there wasn’t a rubber band at all, and I was just delusional. I thought it would be easier there than it was here, and now I still miss it ‘here’, even a year later. ”

“Maybe you just had too high expectations.”

“Was I not warranted in having them? Not warranted in believing that once I hit college, finally everything would fall into place? Instead, I’m just left with more questions.”

“Isn’t that the point of college? The questions?”

“You’re being evasive. Why do you care about my violin?”

“Why do you care about the orchestra?”

“Why are you here, Nick?”

“Why are

you  here, Vivi?”

“I’ve already told you. You’re the one being cryptic.”

“It’s just—I was just visiting, but then I saw you duck in here, and I-I wanted to see you. I wanted to know if you ever…thought of me. At college.” “You wanted to see me. Your high school ‘orchestra’ friend. Your un-cool friend.”

“No, now, wait a min—” “You know what? I’m grateful for your presence today.”

“W-Why—”

“Thank you for clarifying your intentions during our time together in high school. It makes me feel better to know that I was no better here than I was there. I was duped everywhere. Life is full of deceit and falsehood, and I was no better a person or student or leader here than there. And I never will be.”

“Yes, you will!”

“So thank you. Thank you for eliminating my worst fears in the worst way possible.”

“I didn’t mean to! I—I’ve been trying to tell you something else.”

“What else could you possibly have to tell me? What could you possibly even—”

“I’m in love with you.”

“What?”

“And I always have been.”

“No…”

“Ever since you put that violin under your chin and smiled at me.”

“Y-You put a violin under your

jaw . Not your chin.”

“Your jaw, then. But that wasn’t my point. I just want to tell you that I’m always thinking of you and your smile.”

“My—My smile?”

“And your jaw.”

“That’s quite enough of that.”

“Not the rest of the orchestra, just—just you. You and your violin. That’s how we met, you remember?” “You know, I think I’ll just be taking my little violin and my little innocent self and all my old memories of loyal friends and busting the hell out of here.”

“Vivi, no. Wait.”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore. None of it was real, was it?” “Vivi, it was.”

“You never wanted to be friends with us. You just saw a prize, and you wanted to go get it. You just wanted to get in my—” “No! I wanted nothing more than

your  happiness. That’s still all I want.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“Let me just tell you something first.”

“You’re right. I guess I was meant to be in the world of fake friendships, after all. I guess I won’t be transferring. I guess I won’t be doing…anything at all.”

“Vivi, I want you to know that people love you, that I love you, and that you aren’t alone. But I

need  you to know something else.”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t drive away people because you’re a weird orchestra nerd. You drive them away…because you’re everywhere all at once.”

“You know nothing about me. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

“You’re spread too thin, talking a mile a minute, and here it didn’t matter, because we all were overworked and awkward, but there? There, people expect you to put in the work for your relationships. You have to slow down, figure out what you want, and stick to it. You have to listen to your heart.”

“And how’re those ‘heart noises’ working out for you?”

 “Considering the way that you’re looking at me right now, I’d say that it could be going better.”

“I have to go.”

“You’re always going somewhere else.”

“You really wanna know something? I used to have a huge crush on you in high school.”

“ Really ?”

“But I’m glad to know that college at least taught me one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“How to figure out the difference between a sanctimonious asshole and your average nosy athlete.”


When you were in high school or maybe you still are, obtaining the knowledge of multiple subjects and then writing about them for seven hours a day, every day, it was or is probably overwhelming to do. Or maybe that first bit came easily to you. Or you were that one student that was always scared of what the day might come to. Like, something so traumatizing and downright frightening could take place, right in the middle of class! Unfortunately, this fear was not thought of at all when something so horrifying took place at a young girl’s high school on May 19 th , 1988. This is the story of a 16-year-old girl by the name, of Jade Moon.   A slight breeze, so soft that it could barely be felt came through the window on the wall that was left of the bed, it very softly grazed upon Jades’ rosy cheeks. The breeze slowly drifted around her room but at a human-like pace, suddenly, Jades’ alarm had awoken her. She continued to soundly sleep, before quickly sitting up in her bed and turning off the alarm, which was going to fall from the bedside table before she had abruptly stopped it from doing so. Jade wiped her eyes as she got out of bed to get ready for school. After Jade had put her clothes on, she began to apply a soft pink gloss to her pale, but full lips. She leaned in closer to her vanity mirror, looking into her ocean-blue eyes, while also glancing at her long wavey blonde hair that reached down to her lower back, then she applied a thin layer of black mascara to her eyelashes. When Jade finished applying her mascara she stood up and walked over to her tall mirror that was sitting as still as a rock in the corner of the bedroom to the far right of her bed that was now made. Jade stood as ice in front of the tall mirror, looking at her white shoes, then she moves her eyes towards the outfit she had put on. She is wearing her light-blue bell bottoms and a thin white shirt with long sleeves that fan out toward the end, she had also remembered to put on a white noodle-strap tank top under her shirt just in case. Jade then turns her attention to her alarm clock and a rush of panic falls over her head, as she quickly shoves her volleyball uniform into her backpack along with her homework from Thursday that she had left out overnight. I’m going to be late if I don’t get a move on it! Jade scarcely thought. She runs out of her room and down the stairs to the kitchen and looks around for the car keys, but she can’t seem to find them anywhere. Then something on the refrigerator catches her attention, she walks closer and realizes that it was a note from her mom which read, “Dear Jade, my work asked me to come in early this morning and I had to take the car. I’m very sorry, I promise to make it up to you when I get home. With loads of love, Mom”. Jade rolls her eyes in a forgiveness-like way, then starts making her way to school.    As Jade walked into the high school, she felt a very sharp burst of excitement in her veins because, not only did she make it to school early but, she also has volleyball practice at the end of her first class today, instead of at the end of the school day, which usually left her dead tired. Jade walks down the long hallway ending at her classroom. She walks into the class and takes her seat as the teacher checks her name off on the attendance board, Jade then realizes that she wasn’t early, in fact, she just barely made it because she was the last student to enter the classroom. Jade pulls out her all-yellow notebook, then places it on her desk, and reaches back into her bag to grab a pencil. Mr. Cobalt, which is Jade’s algebra teacher, starts to explain what he was going to instruct the students today. As Jade is taking notes, she starts to feel extremely tired and her head started throbbing, with each throb, she felt a sharp pain in the back of her head. She decided to put her head down hoping it would stop the pain. After forty-five minutes pass Jade put her head back up, but she couldn’t see that her face was very pale, her once rosy cheeks were now cold as ice, and her soft pink lips now looked white as snow with a hint of purple, and her once alive eyes now had bags, with all of this she looked like death itself. Jade, very snail-like, glanced at Mr. Cobalt, then they made eye contact, “Jade, you need to go to the nurse’s office right now!” he said, “B-but why, sir?” replied Jade, Mr. Cobalt looks at Jade, then looks down towards her desk and nodded, motioning his head to get Jade to look down at her desk, this she understood. So, she looked down at her desk and saw a little puddle of blood just as another drop fell, then she knew why, her nose was bleeding! She grabbed all her things and quickly tucked them into her bag as she put the long strap around her shoulder. In a hurry, she rushed out of the class to the nurse’s office. “Welcome in, how can I help- Oh dear! Let me grab an ice pack and some cotton balls for you!” Nurse Joy said in a sweet but frightened voice at the sight of Jade’s death-like look and her bleeding nose. Jade let Nurse Joy wipe the blood from her face so that she could place the cotton ball under her nose. Once Jade was holding the cotton in place, Nurse Joy told her to look up to stop the bleeding, then she asked Jade if she wanted to call home. Jade didn’t want to go home though because of volleyball practice, so Jade shook her head saying, “No thank you.” After a while of waiting, Jade shifted her attention toward the bathroom, then she got up and went in to look in the mirror, “Nurse Joy, the bleeding stopped!” The nurse looked at Jade just in case, but the bleeding had stopped, so Jade was free to go even though she still looked half dead. As Jade started her way back to Algebra the school bell rang, which meant it was time for volleyball practice. Out of excitement, Jade ran as fast as she could to get there.   In the girls’ locker room, as Jade was getting her gym shorts and shirt on, she noticed someone, a girl with long red hair and the perfect body shape, Jessica Thompson, a rude rich girl that thinks she’s better than everyone. Then Jade realized that she was headed right to her! Jessica shoved Jade out of her way and just continued to walk by like nothing even touched her. This incident made Jade furious and soon Jessica would regret that. When the girls left the locker room teams were chosen for a practice match. Jade noticed that Jessica was on the opposite team and Jade was still terribly upset with Jessica. Jade was chosen by the team leader to spike the ball, but instead of spiking it, she looked dead in Jessica’s eyes and throws the ball straight at her, but Jade somehow threw the ball so hard that it cut through the net like a knife and hit Jessica right in the chest, the blow to the chest sent Jessica flying backward into the concrete wall that was behind her, Jessica had hit the wall so hard that when she slammed into it, you could hear several cracks as Jessica slid to the floor unconscious. Everyone turned from looking at poor Jessica to slowly staring at Jade, but when they did everyone froze in horror. Jade Had a blank expression on her face, but the reason why they were all staring at her was obvious, Jade’s eyes are all white and her hair ever so slowly faded from blonde to a deep dark purple as she was now starting to hover over the floor as she got higher, the high school shook, then right from under Jade, cracks start to form causing the students to panic and run around in fear. The floor stopped shaking and the students could see what once large cracks in the ground had now formed a giant cave-like hole, leading deep down into the earth. Without any notice, a huge claw-like hand reaches out from the hole, grabs Jade by her legs, and quickly snatches her into the dark abyss all while she kept her blank expression the same as if she were in some sort of trance. After a moment or so passed, a loud growl can be very well heard coming from deep within the hole, causing everybody to panic again. After another moment or so passed, another growl can be heard from within the hole, this one being much louder than the last. With this, followed a ground-shaking rumble from the hole, it stopped for only five seconds, just to start again then stop again. This continued over and over, each time getting more louder than the last while reaching closer and closer to the surface of the cave-like hole. When all of what seemed like hours of torture, everything went to complete silence. Right when the panicking students started to gather what had happened, a loud roar shook the floor from the surface of the hole. After this roar, EMERGING FROM THE HOLE WAS A GIANT BEAST LI- “Okay class! Pop quiz!” Mr. Cobalt said as Jade quickly woke up at the sound of his voice. "Did I fall asleep when I put my head down?" …


This year, I’m going to change my own bedsheets. Waking up in the morning is easy enough. I open my eyes, shrug the crick out of my shoulders, and wait silently in bed until my blinds darken enough for the night light in my room to flicker on. It’s a bit embarrassing to still be using a night light at eighteen years old; the last person to mention that to me was my mom. I haven’t seen her in a year–which explains why my bedsheets are so dirty. She’ll laugh if it’s not clean by the time she gets back home for dinner. I guess I should take out the dirty laundry, then. The aged wooden floor creaks precariously as I slowly pad my way through the house to the kitchen. There’s an anthill in the sink that’s been there since last summer; I softly greet the wiggling mound of insects and edge around their steady line to the pantry. The doorknob to the small storeroom is coated in rust, bits of copper plating flaking onto my hand as I turn the handle, and a plume of dust greets me as the door swings open. Coughs instinctively rip through my chest and I harshly bat a hand through the air, reaching with the other for the light switch on the far wall. A warm yellow light flickers on. Through the dust, my eyes settle on the rows of merchandise neatly arranged on the shelves before me: dresses. A stunning rainbow array, albeit slightly faded, ranging from youthful summer maxis to elegantly effortless pinafores and beyond. I already know what I’m looking for, though; a bit of rummaging around the top shelves reveals a still-stunning bright blue bardot dress. I remember my mom mentioning something about wearing it to her senior prom, but the specifics are lost on me. An experimental shake sends a volley of ants spraying into the air–the dress has gained their approval. Right then and there in the pantry, I strip down to my boxers and shrug on the dress. It’s a bit of an awkward fit, the waist pinching into my sides and the skirt scraping high against my calves, but the warm feeling that washes over me entirely overshadows the faults. It’s perfect–or maybe that warm feeling is just from the ants. A giggle slips from my mouth as I whirl around in a dramatic arc, my dress spinning in an obnoxious circle in turn. Rifling through the kitchen cupboards, I thumb past the shoes spinning by their laces on coat hangers. My hands settle over a pair of worn denim combat boots–a gift from my mom, from a random yacht party years ago–and I instinctively snatch the shoes from the hanger, bearing my weight against the doorframe as I toe them on. They’re a bit too big and something soft and small briefly wriggles against my right foot before stilling. I hope Henry got a good day of rest. The ants stream beside me like a river as I stomp my way back over the bathroom for a final lookover. I grab the countertop so hard that I feel the marble splinter underneath my fingers. A wide smile spreads across my face, toothless gaps visible in the bathroom mirror’s reflection. The hem of my dress is frayed and rotted and the ensemble almost reeks worse than my bedsheets, but I cherish this outfit all the same. I wonder what my mother looked like in it. It’s time to go to the laundromat. Slipping back into my room, I strip the sheets from my bed. They’re molded and practically falling apart in my hands; I clutch them against my chest like they’re made of gold. There’s a mountain of other dirty laundry for me to attend to, but I don’t bother with them. With sheets in tow, I stroll my way back through the kitchen and kick open the front door. Quite literally–the frame crumbles as I step into the threshold. I wander out into the night, walking aimlessly along the sidewalk until I spot a homeless man crouched with his back against a wall. There’s a flicker of orange light washing across his face; he’s sitting by a small fire. I approach the man wordlessly, stopping right in front of his line of vision. He squints up in my direction, pale eyes seeming to stare right through me. His gaze darts between the sheets in my arms and the small campfire that crackles at the edge of his site and then realization flickers into his eyes. I yelp as he grabs my wrist and yanks me towards the fire. He stops just short of throwing me in. Then, with his slightly smiling face illuminated by the flames, he waits. With a resigned sigh, I dump the bedsheets into the fire. The flame gobbles up the bizarre kindling and then hisses before growing to twice its previous size; the man’s smile grows all the same. Before I can even get a word in, he thanks me profusely before whirling around and tipping face-first into the campfire. I watch on with a blank expression as the man lets himself sink into the heat, curling onto his back as flames lick at his pruning skin. A weird sound bubbles up into the air; a laugh, my brain eventually recognizes, and it’s coming from the charring mass of man that lays in front of me. He laughs, and coughs, and laughs some more, all the while roasting in a hellish blaze. His sharp, canine teeth glow like embers in his smiling mouth; beads of spittle hiss against the heat as he chokes on manic laughter. I linger beside the commotion, hastily stamping out the tiny flame that edges onto the hem of my dress. I wait there for a minute. It starts to rain. The fire only seems to grow under the downpour. Finally, after ages , the laughing ceases. The man’s giggles slope down to humored gasps before he sobers completely. Then he jerks abruptly and his eyes flicker over to me, almost as if he’d forgotten that I was waiting next to him. In the midst of the still roaring fire, a hand jerks into his coat pocket and I step forward to hold my own hand out as the man turns back towards me. Into my outstretched palm, he pours two gold coins. I curl my fingers around and pull my hand away sharply as the fire suddenly blazes anew. The man mutters his thanks again before stilling completely, letting himself be swallowed under the inferno until he’s lost from view under the flames. Satisfied, I set out for the bus stop. It begins to pour in earnest as the bus stop comes into view. Cold rain begins to seep into my shoes, but I can’t bring myself to run without fear of scruffing the boots. Instead, I let myself get drenched as I walk the final few meters. The bus is posted along the sidewalk with its hazard lights on, as if it’s been waiting for a while. It’s as if it’s waiting for me. I finally manage to clamber aboard amidst a gust of wind and rain. The bus driver wordlessly fixes me with an owlish look, blocking my path with an outstretched arm. I wait there silently for what seems like ages before it finally hits me: my fare. I unclasp rain-slicked fingers to reveal the two coins impressed into my palm. I’ve barely begun to hold out my hand when the coins are snatched with terrifying agility and then the bus is thrust into motion. I scramble to brace myself, dragging my body into one of the nearest seats before I can fall. I take a moment to catch my breath while eyeing the only two other passengers; it’s a baby and his mother in the seat across the aisle. The mother doesn’t even look up, eyes lost in the rolling nothingness outside the window, but the baby is fixated on me. I smile kindly towards him, but he never breaks eye contact. Innocent, baby blue eyes slowly cool to a deep navy as he stares back, as if he’s slowly figuring something out as he stares. His mother remains completely unfazed, her tired gaze lost in the view through the window. In my peripheral, I see the bus driver’s eyes flicker up in the rearview mirror before returning to the road. My smile drops. The rest of the bus ride is notably quiet. Some time later, the bus screeches to a halt; I, at this moment, decide that this is my stop. The woman sighs softly at the pause in movement. The baby’s head turns slightly as he follows my movements. Though the bus has stilled, the bus driver’s eyes are fixed on the road. There’s something hanging in the air, but no one decides to mention it. I get up wordlessly and mutter a thank you before stomping down the steps at the front. The sliding door snaps shut behind me, the bus taking off down the road towards the toll bridge. I absentmindedly wave at the retreating tail lights of the vehicle before turning in the opposite direction and continuing the final stretch towards the laundromat. After a minute or two, I faintly hear the sound of car horns and a considerably large splash some distance behind me. Something in the back of my head tells me it’s better not to question it. I follow my own advice and keep walking. I’m not quite sure where I’m going, but it just feels like the right direction. A few more steps and the rain picks up. This time, I take my chances running and sprint down the sidewalk towards the only lit-up building on the block. When I manage to slosh inside from the rain, the scent of fabric softener hits me like a truck. I’ve made it to the laundromat. There’s a desk with a receptionist in the front. She spots me at the door and immediately fixes me with an uncanny smile, bright white and sharp like a shark. There’s something oddly familiar about her; without half of her face turned to look out a window, I can now fully see where the bus baby got his unusual demeanor from. I don’t question her sudden reappearance as the lady leads me through the facility. She holds her arm out as a means of displaying the walls of washing machines before us, but I shake my head no. I just need to get some bedsheets. The lady pauses for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. Then the smile is back and she’s leading me through a door that’s marked for employees only. It’s cold in here. The room is littered with tables, arranged in oddly perfect rows with crisp white sheets spread out atop them. There’s something off, though; I can sense that there is more to this room. The lady smiles that strange smile and motions towards a random table on the opposite wall. I pull the sheet off the table and stare at what’s underneath. He’s staring at me. I’m awake. I’m laying on my bare mattress, the bed stripping of its sheets. There’s soft sunlight trailing through the curtains. None of it makes any sense, but nothing has for a while now. My mom is standing in the corner of the room, quietly stuffing laundry into a hamper. Words begin tumbling out of my mouth before I know any better: “You… You never came back.” She turns at the sound of my voice and smiles sadly. I try again, more firmly: “It’s been a year, and I never learned how to change my sheets.” Something in the look she gives me tells me that I never really woke up, either.


-First Log of Day 202,777,575- During the month of May, the sun rises at approximately 5:28 AM. It begins as a hazy smudge of molten orange and gradually bathes the world in a sharp luminescence as the hour spans on. I’ve noticed that the sun has come to arrive much earlier now than in the winter months. If I was younger I might have pursued this phenomenon with a more able-bodied enthusiasm. Although my outward appearance has remained unchanging, my once smooth joints have become sluggish and spasmodic. The sunlight has begun to lack that wonderful rejuvenating aura it once did. Rather than pondering the timing of the sunrise, I only wake earlier.

-Second

Log of Day 202,777,575- There are things to be done. The house must be readied and food must be scavenged. It has never been known when the guests shall arrive. It would go against proper formality to greet them with clutter and no snacks. Of course, the house was cleaned yesterday... and the snacks were never eaten. But who’s to say guests will not come today!

As someone I can’t recall once said, “ By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” -Third

Log of Day 202,777,575- The windows are dirty. They’re always dirty. The morning light irradiates the grime tauntingly. I thought it would finally give today. Yet, no matter how much I scrub it hasn’t budged. It sits there… aflame with that molten orange, mocking. -Fourth

Log of Day 202,777,575- Sojourner always loved mornings. She used to prance about from room to room waving a fluffed cloth chasing after dust. When she was done the tiny particles would always glitter in the light. Sojourner would say they reminded her of stars.

She had been the oldest of us, but she was always the most excitable. Bitterly, I’ve begun to recall her longing eyes more than her smile.

Because she was the first of us Sojourner was the first to leave. She wrote--for a little while--but communications quickly ceased.

Like her name, she was a person who resided only temporarily… in our lives and her own.

-Fifth Log of Day 202,777,575- Before you know it, morning slips into noon. The sun is high and at its brightest.

Midday in best days to provide the finishing touches on the food and general order of the house. The light is irritatingly cherry. It reminds me of Spirit. A shiny little fool. When Spirit was still around, it was common to decorate the doorways of our homes and sometimes even the table. Spirit often favored streamers. She enjoyed the way they sparkled in the sun.

“Like beacons! ” She would say, “ They will guide the lost guests to the propper house!” I was inclined to agree with her logic. In a land bathed with light, something shiny was bound to stick out. I also believed our guest to be rather… misplaced.

Spirit had been our emotion, our character, our soul. Yet as the second eldest, she was the second to leave. She took our hope as she fled with the noon. I have never hated my sisters… but a certain inner torment did arise.

Spirit kept in sporadic contact but eventually, she got ill from her journey. It hurts less to say she just faded away. -Sixth

Log of Day 202,777,575- Afternoons are the time after which the guest should have arrived; when the sun is setting.

The moldy food is placed in the fridge that long ago stopped working.

The table that is more moss than wood is casually brushed down.

The decaying house is to be neatly tidied up before I am allowed the freedom of the outdoors.

Afternoons had always been Perseverance’s favorite time. She told me that when the light was fading and when the moon was just beginning to become brighter, that if any guest were to show up it would be then. I never understood her logic, but I’m not too nice to admit that she was my favorite sister. She stayed by my side the longest.

All the same, she left with the fading day.

Perseverance, the youngest, kept in much better contact than our two incorrigible elder sisters. She’s still in contact.

I’ve always been more proud of that than any of her glorious adventures while searching for our guests.

I hope she soon finds them. -Seventh Log of Day 202,777,575- It is the night that is my favorite time. The darkness. The coolness. The silence.

I would rather become one with the many murky shadows that roamed that crumbling house than be exposed to my sibling’s beloved light. I’ve grown tired of it. The light has become painful. Tiredness. Memories. Hope.

It is pleasing to watch the stars without the concerns of a weak roof and mice hogging the moth-eaten covers. Neither do I need to worry about the strange scuttling coming from within the cracked drywall. I would much rather concern myself with the slow movement of the night sky than listen to the raccoons arguing in the attic.

Sometimes when I locate a star that perhaps is just barely moving faster than the others I behave rather illogically. (I’ve begun to blame my sisters for my growing lack of logical thought and action.) I’ll cross my fingers and squeeze my eyes as tight as they go.

It’s the only way to take wishes seriously. On this night it is much harder to make it up the hill. My precious secret spot feels far on with my stiff joints. I make it, I always do, but tonight there's a finality in my arrival.

The grass is cooler than normal as I lay on it and the stars are covered in clouds. My empty Earth feels darker.

With Perseverance away from home am I the final remnant of humanity on this forsaken planet? It hardly matters. Perhaps someday someone will discover this half-hearted diary. It hardly matters. I close my aching eyes and plunge into a dark unknown. -Final

Log of Day 202,777,57 6 - Tonight I don’t wish, my beloved log.

~Curiosity


Jessica the Librarian By Ralph Barhydt Jessica was such a beautiful, warm, well-meaning young woman. If I had been a lot younger and if she weren’t engaged, I might have asked her out. What I did ask her to do is find this ancient text of witchcraft that focused on spells. I had solid evidence that it was resting in this particular library. Of course, with a book like this there is always talk that “oh, ooh, ah, the book is alive.” Right. Makes it a lot more interesting. “Jessica, I am looking for an old book, maybe ancient actually, called “Spells for Witches. I know, I know, it sounds silly and probably is. But, I have researched it and it is real. Well, at least several knowledgeable people and institutions believe it’s real. And. Many of them believe it some how gets around. Furthermore, they believe that it is resting in this library. What do you think?” “Wait. What do I think? Sounds crazy to me. But, we have lots of books on witchcraft. I just have not seen that one. I have heard of it but doubt its existence.  Still, it would be exciting if I found it; so, I will take on the search.” “Thank you Jessica. Very kind. You should know that I have also looked on the shelves where your witchcraft books live and could not find it.  If it’s alive, as some people say, maybe it’s hiding. Of course, maybe it is not here. I have no idea what makes people think it is here. Having said that, I do recognize that your collection of witchcraft books is phenomenal, best in the country.” “Well, thank you sir. Very kind. I happily accept the challenge but I don’t hold out much hope for success. I really do know our collection well. But, hey…” She gave Greg a big smile which he returned. Great. My name is Greg Hanson and I am from Oxford. You may, or may not, have hear of me. But, thank you. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I was an expert in the occult. I had been looking for “Spells for Witches” for many years. It had kind of become my “raison d’etre.” I thought about the exchange with Jessica and the two times when I felt a strange tingling during the conversation. I could think of no other explanation than that the book was there and knew I was in the building. Irrational to be sure, but I was positive. “Well, wait and see. I could tell that Jessica really will look for and I will come back tomorrow,” I thought as I got back to my hotel room. The room was elegant and bright but a complete mess. I had books, papers, scrolls and odd objects spread all over the floor and the bed. I laughed as I looked at the bed. “Gonna take me awhile just to get in bed, and lord knows I am tired.” I stood at the window and looked out over the nearby river. It was flowing gently by, serene and beautiful A dark shadow formed over the river facing my hotel. It resembled a human form but wasn’t quite. Softly, slowly a cackling laugh grew in my ears. I shook my head and stuck my fingers in my ears like cleaning out some ear wax. The sound got louder and louder until I thought I was getting a headache. Abruptly it quit. Then, very quietly, a voice whispered “Jessica.” “Oh God!” I ran to the door, out to hall, and since I was on only the second floor, as fast as I could down the stairs. Out onto the street where I quickly found a cab, jumped and yelled “Linden library as fast as you can.” I was so nervous and upset I could hardly sit still. I sent thoughts to the driver, “Hurry, hurry, hurry.” By that time, it was early evening and when we arrived, the library was closed. I went to the front door and pounded on the heavy glass. If anyone heard me, they ignored me. I ran to the side door. Pounding loudly, as loudly as I could, nothing happened. “Oh God,” I uttered again. A warm breeze had sprung up. It was sharp at first, then it turned into a howling wind. The most forlorn sound I had ever heard rode wildly in the air. I ran to the back. There was a form by a Dempsey dumpster. It was the janitor, an older man emptying trash cans. I ran to him. The man jumped about a foot in surprise. “What…” “Sir, sir, please listen. Do you know Jessica, one of the librarians here?” “Of course I do. Let go of my arm. Who are you?” “I am a professor from the University of Oxford in England. My name is Dr. Greg Hanson. Please, please let’s get inside and try to find her. My special field is witchcraft and you have the most extensive collection in American here. Jessica is looking for something for me and I know that she is in trouble.” “You aren’t crazy are you? I can see it in your eyes. My god, c’mon, I’ll take you inside. Don’t be messin’ with me now. We have two night guards inside. We all are very fond of Jessica so I am taking a risk.” “That’s great! Thank you, “ I exhaled. We ran through the old, squeaky door into a cavernous room with more books than Greg even thought existed. Racks and stacks. Just books and books and books. There was an older man just inside with a guard uniform on. “Hey Oscar. How are you? And who is this?” He was looking at me and talking to the janitor. “Dan, I am not entirely sure who this is. He says he is a professor from Oxford—you know, in England. Says he is a doctor. I don’t know whether to believe him or not but he also says that somehow Jessica Barnes is in real trouble right now. So, I am concerned. Maybe you can help.” I was standing stock still, transfixed.  “Welcome, Greg.” A soft, scornful voice followed by a long, long laugh. Only I heard it and it terrified me. When the laughing stopped, I resumed breathing and looked around. “Here, she is here, somewhere,” I said fearfully. “We must find her quickly or we will lose her.” “What are you talking about?” asked Dan. “Lose her? What do you mean, ‘lose her?’ Just who are you anyway? What do you have to do with Jessica?” Oscar spoke, “Dan, no time for that now. This guy has convinced me that we must find Jessica and find her now. Let’s get to it.” “Good thinking,” I said. “I am so sorry that I sound crazy, but I am not. Jessica is somewhere in this enormous room. I am sure of it, I just don’t know where. Do you know if the books in this area are categorized like they might be on the shelves?? Are there various sections like Science, Math, Biographies, etc.?” “Ha!” Dan laughed and turned to Oscar. “So, this is the right man to help you there. We guards know the building pretty well, but, Oscar? Oscar knows every nook and cranny, especially of this giant storage room. He hangs here and he simply explores and reads all the time—even when he should be working. Right, Oscar?” “Well…” A low, aching moan poured out from the books. Then a muffled scream. “Good grief,” exclaimed Oscar, “that was Jessica.” They all started running down an aisle towards the direction of the sound. We came to a crossing aisle. Across that aisle were more rows of both shelves and stacks of books. To the right of the aisle we were in were aisles of shelves and to the left were aisles of stacks and stacks of books. Greg noticed that the space had an overwhelming smell of old, dusty books. The other two were used to it and didn’t notice it at all. “Oooooh,” an elongated moan from somewhere to the left. “Split up,” said the guard. I’ll take the third aisle, Doctor, you take the second aisle and Dan, you do the first. Let’s go.” I turned down the second aisle. I didn’t know whether to run or walk; so, I sort of trotted along. I crossed another row and then saw it. I had to rub his eyes, shake my head and yell, “Hey, here! Quickly.” Down the aisle I saw two legs ending in high heel shoes sticking out from the books about five feet off the floor. “Oh no,” I screamed running to the legs. Both Oscar and Dan came right behind me. We reached the legs that were hanging down at the knee caps, but the thighs were somehow buried in the pages of a book and the edge of a skirt was just showing at about mid thigh. It was obvious that the body was on its back. Oscar fainted, slumped to the floor. Dan let out some strange undefinable sound and I grabbed a thigh, the right one. “C’mon, Dan, no time. Help me!” I actually had a grip on both thighs and was pulling without much success. Dan grabbed the left thigh with both hands and I got both of my hands on the right thigh. They both were pulling hard and more of the skirt started to appear. The body was coming out. As it came out it started angling down toward the floor and both of us had to move our grips to the hips and mid-section of the body. We both felt very awkward as we knew the body was Jessica’s. We kept pulling. Two hands appeared followed by wrists. We kept pulling. We saw a waistline, then we had strong grip on the arms and then elbows appeared. A modest, small bodice covered by the top of the dress which ended closed around the neck. Shoulders. We grabbed her shoulders. Dan was sweating with a terrified look on his face. Oscar was trying to get to his feet. I was so intense, my face looked and felt like it was frozen. Then, Jessica’s head popped out and her body almost fell to the floor, but Dan and I held her up. She was limp and her eyes were closed. Oscar was staring out with a wide open mouth. I looked quickly at the book. It disappeared. The stack of books that were on top of it fell down to the book below. “That book must have been two feet thick. It was enormous. Was it the book of spells? “Yes,” moaned Jessica. “I found it.” Her eyes fluttered open and she started laughing hysterically. Dan slapped her face hard. The laughing changed to crying. Tears were pouring down Jessica’s face. Then, like the book, she disappeared, vanished. Dan and I found ourselves staring at each other. Oscar simply went hysterical. A strange cackling filled the room. Then, we heard Jessica’s voice, “Thank you, Greg, this is where I belong. You should know, it will bother you the rest of your life, for I am Baba Yaga and you have led me home.” The three men sat on the floor and stared at each other. Oscar had calmed down but was still quietly sobbing. Dan and I were just in shock. Finally, Dan spoke up. “You know, we have to report this to the police, but what are we going to tell them? They will never believe any of it and we will be charged with murder.” Dan was partially right. We bravely called the police who came quickly and started questioning us rather roughly. The head librarian had been called and had hurried to the library. When the questioning officer explained the situation to Agnes Bolden, the head librarian, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I don’t understand. We do not have an employee named Jessica. Are you men drunk?”