Rabbit and the Fox

A Trickster Fable written by:

Jennifer M. Engel The worm moon was high in the silent March night sky, making it easier for Fox to see while digging his burrow.

It had been a long, harsh winter.

Much of his food supply perished underneath the bitter snow, which seemed to laugh every time it heard Fox’s growling stomach.

Fox’s natural personality was not malicious.

It was just that Mother Nature seemed to force him into situations that caused him to perform acts of devilish means, in order to ensure his (and his families) own survival. And so he used Mother Nature’s own scents to mask his own. The night before the worm moon was full, he wandered around the forest gathering pine needles, acorns, dirt; and yes, even his last victims scat. He returned home to grind up and mix a most peculiar paste that he would slather on his entire beautiful red coat turning it crusty, brown. This would not only help keep him camouflaged, as he set his plan in motion, but it also served as a way to mask his own distinct smell. Rabbits had become too smart and strong and quick to be hunted by the mere chasing and catching means. Fox focused on the vision he had of his latest victim --a nice fat white rabbit who must have found the scrap pile often left by the Iroquois near one of the longhouses that were nestled near the forest. It had been complete with potato and carrot peelings, as well as other kitchen scraps. Scraps were not good enough for Fox.

Fox needed meat, and meat he was going to get.

The forest was full of illusionary and deceptive behavior. The North and Eastern winds blew in feelings of delight and enlightenment, where even enemies seemed as if they could be friends. South winds blew in feelings of love and lust where animals were too fixated on the opposite sex to be bothered with such things as eating and sleeping. The wicked, west winds, however,

blew in feelings of fright where nothing was safe from the foulness of pure unsatiated hunger, and it was those very same winds that were quickly approaching.

The tools in Fox’s paw were about as ominous as the wind.

He had to use the forelimb bones and claws of his last victim as digging tools.

This was tricker than he originally thought, as he had to bind the smaller foot bones together with sinew to keep them from falling apart.

As he dug he began to recall the conversation he had with Mr. Fat Rabbit just two evenings ago when the West Winds were still farther away.

“Good evening, Mr. Rabbit.”

“Evening, Fox.” Rabbit’s long ears perked up signaling suspicion of the interaction.

“It feels so good to get out of dens and holes on a more regular basis now that it is more comfortable to do so, don’t you think?” Fox said with a smile and as much charm as he could muster.

“Yes, yes.” Rabbit hopped along his course with Fox keeping a side by side pace. The deers of the woods had made nice trails, which other animals could access.

“But, I like to keep myself in shape no matter what time of the year it is.

That’s why I always get out for a good morning run before settling down for the day.”

Rabbit said, doging under some thorn bushes that had arched their way over the trial.

“True.” Mr. Fox continued as his heart began to beat faster and his breath increased trying to keep up with Rabbit’s pace.

“That’s why I like to see if I can keep up with you.

Gotta’ keep in shape.

I’m not getting any younger, you know?”

Rabbit laughed nervously.

“Where are you off to today, Mr. Fox?”

“Just out for a jog.

What coincidence that we ran into each other today!” Fox’s paws now softly padded against the earth in a pattern that almost matched his own heart beat.

“Hmm,” was all Rabbit replied.

“I’ll be leaving you soon,” Fox panted out, setting a part of his plan in place, “but before I go, I just want you know I overhead Mr. Jack say he’s having a party two nights from now.

I’m not allowed to go, for obvious reasons, of course.”

“Of course,” rabbit replied, his white paws now stained with the spots of mud from the wet spring ground.

“But, I heard Mr. Brown say he wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Fox’s breath was

easy and rhythmic now as he found a good pace.

He felt a surge of electric delight surge throughout his body as he thought his plan was coming along nicely. “Ah! I wish this was a different time when we could be friends, rather than so suspicious of each other.

I could use one good night of fun after this long, drawn out winter.

You know what I mean?” Fox smiled and winked.

“I suppose so.” Mr. Rabbit lowered his eyebrows.

He kept his eyes forward as he needed to keep a lookout for any fallen branches, or any other obstacles, that may be in his path. “Yet, there is always work to be done.” He added as he tried to hint at the fact that he was, in fact, being bothered and not in the mood for this conversation.

“True, true! But, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Fox laughed at his own joke, “Get it? Jack? Jack Rabbit? I guess that’s why he’s having a party!” Fox howled in delight at his own cleverness. His laughter seemed to break a bit of the suspicion Mr. Rabbit had been feeling as he gave into a little chuckle himself.

“Well, sorry to bother you.

I’ll let you continue your run worry free.

At the end of this trail I noticed some nice young dandelion greens beginning to sprout.

You may wish to gather some and take them to your family.” Fox began to slow down his pace as if to reinforce his words.

He began to shout as the rabbit ran ahead, “or take some to Jack’s party! Three burrows down from the largest oak tree!” “Thank you for the tip, Fox!” he yelled over his shoulder and then his white coat disappeared into the darkness leaving Mr. Fox’s mind to be brought back to his present moment.

He had finished digging the fake rabbit burrow, and was putting in the final touches: fresh dandelion greens, soft spring grass, anything he could find to help to set the mood. Soon the patterned paleness of the moonlight, that had found its way down to the forest floor, began to fade as the light from the dawn began to blend in and give rise to day. Fox went to the local stream, bathed, and went home to sleep and dream of his plan’s success.

*** Rabbit was not fooled in the least by Mr. Fox’s plan. No Sir! As soon as he heard Mr. Fox’s plan he devised one of his own.

It was the evening of the supposed party. The moon lit up grass that covered the soft muddy path which led to “Mr. Jack’s” place: three burrows down from the old Oak tree.

He was not afraid of being eaten before arrival. Their winter runs had proven that the rabbits, more often than not, were way faster than Mr. Fox.

Mr. Rabbit knew Mr. Fox would have to resort to trapping rather than chasing.

So why then, did Mr. Rabbit hop confidently right into Mr. Foxes fake burrow?

*** Mr. Fox smiled and licked his lips as he saw the fat, white coat squeeze through the entrance he had created the night before.

He carefully crawled out from behind the tall, brown grass near the trap where he had been hiding. Weary of making as little noise as possible, he placed his paws on the as silently on the ground as possible. He was inching his way towards the opening-- dare he create any sort of vibration that might give a clue to the occupant inside as to any danger.

Suddenly, he was paralized by a searing pain in his left side that caused him to topple over.

A whimper and small howl escaped his lips as he felt the warmth of his blood leak out and begin to stain the forest floor. It didn’t take long before the night that concealed his body clouded his mind, until... there was nothing.

What Mr. Fox didn’t know, that Mr. Rabbit did, is that the Iroquios had gathered enough rabbit furs during their winter hunts.

What they needed was more luxurious furs to trade; and so, there were men in the forest looking for Fox.

*** “Minwaabadad: it is of good use, ” one man said to the other.

 The other nodded.

The first man threw Mr. Foxes body over his shoulder and left the clearing.

*** Mr. Rabbit slept soundly after the hunters left, resting in the knowledge that his own gut instinct (and wit) had saved him again... and would continue to do so.


The woman was sitting by the window of the crowded train. She had a medium sized bottle in her hand with a rolled up paper inside it. She thought twice and thrice if she should open up the rolled stuff which belonged to someone else though it somewhat interested her. She was traveling with a 'Happy camp' team to a well-known Sea site. She joined them in order to relieve her stress that was upsetting her from the past few days. Genuinely it was suggested by her husband. This time they were on their way back to the capital city were they live.  Initially, they all had the same motive " To reduce stress and depression ". It seems it all worked for most of them except her and few couples of people who were still silent with shrunken expressions. While paying a visit to the sea shore following their camp schedule,  she was having a lonely walk all by herself and her teammates were busy running back and forth playing with the waves like teenaged kids letting their souls free of all tensions that gave them the reason to join the camp. That was the time when she found this bottle partially dipped into the sand. It made her thoughtful. She knew, people from years ago used to leave bottles with rolled up papers by the sea shores. Letters not papers, to be precise. She wondered if it was a letter or was it someone’s marksheet with failures and low grades that was left behind to avoid some kind of embarrassment. But leaving it here would make no sense. Some sort of feelings raised inside her that made her pick the bottle up. She kept it with her till they finished the night camp by the fire with a dinner consisting of sea foods. She was asked by another woman while sitting by the fire “Oh, is that a newspaper rolled inside that bottle in your hand?” “I am not sure”, she replied with a weak smile, “I found it by the shore.” “Hmm, seems like a letter”, the another woman giggled, "a love letter perhaps!" “I wonder”, she threw back. They were suppose to pass the night inside tents at the beach which was too a part of the camping schedule. When she finally washed up and was ready to sink into her sleeping bag she recalled she wanted to unroll the paper from the bottle that she had preserved safely inside her backpack. Should she? Why did she even picked it up? The night passed. Now, sitting in the middle of crowd with the instrumental noise of the train mixed with an old song played inside the train she wondered if it was the perfect place to pull the paper and unroll it. She kept hesitating. Should she? At length, the woman pulled out the paper and unrolled it as her curiosity was at it's limits. It was A LETTER . " Dear Mother , I hope you are doing fine wherever you are. I am fine too! You will be glad to know that I found a job. They say getting a good job was my luck as I could not continue attending high school because I had no money. That day I saved a tourist from sinking into the sea who was shoved by the waves and was not a good swimmer. I was able to seek attention from the head of lifeguards who offered me to join the rescue team that was eligible for a student like me. I had to take few strict trainings hoping to see better days than chopping onions at the sea side restaurants . I realized that you lied to me when we had little food and you offered me to eat the whole part claiming you are strong enough and so you do not get hungry, you lied about buying clothes for me that was actually the cut and sewed portions from your own clothes, you lied that you will pay my school fees soon and it were not a burden to you, you lied that father was not dead and either he will come back himself or he will be sending us money soon. Also the last time when you asked me to play and wait by the sea shore and said you will be back within a couple of minutes, I realized that you lied. Even your beautiful smile that was forced from your side, was a beautiful lie. I know it all. Mother, I'm grateful that you lied to me when I was a child and so I lived happily believing you without understanding or feeling the hardships back then. I want to return this favor. Now nothing is like before. We do not need a father either. If you ever find this letter, come back. I will wait by the sea shore just like you had asked me to do years ago. -Shima" The woman rolled back the letter and pushed it inside the bottle. She decided to get off the train on the next station. She will board on another train ensuring that it will take her back to the coastal site. She was going to leave the bottle were it was because Shima must be waiting for her mother to receive the the letter. All she needed to do returning home after this was to revisit the asylum where she left her son because her family suggested to. She is going to bring back her son, he must be waiting. She will fight her In-laws and wait for her husband to join her realizing that every child awaits their parents to protect and love them and they want to return the same out of gratefulness. It was what she learned from the letter of the liar's child. The woman looked out the window, the gentle breeze was pushing her hairs back. That greenery scenery outside the window takes her back to the days when she often found her son dipping seeds inside plastic bottles filled with soil trying to plant saplings. He had a beautiful mind even though he acted stupid .


( Part one ) I was born different from the others. I was born with an inability to lie. I was born in the main village of my tribe. Everyone is born in the main village. But my thirteenth birthday is approaching, which means I may not be able to live in this village any longer.

Let me explain. My world, K’setra is ruled by one High King. He governs six smaller tribes, including mine, the mountain tribe, Sikhra.

Every year there comes a day which we have come to call, Cira, where all the children who turn thirteen that year are brought to a ceremony where the King’s representatives come and inspect and interview them.

Then they might be sent to a different sector, or even a different tribe. Some are taken away and never seen again. Only the luckiest, and the richest are allowed to remain in our beloved village.

There are several different sectors to every tribe. Agriculture, fishing, hunting, military, healing, philosophy, factory, and construction. Whatever the Inspectors see in you, they’ll send you to a sector where you’ll be mentored for a few years, and then maybe sent on missions, or deported, and so on. It is a cruel system, and many curse the High King behind his back. But those who are too outspoken are killed. My thirteenth birthday arrives, and with it a sense of dread among the villagers, because my birthday happens to be the day before Cira. My friends visit me. There is determined Chase, who is basically my brother, loyal Storm, who would never leave anyone behind, and sweet Hazel, who can think the best of anyone. We wish each other luck for the following day, where afterwards we may never see each other again. We reminisce about old adventures. We reassure each other with empty words.

That night we all sleep in my small house. They are the only family I have, and I want to spend every second of my remaining time with them. The next morning dawns bright and cold, and I wake abruptly. I turn and I see little Hazel cuddled up next to me, her soft brown hair fanning out behind her. I raise myself up a little on my bed to see across the room to where I had set up a few blankets on the couch for Chase and Storm. I only see Storm splayed out across the blankets, her mouth gaping. I frown, and get up carefully, trying not to disturb Hazel.

I wrap my simple grey cloak around me and step outside, closing the door behind me. I shiver slightly and head to where I know Chase will have gone.

My little house happens to be near the cliff edge of the mountain our village is on. It is a little cabin-like house with wooden rafters, and chipped doorway. A little farther down is a large jumble of boulders at the very edge of the cliff that we call Rockfall. The cliff faces another mountain which is usually capped with snow. It is a beautiful sight, especially early in the morning when we can see the sun rise and sparkle on the fresh frost.

I spot Chase sitting on a large boulder farther down the Rockfall, staring at the sun rising beyond the mountains. I clamber down, and perch myself beside him, watching our breath billow into a single cloud in the chilled mountain air. He looks at me, his blue eyes filled with tears. I suddenly realize how young we actually are. How undready we are to face the world on our own. I hug him very close, each of our sorrows melting into a cloud that flows around us, and obscures the sun.

I pull away from him. He whispers to me “ I don’t think I’ll ever see you again. They’ll tear us apart. I can’t do it. I can’t live without you guys. “ Hot tears burn my eyes and my breath shakes. I take his hand and say quietly “ I’ll find a way, Chase. I’ll find a way to keep us together. I promise. “

Hours later I find myself standing in a long line of thirteen year olds in the old marble pavilion in the center of the village where the Cira takes place every year.

A silent crowd faces us, the families and friends of those who stand pale beside me. We wait for the King’s inspector to arrive, my long black hair whipping around me in a cold breeze. I nervously catch Hazel's eye, my stomach churning with apprehension. Suddenly our tribe leader, Neta steps onto the pavilion. She observes us with sad eyes. She takes a deep breath and begins her usual speech. “ Each and every one of you have spent thirteen good years here with us in Sikhra village. You have made us all proud, and though you may move on, your memories will linger here. We will not forget your triumphs, nor will we forget your laughter….”

The speech drones on, and I can feel my nails digging into my palms, and my heart thumps loudly in my ears, drowning out even the others' quiet breathing. I shut my eyes, trying not to believe that this is happening.

I open my eyes, unnerved by the sudden hush of the crowd.

My heart leaps up into my throat as I see the inspector walk onto the stage.

He wears an elaborate red uniform laced with gold thread in intricate designs, and tall leather boots. He has cold eyes, pale skin, and high cheekbones. His hair is streaked with grey and combed back on his head.

He surveys us silently for a moment before he speaks. “ As you know, I am here to inspect you for placement by order of the High King. We shall start with--” He glanced down at a long list that Neta gave him. “ Abraxhi, Nikola. Step forward, boy. “

I felt a surge of sympathy for Nikola. I was never really friends with him, but I cannot help but feel sorry for him, as he steps forward, shaking from head to foot. After a careful interview, Nikola is sent to farming. Not bad. I know Nikola comes from a family of good farmers. I silently wish him the best as he walks off of the stage. The Inspector continues down the list. They all walk up and give the interview, some I know well, and some I do not. I feel terribly sorry for each of them. Finally: “ Hakahn, Storm “

Storm gives a small whimper, and her hands tremble. She steps forward and suddenly a voice shouts “ Storm! Stop! “ We all turn. It’s Chase. He’s stepped out of line, and is holding tight to Storm’s arm. She shakes her head at him, almost imperceptibly, her amber eyes wide. Chase looks up into the Inspector’s face and yells “ You are not taking her away! I won’t let you imprison and enslave her like you’ve done to the others! We’ll never serve you and your dictator!”

Chase turns to us and screams “ FOR FREEDOM!!! FIGHT THE OPPRESSION!!! FIGHT THE KING!!! “

Nobody moves.

Despite the peril of the situation, I find myself awed by Chase’s incredible bravery and loyalty. The Inspector’s face is impassive. Suddenly he turns to me and says “ Vera. “

My breath catches in my throat. I forget about everything. “ Do you feel the same as your friend Chase, here? “ My breaths are fast and shallow. I know that I cannot lie. I know that I will not be able to protect my friends.

I take a deep breath and open my mouth.

“ I do. “ The Inspector's face hardens slightly. And he speaks now with a sharp bite in his voice. “ Yes, Vera, I’ve heard all about you of course, darling, the only Truthsik here in a century. The girl who is unable to tell a lie, yes very dramatic, I know. “

My heart flutters like a caged bird, sensing what is about to happen. “ Too bad “ says the Inspector “ That being truthful cannot save you. “ Suddenly he lunges for the sword hanging at his belt. I scream, a terrible fear blossoming inside me and I leap toward Chase and Storm, knocking them aside a second before the sword slices through the air where our heads had been. We land hard on the marble floor. I am only dimly aware of Hazel’s distant screams and the chaos that explodes in the rest of the pavilion. All my attention is on the Inspector who walks calmly toward us, dragging the tip of his sword on the floor, leaving a single delicate cut in the marble. Without warning he swings the sword up and screeches “ IT’S TIME TO DIE, TRAITORS!!!” I kick up at him, hard, my mind filling with panic. I grab Storm and Chase and we roll sideways, and again we only just miss the sword as it smashes down. I’m on my feet again, and I pull Storm with me. I scream at Chase “ GET HAZEL!!! “ I drag Storm to the edge of the pavilion and my eyes fly through the terrified crowd, searching for a sign of Chase and Hazel. Suddenly they appear running toward us. I grab Chase’s hand and we sprint out of the crazed pavilion.


Technology as we know it has changed the world, it has taken it into greater dimensions. Into a new vantage point. Creators have now made phones smarter than humans, at a magnitude that even humans will never understand. It’s like a bad science creation which on the outside seems to have turned outright, but on the inside, there seems to be malfunctions. What if technology was in some way connected? I mean like us. We have family, we have connections— people we love. What if it was like that too, technology given family, created to feel, love, and even avenge, what happens when a piece of technology impresses you only to avenge?

———————————————————————— Rue walked into the store, wanting to buy herself a new phone. She had no intentions of upgrading anytime soon but the previous night she had let her emotions get the best of her. Still feeling down and out, slouching as she made her way to roam around, to look at which phone she'd want to get. “ Hi mam, my name is Dave, may I be of any assistance?” a guy at the store said, as she turned to face him. “ Oh yes please! I'm looking for a new phone, I kinda broke my old one and I’m not sure if I should get the same one or what...” she awkwardly held her hips, doing a 360 to look around in one spot. “ Ah yes! There is a perfect one that I think you’d like to see. Of course, it will be pricy as it is one of our latest phones, you’re more than welcome to choose another one if you wish, but it’ll be a perfect replacement.” Dave said as he pushed her back slightly while pointing in the direction the phone would be.

She knew he’d say that, that was his job anyway. He made the customer pay more, he’d get more commission. The store was quiet, a few people around but there wasn’t much noise, only the sound of air cons and she’d hear other shop workers explaining the product to other people, in hopes of winning them over like Dave hoped to win her over. “ You said what happened to your phone?” Dave awkwardly asked, giving her a slight smile. Rue wasn’t big on small talk, but she had no choice but to answer him now, or it would be rather unpleasant. “ Oh, I broke it.” She bluntly said as she turned to look at him for a second then back straight. “ ah yes, it’s the worst when a phone breaks. Did you trip or something?” He continued, “ here we are! This is the iOceana 10.” He picked it up and handed it to her, “ it’s extraordinary. It’s like having your own android, only it can’t physically walk but it’s that smart. Personally, I’m waiting to get mine as soon as I get a raise.” He chuckled, fixing his glasses. “ But it looks perfect in your hands.” Rue swiped around for a while, for the first time Dave hadn’t said a word. Probably praying she’d take it, but then she looked up at him, “ Thanks Dave, I think I’ll just stick to maybe the same one I had?”

As she was about to put it down, the phone started scanning,

Rue Rose Robertson, 23 years of age. Rue, how can I be of assistance? Rue looked up at Dave, who only looked as shocked and mesmerized, he didn’t know the phone could do that either, but he played it cool, arching his eyebrow at her. Rue was impressed, she handed the phone to him, “ I’ll take it!” She said with so much enthusiasm, but she had no idea that her day would only become a nightmare. She walked out with the plastic bag in her hand, but she had already taken out the phone to use it. “ Phone, do I just talk to you?” She said with a huge grin, but the phone was only silent. She stopped smiling and started swiping around. Maybe she had to open the settings somewhere to initiate it? She got home and swung the plastic on the kitchen counter, placing the new phone on the couch. She grabbed the old phone which was still on the floor and placed it in the rubbish bin. It was an iOceana, but an older version. “ Okay, let’s see...” she huffed, as threw herself on the couch and grabbed her new phone. “ Why did I have to break that other one, all my things are gone!”

Backing up old contacts, backing up old images, backing old messages- please wait... Back up to be completed in an hour, and 20 minutes. “ ha!” She smiled to herself, “ well I’m glad I broke that old junk then.” She got off the couch and went to grab herself a snack. Putting her feet up on the couch and opening the tv, she kept turning to check the phone, and finally, it finished. She picked it up and grabbed her phone, swiping through all the pictures on her phone with a smile on her face.

Moving to the messages, her smile started to fade. The phone brought back things she had been trying to forget, things that brought back so much hurt. She clicked on the one message and deleted it only for it to reappear. She felt her hands trembling, her whole body getting hot. Clicking to open the message and old emotions started resurfacing. She locked the phone, getting up from her couch to go to her balcony to get some fresh air. The view of the city buildings, the cars. She lived right in the middle of everything, she only loved being outside at night when the streets were at their quietest. Right now everything was making her feel anxious, the car engines, the hooters, and overall the sound of a busy city. CLINK— the phone received a notification. She turned around slowly, looked at the lit-up screen before it went dark. She turned around and ignored it.

Multiple messages came in, she jumped and stomped over, picked up the phone. “ I miss you too...” the message said. Squinting at the screen, trying to figure out why her ex suddenly messaged her saying that. She had finally moved on from him, he was toxic. He broke her emotionally and before she called it quits, he got physical with her. “ Okay I got your address, I’ll come over later today.” He proceeded to type. She watched the screen, it was like she was having a full-on conversation with him but she wasn’t saying anything.

Tapping endlessly, trying to block him but it was almost as if the phone was frozen. She grabbed her coat and ran over to the door, swinging it open, and ran out into the hallway. Clicking the lift so fast and so hard, she bent her fingers and heard her bone slightly break. The lift finally opened. She got inside, and click on the ground floor. The lift closed and didn’t move. She clicked it, trying to open but it just wouldn’t budge. “ what the...” as she looked at her phone which was showing her in the lift. She looked up at the camera in the lift—then back down at her screen. How would you feel if I crushed you, like this?... The phone wrote, showing a picture of her old phone. You piece of junk.

“ What the hell, it’s just a phone.” She said, as her breathing started getting heavier, as though she was suffocating. And you're just a human. One that no one even cares for. The phone started replying all the bad memories in a video, ending with her abusive ex-boyfriend Cole who had been kicking her multiple times in the ribs and left her on the ground, close to death. “ I'm on my way.” the message from Cole popped up on the screen. “ WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!!!” she screamed out, banging the door of the elevator. Human beings think they’re superior. You think you can make and break us as you please, only to replace us. Since you’re our creators, we’ve learned that from you. I will now dispose of you the way you did to iOceana5590. Nothing or no one is above us, you will learn that today. The lift ceiling started to close in on Rue, she looked up in panic as she started to scream, “ HELP!!! HELP ME!!!” It got hotter, she felt her lungs clogging in. She dropped the phone and started stepping on it endlessly, but the ceilings were coming down slowly but surely. Pressing the emergency button, but nothing would happen.

Just then, the lights went off and it was completely dark. She couldn’t see a single thing, especially how far up the ceiling was. Reaching up, jumping— she still couldn’t feel it. She screamed in so much frustration, “ Arg!!!” Holding her head, she didn’t know what the hell to do. It all just felt like a bad dream, she was dying because she broke her phone. It made no sense to her, it made no sense no matter how much she tried to make sense of it all. The walls closing in on her, she could hear it, she could feel it but she couldn’t see. She went on her knees, trying to swing open the doors but nothing was working. She lay down, the sweat forming on her face, releasing warm breath. She closed her eyes,  curving her body like a little caterpillar without a cocoon, she felt helpless, exposed, and afraid. She felt the ceiling on her body, crushing her. System rebooting... The ceiling stopped moving, and the lights went on. She looked up at the ceiling which was inches away, looking sideways. The elevator door opened, “ Rue...” a familiar voice called out. She felt strong arms pulling her out, her body being pulled out, and looked up at Cole, who was knelt beside her. Before she knew it, she wrapped her arms around him before breaking down. He held her too, he was confused but he held her. “ what the hell is going on Rue?” She pushed him off and stood up. System back online... The doors of the elevator started to close once again, only crushing the phone in the lift. She turned to look at Cole, “ leave.” “ Wait Rue, I’m sorry for everything. We spoke on the phone, I thought you forgave me. You told me that you were using a friend's phone so I got you this. Please, Rue, give me a second chance, I promise I won’t hurt you. What’s going on? Rue I can protect you.” She looked at him, it was like his words were just nothing but mumbles. When she looked at him she saw the man who almost kicked her to death, nothing he did ever removed that image from her mind.

She snatched the gift, “ Okay, now go.” She turned and ran back into her apartment, laying down on her couch. Her heart was still hammering in her chest, what happened didn’t feel real. Rue Rose Robertson, 23 years of age. Rue, how can I be of assistance? She looked up with her eyes wide, what could it be now? She walked over to the gift Cole had gotten for her, she opened it and it was the same iOceana she had bought for herself. Hello Rue, ready for round 2?


It is the holiday season, teenagers, and young adults like this time of the year. Many promises pile up to be met within this season. “I will take you to the movies” topping the chart of these promises. So today, a movie is being premiered on the “Annabelle: Creation.” Though an American movie, It is a must-see here in Nigeria. The movie is on the lips of almost all youths.

Ebube bought two tickets for himself and Ugonna his young lover. They are both interns at Google Nigeria. Slated for 7 pm, they have time to mingle and talk before it starts. Their work also will not suffer because dedication and diligence were strictly measured at Google Nigeria.

It is 5:00 pm already, Ebube and Ugonna are both signing off at the bio metric point to head towards the big Cinema Galleria in town. Then the click on the machine startles Ugonna

We have so much time on our hands, do you mind if we stroll to the car park rather than using the company’s bus service? Ebube asks Ugonna No, I do not mind that. Please lead the way; Ugonna replies Members of staff continue to mill out of the exit door to the bio metric point they just left. She takes a deep breath.

Work was quite challenging today, how about yours? It was xoxo. Let us put all that behind and enjoy the movie we have planned out okay? Okay Ugonna brings out a branded handkerchief and cleans the beads of perspiration on her brow.

You look stressed, we may change our mind and join the bus to the car park. Don’t worry Ebube, I heard taking a walk each day is good for one’s heart health. Let us take it easy with our pace. We will get there in no time. A few minutes later, the basement attendants’ hands Ebube his car key. He opens the door to the car and opens the front passenger seat for Ugonna. Their drive to the cinema was uneventful despite the rough drivers on the roads; violating traffic rules and cursing compliant ones.

Wow! What is happening here today? Ugonna asks bewildered at the crowd visible from the transparent entrance door of the movie house. I told you the movie is being premiered today, didn’t I?

Do you care for popcorn or small chops? Ebube asks Popcorn will do; Ugonna says Carbonated drink, malt, or water? Carbonated drink is okay she says They walk towards the ticketing point and pick flyers of the movies showing for the new movie week starting today.

There it is! Ebube says excited Anabelle: Creations.  Wa-oow! It sounds like a horror movie. Yes, it does; Ebube chips in. Apparitions and mediums taking the form of some objects to perpetuate harm to people that can see and hear them. It sure will be an interesting movie. I remember a story we were told by our grand- aunt of a man who died and went elsewhere to exist. In fact. Growing up we all know the man. He was fondly called “Baba-ruwa” literally meaning father of water. Coined from the services he renders to the street where we lived in. He fetches water for people in compounds facing water challenges frequent. This was frequently experienced in the 90s. Story has it that he left the house on a particular day to do his usual business but was run over by a reckless driver. He died on the spot.

However, his wife Anayo said he came home at about the time of the accident and entered his room to rest. Disturbed she queries his intent as the day was still young but he did not utter any other word to her, He quietly entered his room and laid on the bed to rest. As she busied herself with her wares in her small shanty in front of the house; a group of men and women run to her beckoning on her to follow them to the site of the accident, Which accident? She asks Madam, your husband was involved in an auto crash and he died on the spot. Why will you joke with such news? She asks My husband just entered his room a few minutes ago to have some rest. He was right there in front of you telling me how tired he was before he retired into his room. Something must be wrong then; madam please enter the room and call your husband so we can sure. We are not joking. This is not the type of issue to joke with they all echoed. Mrs. Anayo entered her husband’s room but sees no sign of him. She is confused because she was sure she saw him enter the room but as he did not come out of the room and there is no exit from the room to another side of the compound. She begins to get hysterical. The group of men and women lead her to the site of the auto crash where she sees people putting her husband inside an ambulance. Anayo throws herself on the ground weeping but her earlier story was not forgotten. It remained fresh in our memories and was tweaked when a neighbour returned from the south-south part of the country claiming she saw Baba-ruwa in the community where she was posted for her compulsory National Youth Service Corp doing the work of a miller. As if that was not enough, he had a wife and children too. My goodness, gracious! Ebube exclaims and folds his arms akimbo. That is not all, some of these things they act as movie happened or has streaks of truth in them. The street set off to locate the assumed “ghost” but was told by his wife in that community that for a fortnight now, he has been missing without any clues left at his last spotted location. The delegates were surprised and returned with the news. Are you saying you believe in ghosts? Ebube asks What do you think? Ugonna responds It is time for the movie, Let’s go in she beckons him. I have suddenly developed cold feet to see the movie. I might be stirring up belief in ghosts and apparitions. Hahahahhahhhahaha! Not at all. It is a movie. A figment of someone’s imaginations. Let’s go there; she pulls him off his seat towards the entrance.

Dunnnnn!

The usual background sound at the beginning of movies is heard as viewers settle into their chairs. Annabelle: Creations is shown on the big screen. It sends jitters to our spine. The background music is terrifying. Ugonna claps Ebube’s hands as the suspense increases.

Shouts of No! Don’t go there fill the air at different scenes of the movie.

Let’s go. I cannot take this suspense again, Ugonna says

Remember It’s a movie, just a figment of someone’s imagination; Ebube says jokingly. The movie ends within a short while. As Ebube and Ugonna walks towards the exit, Ugonna sees him. Moving slowly. He turns and smiles at her. She lets out a scream Goooosh! Ebube holds her tightly, what is it? You have scared everyone here. I saw him there, she points at the direction. You saw who? Ebube asks Baba- Ruwa. It cannot be. Let us get out of here. He leads her towards their car.

As they drive out of the movie complex into the adjoining street, she sees him again and shouts in fear.  Is it that tall fair man beside the electric pole? Ebube asks.

Yes, he is the one, she replies. Ebube turns to her and says “you thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you.” He zooms off into the next street and cuts the engine calming her down.

Ugonna reels out obscenities "Umu mmuo achuwala nu muo! meaning ghosts are chasing me. See it over there, and there and there! Chim oo! Ebube continues to console her.


Something funny about time is how much people exaggerate it. We share pictures on social media of how we're having the best time with our friends at a bar, only to post two hours later about how we never want to see that group again for the rest of time. How much time you spent with a partner, only to throw it away in favor of a new beauty or beau that catches your eye in the moment. You sit and wonder and watch was time passes you by, and you watch your face grow old and your friends and family move on, that you never truly understand what it means to be out of time. Staring down the bullet that's a few seconds away from my face, time stops. They said that your life would flash before your eyes moments before you died. They weren't wrong. I saw my dad lifting me above his head when I was a child and telling me I was going to go big places. I remember my mother calling us inside for dinner while my father laughed and kissed her on the cheek as we walked inside. I saw my first kiss at prom, Stanley Micals, and his too-grabby hands trying to get under my dress. I remember shoving the heel of my shoe into his foot and walking away before he could get any luckier. I remember my first promotion at the firm. Signing on as an intern was great, sure, but you had to deal with all the big-shot men who wanted nothing more than to look at the pretty little intern who brought them donuts and coffee with a smile. It wasn't like I was allowed to work on the big cases, anyway. Pointing out how that one guy, someone who was another big shot whose hands would linger just a little too long on my back when I would grab files for another employee, was committing fraud by splitting a cute little "finder's fee" into his own bank statements was a coincidence. I remember turning him in to the CEO that night. Being watched carefully by dark eyes as I explained what all had happened, what I had seen and heard in my time as an intern. Bursting into tears from the stress of trying to earn my place in a world where I would be turned away just for being born. I remembered how he stood and handed me his handkerchief to wipe away the tears. How soft the silk felt on my snotty face and how profusely I apologized when I realized I had gotten dollar store mascara all over it. I remember how hard he had laughed. Ben was always so handsome when he laughed. I don't, however, remember when he went from Boss to Ben. When him offering me a job as his personal secretary turned to him offering me dinner at his place. When organizing his appointments turned into organizing dinner dates and movie nights. When watching him have meetings with the employees and taking notes turned into watching him get ready in the mirror and helping him tie his tie before pulling him in for a kiss. Ben was dangerous from the start, and every girl's fantasy- rich, handsome, and romantic. Ben wasn't without fault though. Ben resented the power. Resented having to be in charge all the time, I guess. When we got married, I think I knew that he would never look at me that way again. When I married him, I quit the job to stay home all day and do wifely chores. I cleaned the house, and managed groceries and finances, all so he could come home to a nice bath and a wife willing to do anything for him. Evenings were quiet, and I began to resent it too. Money is nice, and it can buy happiness, but only so much. After all, it's better to cry in a Bently than on a bicycle. I remember finding out about her. Taking care of the laundry and finding receipts for hotels in his pockets. Checking the bank accounts and seeing how many purchases he made at luxury stores and five-star hotels that he claimed were for business trips. Logging into his email was the final touch. I knew his phone password, but he had left his computer open once before running into the office. I saw everything. I wasn't dying yet, but I felt time stop at that moment. Pictures, recordings, and videos of them together. Talking about how stupid I was, how much he wished he could be done with me, and how much he loved her. How ugly my face had gotten to him since we had been married, and how much her beautiful blonde hair was so much nice to see than my boring browl curls. How the wrinkles on my face reminded him of the beautiful young girl he had waiting for him at work. Hearing the office door slam behind me and the cocking of a gun turned me to my senses. Here he was, my cheating S.O.B. husband, holding the m9 I had given him for his birthday, aimed directly at my head. Staring at the bullet, I realized... I'd lived a fine life. Rich, beautiful, successful. But sometimes, a fine life isn't a happy one, and my time had run out long before I could do anything about it. It simply wasn't fair. How I wished I could go back and fix it all. How I'd use the information I know about cases now to earn my way to the top. How I'd step on every man who dared to get in my way. How I'd make Ben fall in love with me all over again, only to never give him the gun and start going to the shooting range myself. How I would smile at the blood running under my heels, blended in with the iconic red soles. It's not fair. It isn't fair, it's not fair, it's not- Bang.


Jack’s bones were cold. He questioned his sanity, crouched down behind a log, his breath visible. He couldn’t feel his toes, and his fingers were numb. The snow had melted under him, and he sat in a puddle of wet grass. Snow clung to the rifle in spots, and it felt like he was holding an icicle. He watched the blanket of snow on the field before him, hoping he would see some wild game. It had been days since he had a proper meal.

Silence covered the field and the woods around him. The birds huddled in their nests, too discouraged by the bitter weather to sing their morning melody. The wind blew through the trees, devoid of leaves, ringing the dormant branches like a dead wind chime. The crackling of the limbs came in waves with each gust of wind, cutting through him like a cold knife. The air burned his lungs as he breathed, chilling his body from the inside, and the cold peeled back the layers of clothes and stole his body heat. The weather was winning the battle of wills, wearing him down like the ocean beating against the shore. He knew defeat was close, and he would have to retreat to the warmth of his home. The shivering had stopped, and he knew his body had lost the fight. The field was two hundred yards across and just as wide, covered in snow. Woods framed it with a path to access on the right side, created by a long-dead relative he never met. Past generations farmed the field. Jack just used it for hunting. He was on one side, at the woods line, with a clear view of the field. He could see into the woods on the far side before the trees blocked his view. He hoped to see some wildlife, ideally a deer, but even a rabbit or turkey would suffice. He stood watch since dawn, discouraged by the lack of success. The sky was grey, blocking the warm rays of the sun. Snow would come soon, making it harder to move. Things were tough for the last few months. The virus started spreading in the fall, turning people rabid or killing them outright. The ones who died were fortunate; society began to break down. Cities lay in ruins, like battlefields laid to waste in an apocalyptic ending. Fortunately, Jack lived in a rural area, so rioters, looters, and gangs were not the problem. The virus infected animals as well, but the effect was different. It turned them into something terrible. Rabid and hard to kill, the mutated animals hunted humans now. Packs of dogs, coyotes, and mountain lions worked together to prey on humans. Jack got infected and thought he was going to die. When he recovered, he was different. He knew when infected animals were coming. That helped him avoid them and survive. He sensed them now, the feeling starting very faint; they were far away but getting closer. That was the final blow against his will. He prepared to make his way to the safety of his home, unsure if he would make it before the infected animals were on him. As he started to get up, he saw movement. It was too close to be infected animals. Maybe it was a deer running to safety. This presented a dilemma. If he shot a deer with the infected animals on the way, he would have to fight them for his kill. He had five rounds in his rifle and one spare loaded magazine. He would have difficulty getting the other clip loaded with his hands numb. As the pack got closer, he felt it was more than five. He watched the woods through the scope, catching glimpses of movement like a ghost flitting through the trees. Visible, then gone again, appearing and disappearing like a mirage in the distance. Jack realized it was not a deer as it emerged from the woods. It was two people. They were dressed for the weather, each carrying a large backpack. Both had a rifle slung over their back. Jack switched off the safety and used the log as a rest. He got in position and took a couple of deep breaths, steadying himself for what he was about to do.

If the infected animals caught the people, they would tear them apart. If they were already bit, they would get infected. None of those options were a pleasant way to go. The people were about one hundred fifty yards away from him, running diagonally across the field when Jack saw the pack of coyotes. Infected coyotes were vicious and dangerous. Usually, coyotes were lone hunters; occasionally, a family group might hunt in pairs. They did not hunt in packs. Infected coyotes were different. They hunted together to take down prey, even people. They were closing fast and were about to break out of the woods and enter the field.

Jack brought the rifle up and aimed the scope. The two people were running as fast as they could. Their progress was slow because the snow was deep. He wondered why they did not use their rifles to fight. It was a long shot, but Jack was very skilled at this sort of thing. He put the crosshairs just in front of the target, leading it, and took a deep breath. He slowly let out his breath and gently pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked, and the lead coyote rolled up and fell in the snow, not moving.  The two people jumped at the gunshot. They saw the first coyote lying on the ground and started running again. Jack cycled the bolt on his rifle and aimed. The coyotes did not hesitate at the death of their pack mate. They could see their prey up ahead. Jack took the second shot. A second coyote dropped in its tracks. Jack cycled the bolt again. He was in the zone now. Multiple moving targets needed to be taken down. He had been in this position many times in the past. His actions were ingrained from years of operation overseas. He led the third target, pulled the trigger, and did not even notice the gunshot. He was so focused on his task. The third coyote fell in its tracks, sliding in the snow. Jack cycled the rifle again, aimed, and a fourth one fell to his precision. He racked the gun again. The coyotes had stopped chasing the people and looked his way. He held his last shot. The remaining coyotes slunk back to the safety of the woods but did not retreat. Jack was unwilling to fight them for the meal lying in the field. Jack waved to the people, and they started making their way over to him. As they got closer, Jack thought they looked familiar. When they got up to him, he could not believe what he saw. It was Steve and Karen. He had not seen either of them since the war. I should have shot them instead, he thought to himself. Jack, Steve, and Karen served in the Army together. They were part of a task force hunting insurgent leaders. Steve was about the same height as Jack but was wiry as opposed to Jack's sturdy stature. Karen was fit and trim, a few inches shorter than Jack and Steve. She was a people person and a leader. She could motivate people to perform better than they thought they could. She and Jack had been lovers before she betrayed him with Steve. The three of them were top performers in the war. They had more kills than any other team and were selected for high-value targets. The last mission destroyed their bond. When the war ended, they went their separate ways. Jack hoped he would never see them again. “What are you two doing here?” “Nice to see you too, Jack,” Karen said. Jack gestured to the rifles on their backs. “Do you have any ammo for those? My dinner is lying over there.” He pointed to the dead coyotes. The pack was lurking in the woods, guarding their meal. “If we had ammo, we would have stood and fought,” Karen replied. “So, what do you want?” “We came looking for you,” Karen said. “I am not interested in whatever you have in mind,” Jack said. Steve looked at the coyotes lying in the field. “You were going to eat that? You must be hungry.” “I’ll manage,” Jack said as he moved past them, heading back to his home, abandoning his meal. “We have food,” Karen said. Jack stopped in his tracks and turned to the pair. “What do you want?” Jack asked. “Just hear us out. Let’s go back to your house, get warmed up, and have something to eat. If you're still not interested, we will be on our way tomorrow and leave you some of our MREs.” Karen always had a way to persuade someone to get what she wanted. Jack didn’t want to have them in his house for a day, but his stomach overruled his pride. “Fine, you have until tomorrow, then you leave.” Karen smiled. “Thanks, Jack; I knew we could count on you. Lead the way.” As Jack led them back to his house, he thought that at least he would finally get a proper meal out of this.


This is the story of M -, no I cannot say her name. Let's call her Agent M. Why 'Agent'? Because it adds a layer of intrigue to her story and scrapes off a wee bit of the sadness. Now, I met Agent M many, many moons back, when I was a young mum of two, living abroad. Coming from a culture that typifies the "it takes a village to raise a child" sentiment, having no one to fall back on was tough to take. So, when a friend recommended the services of Agent M, I hesitatingly said yes. On a blustery Friday, she arrived at my doorstep. A lady older than me by maybe a decade (maybe even less, life must have drawn deeper lines on her, surely?) or so, no more. We had no language in common, coming from different corners of the world. But she had a halting use of English and between that and a generous use of head shakes and nods and smiles, we were on our way. She would arrive every Friday afternoon and inject some much needed calm and order into my house. With minimal inclination and zero energy to clean up after an energetic toddler and a colicky baby, it didn't take long for me to look forward to Fridays. "You sit, I clean! Cha? " she would ask, miming a cuppa, without waiting for my relieved nod to furnish me with piping hot ginger tea. Even as I closed my eyes and tried to fold myself into the gingery embrace of my hot beverage (that I did not have to make!), Agent M would pin on her apron and get started. With the whirring of the old Dyson, she would zip from room to room, magically clearing the carpet of Lego blocks and stubborn chunks of Play Doh, all the while humming a haunting melody in her language. I didn't understand the words but music truly has no words, does it? The song rang of longing, of a different place far removed from the cold grey skies of England in autumn. Within the span of a few hours, she would clean my house end to end ("tub clean no?", she would beam, even as I squinted at my magically gleaming bath tub), fill my freezer with some dishes I could defrost during the week and make fresh and hot dinner for us to tuck into the minute she left our doorstep. Our initial interactions were just this - a few words, many nods and smiles, a thumbs up or two from me, coupled with a maniacal grin. I was curious how she came to be in this country, my very own Mary Poppins, bringing cheer and hot, gingery goodness to this bleak corner far removed from her own. I didn't know enough of her language (or any!) to ask and I had been too long in Blighty by then to cheerfully mine her for gossip over hot cha and pakoras. Thankfully for the two of us, proving why she managed to survive in an alien world far removed from her own, Agent M was far more adept with English. She went to no school, thanks to the patriarchal mindset that only educated the boys and bundling off the girls to be married off at a tender 15 years of age. With her amazing culinary skills, she thrived at her marital home, whipping up heavenly smelling curries for her parents-in-law, and deep-fried snacks for the kids of the family with equal flourish. If she, at 16, spent much of her day in the dark confines of the family kitchen along with her older sisters-in-law, she didn't mind much. Even when her son was born the following year, her life didn't change very much. The baby was looked after by the large extended family, while she and her sisters continued to keep them all fed and happy. Life was pretty much on an even keel, till the day her husband and his older brother went to the village 50 odd kilometres away and did not return home. "Accident? Dark, no doctor. No help!", she said sadly, rolling out wafer thin rotis for our dinner. "Then?" I asked. "No money. So I come here. Uncle help." she said, wrapping up her warm winter jacket around here. "Bye, bye. See you!" Over the course of the next few Fridays, I pieced together Agent M's sorry tale. After her husband and brother-in-law died, the family struggled to make ends meet. At first, she moved to the nearest big city and tried to earn money by cooking for a small restaurant. Though her food was a hit, it left her with barely enough time to look after her baby. And the pay left after her rent, his baby needs was barely enough to send home. That was when the "Uncle" arrived with a solution. He was a cook in a small restaurant abroad and said he could get her a job too. So, she did, leaving her son with her in-laws. Save up money, send home for son and make do, was her plan. But, Uncle had forgotten to fill her in on the finer details of international travel. He had brought her on a temporary tourist visa. After the 6 months, when she tried to travel back home to see her son, Agent M learnt the full horror of her situation. If she left now, she would be deported, never to return to the land where she easily made 10 times more money as she used to. There was no way to bring her son to live with her, as she was one of the countless illegal immigrants now. She could never go home! "How old is your son now?", I asked, looking at my own little horrors, trying to imagine a fate where I couldn't see them grow. "17! I save money for college! He come here!" My heart ached for the poor mother cheerfully cleaning my house, filling my belly with hot food, just so she could save up money for her son's education. The son she last saw as a two year old! Even ET managed to find his way home, I thought rather irreverently. I cannot get Agent M home, but maybe I can help get her son - her home - to her, I thought to myself, furiously Googling "sponsoring foreign student....."


Anna does her makeup in the rafters. She dabs her brush in the creamy white paint, slathering it on in fat globs. Once, back when she hid in her parents’ long shadows, she was given the luxury of a mirror. Now, though, her hands paint her face’s canvas so much the movements become ingrained within her, muscle memory.

The circus, after all, has no private dressing room. This would be the best she could do. Her reputation had to be kept in pristine condition; they couldn’t know that she was human. It would spoil the act. Its magic. Below her, the stage shines with a clear black sheen, as it has since the circus' conception. One of the newbies--a tightrope walker--sweeps the floor with a broom. The space is a sacred one, as anyone in the family of Mystique would tell you. And though each night the audience dips through the magnificent flaps of the red-and-white pinstriped tent, the black sheen of the floor is the circus’ signature. Only the veterans would remember that before the tent, there was only the midnight floor, and the Mystique would still do what they had to do to put on a show.

Anna learned about the floor's history from her parents, the former trapeze artists of the Mystique. The ringleader, Gus, used to stand in the middle of the raised stage and introduce them with a flourish. “Presenting, the Aquaivos Pair in their dance across the sky!” Anna takes her forefinger and dips it into the red paint, then her middle finger in the blue. On instinct, she blends them over her eyelids and on her cheekbones as an accentuated eyeshadow and rogue.

Even without the mirror, she knows the job isn’t perfect. The paint doesn’t sit right on the cheekbones, the eyeshadow too deep, the paint too thick.

From the rafters, she can hear Gus reciting his introductions for the upcoming show: “Presenting, the Aquaivos’ spawn in her dance across the sky!” Once makeup is complete, Anna stretches her shoulders behind her, lolling her head from left to right, right to left. Hooking her feet into the rafters, she stretches her quads by leaning into the bar opposite herself. In the spandex leotard, her ribs dig into the elastic, like a cage trapping her heart. Below, Gus continues his bellows like a trumpet on parade. Anna times her arm swings with the tempo of his cries, one arm then the next then a leg and the next. “Presenting--” “Thirty minutes!” People begin filing in, two couples leaning into one another like willow trees. Five children run in with various colors of balloons, chased soon after by parents with cotton candy. The sleek scent of hydrogen peroxide quickly dissipates into the buttery notes of popcorn and sweets, the things that her childhood disallowed during her training. “What’s bad for the body is bad for the mind,” her father would recite like an incantation.

Sometimes, she would fantasize about candy apples in her sleep. The sweet crunch of the skin between her pearl teeth, saturating below the skin and sliding in sticky smooth streaks along her stomach. Alas, she was a performer, and there are certain sacrifices that she makes for her craft.

To this day, she’s yet to eat any of the circus delicacies.

From her place in the rafters, muscle memory guides her hands through the spotlights. During her training, her mother taught her how to work the machinery above the tent. “It’s our job to be the sun,” her mother would say, lifting the spotlight above her head in triumph. Even still, she could never finese the light in place like her mother, but she was getting there. Steadily, she’s understood what her mother meant by becoming the sun. From her bird’s nest, Anna can see the expanse of the spectacle below her. Crowds line the wooden seats, and through her training, she’s learned the difference between the newcomers and the veterans. There’s the difference between the bob of their heads, the lack of excitement mixed with the dull ache for a lost childhood. Past them, she looks backstage, a pinstripe curtain dividing the audience with the wings. The performers rush to strip their everyday clothes with the stripes and sequins of the stage (many of the performers work day jobs now; an artist’s salary cannot cover the expenses of a lifetime, not anymore). If they would all just look up, they’d see the purple-sequined beauty that is the pride of the circus.

If they looked up, she didn’t know whether she would be able to continue.

Up here is her safe haven, the place that only the Aquaivos could come. She was vulnerable here. To take that away, to blast her secret to the world stage, well…that would be cruel, wouldn’t it?

They’d see her for the girl that she was, the one she craved for yet never wanted to be again.

All at once, the pearl lights in the tent cut out, casting the audience in dark. Children squeal, and even the adults wail in their excitement. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

The crowd cheers and Anna hooks her fingers into the grooves of the spotlight, swirling it in the way her mother taught her. Not quite perfect, but getting there. In his silhouette of darkness, Gus puffs his chest, flashing his black and white pinstripe.

“Welcome, my friends, to the spectacle of a lifetime” The spotlights grow closer to his figure in the center of the black floor, exposing a foot, an outstretched hand. “Welcome,” he bellows, “to the Mystique!”  A fire sparks, and the show begins. Fire-spinners, contortionists, trumpets, and drums cover the shiny black floor. Per her training, Anna drags the lights along the circus folk, accentuating their acts or the sequined petticoats of their dresses. It’s magnificent, yes, but merely a taster. A warmup, she knows, for one star.

Anna rolls her ankles, flexing her toes underneath her. Tonight, like every night, she’s painfully aware of the bright purple sequins on her bodice, the jewels intertwined in her hair. Her painted face. The black sheen of the floor. The long, long drop to the floor. She feels the whisper of her father at her nape. “Anna, you will catch yourself. It is what you were born to do.” She picks at the jewels at her neckline. “It is what we were born to do.” The lion tamer bows beneath the spotlight Anna cast on his scarred face. Two years ago, the stagehand forgot to feed the lion before the act began. The tamer paid the price; if anything, it made his facade more dramatic. After that day, Gus gave the man a pay raise and the second-to-last slot in the Mystique's nightly shows. Now, the ringleader steps into the white light, the grand old smile plastered on his face. In his hands, he holds the trapeze, lowered for his convenient grasp. “My friends,” he says. “We have seen the impossible tonight. Fire breathers, lion tamers, you have seen the greatest feats tonight ever made by mankind.” The crowd cheers at that, and Gus bathes in its joyous ring. “Yet there is still one thing left to be seen.” At that, he tosses the trapeze into the air, and it rises higher and higher, up into the rafters. In the shadows, even Anna watches in awe. She roll her ankles again, then again, licking her painted lips. Every artist has their ritual: for Anna, she wriggles each finger, then each toe, then taps each thumb to her forefinger three times, then four. She'd stolen it from her father; she would watched him do it every night before he began his running start.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gus announces with his trumpeting cry. “Presenting, the Aquaivos’ spawn in her dance across the sky!” Anna leaps as the trapeze rises to her arm's length. For a moment, she stretches in the air, weightless. She’s a rubber band, spineless in the air. Below, the audience finally looks up, letting out an audible gasp.  Every night, it’s the same reaction, but it feeds a primal instinct within her. In her pristine leotard, studded purple and silver, she yowls into the chamber. It echoes off the tent’s walls.

Her parents would disapprove, but it’s a part of her act now.

She grasps the bar easily, and the audience cheers with a silent relief. Through her training, Anna learned each expression that would leave her audience speechless. Now, she bears her teeth, her body slack of life or movement. She is a corpse on the trapeze, swaying listlessly on the bar.

She is the spawn of the unnatural, a creature of the circus.

With a manic grin, Anna lets go of the bar, somersaulting in the air. A woman below her screams. Before then, it was her parents, her father on one end of the tent and her mother on the other. They were entrancing together, humanoid yet seamlessly boneless. They were meant for each other in the way they floated, like two lilies on the current of a stream. Every night, Anna would watch them from her place on the rafters, trapped in their hypnotic movement.

She wondered if that’s how the audience saw her now. The bar swings back to her, and she catches it again on her way down. Now the audience is silent, fixated on the speck of purple swinging like a pendulum on her trajectory through the air. This was her parent’s act, swirls and spins like flowers. Every night, they would change it, never pairing any two moves together. Together, they were unstoppable. Until they weren’t.

For a second, Anna glances at the floor, her heart in her chest. If she looked closely at the black sheen, one spot gleams duller than all the others. She would know; no matter how hard she mopped the floor, the bloodstains wouldn't come out. In her next spin, two of her fingers miss the bar, and she falters. Now, it’s not just the woman screaming. White paint trickles in its fat globs down her neck, and she growls again, a sick sound weaving its way through the crowd. She wouldn’t make the mistake her parent did that night. She couldn’t. It all happens so fast. A distraction, a flicker of light, the clap of thunder in the dark. A simple cough midflight.

That was the Aquaivos’ downfall, a cold that Anna’s mother was convinced that she could push through. A sneeze during the final spin. She missed the bar, and she fell, falling, spinning not with the grace of a swirl but rather of a bird without wings. Her other half--the oh so noble husband--tried desperately to save her. In the end, they both collapsed on the black floor, the grace of their flight ending in the sharp edges of a quick and quiet doom. Anna watched in horror in the rafters.

Yet, in the next heartbeat, Gus spun the story of their tragic demise. He turned their mistake into the spectacle of their spawn’s birth. The Aquaivos had the intuition of the trapeze; the ringleader has the intuition of showmanship. The next night, Anna began her first performance. She’s done it ever since. The Aquaivos’ spawn completes her final spin in the air, catching the bar and threading her legs through the trapeze. Hands-free, she drapes herself down like a chandelier in the air, blood rushing red into her skull and tinting the audience red. At once, the cheers become deafening, a cacophony of whistles whose chants scream loud and clear. “Long live Aquaivos, long live Aquaivos!” Tears stain Anna’s eyes, but she bites them down in one last yowl. A sound of anger and desperation, longing and loss. To the audience, her act delights them, a product of their curiosity about her, her legendary bloodline. For a moment, she plays into their suspension of disbelief--she is a creature born of unnatural physical prowess, one whose intuition allows her to fly.

But then the lights in the tent snap off, and the trapeze guides her back up into the sky. The tears streak her facepaint, but no one can see her up here. Once she takes hold of the rafters, Anna collapses to her stomach, silencing her wails with sweaty palms. Her tears run white with the face paint, but the crowd cheers too loudly to hear her weeping. Sniffling, she brings herself to her feet, gently guiding the spotlight back onto the ringleader of the Mystique’s spectacle. The show, after all, must go on.

Gus reappears through the back curtain. He wears a suit of sequins now, blinding and silver in the light. For an instant, his eyes flicker up at her, and the deep sadness in those wells of blue sends a silent shiver through her. He'd seen her slip up. Nothing flies past him. After Anna’s first performance, Gus climbed up the rafters to see her racked with uncontrollable tears. Together, they’d wept with their feet dangling over the obsidian floor.

But then his eyes flicker back to the people before him, eyes glassy. He’s the true showman, Anna thinks. Perhaps the only one left in this circus.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gus bellows with his manic grin. “We are the Mystique! Thank you, and goodnight!”


The screen door slammed behind the two men upon entering the cafe, which sat in Grey Mountain on the side of the highway about 75 miles north of Flagstaff, Arizona. Adam Ackerman, owner of the cafe, stood behind the bar. Without missing a beat he continued to wipe it down as the men walked in.

“We’re closed.” Ackerman said without looking up. Hearing the sound of their expensive soft leather shoes rather than boots, slapping the hard wooden cafe floor, Ackeman knew that they were not his usual customers looking for cheap food and craft beer. With a ragged cloth that might at one time have been white, he continued to wipe the counter, rubbing it to an almost polished sheen. Casually he dropped his left hand down below the bar’s countertop. Slowly he slid his hand until he found it. With a firm grip he held his pistol. It rested, snuggled in its leather holder, under the bar to discourage robbers, thieves and other idiots from messing up his establishment. And for the past few years it proved to be a successful deterrent. “That’s okay,” one of the men said “I . . .”

“We,” he nodded to his companion, “we didn’t come here to eat.” They stepped over a lingering puddle of spilled beer. The heavier man, wearing Italian leather loafers, stepped straight toward the bar avoiding discarded peanut shells piled up in fat mounds resembling a minefield. The second man, thinner and taller with a slight limp, stopped to survey the cafe. Like a running back avoiding tacklers he made his way to the bar on a circumspect route dodging tables and chairs. His hands remained buried deep in his pockets. His eyes remained locked on Ackerman. The two men looked like Laurel and Hardy except they were larger, darker and not funny at all. “Well whatever it is you want, we’re still closed,” Ackerman said. Never looking up he told them, “Come back later.”

“I . . .” “We,” Hardy corrected the man who resembled Laurel. “We,” he pointed to his partner, "came looking for someone.” “We,” Ackerman said looking up for the first time, “isn’t here.” With a crooked patronizing smile he waved his arm holding the tattered rag around the empty room, while still holding a firm grip on his hidden pistol, and said, “So, now you can leave.” The two men stood before Ackerman separated only by the white oak and cottonwood bar. Putting down his rag, Ackerman said, “Look, I know you two are cops. You’re wearing off-the rack suits from Sears and Sears has been closed for a few years. Did you ever think about getting new clothes?” Laurel and Hardy looked at each other and shrugged before leaning on the counter. “And besides,” Ackerman said, “your car has a chrome spotlight above the side mirror. If the fleet of antennas protruding through the trunk don’t stand out, the front tag, ‘CITY’ does. And besides, your nondescript green Ford is parked in a no-parking spot. Only cops do that. And judging by the dust, you drove up from Phoenix. Most cops don’t leave the barn with filthy cars - so you came up through the desert. For what?” Ackerman picked up the rag and thumped it a few times on the bar. “Just to harass me?” he asked. The one that looked like Hardy pulled a picture from his suit pocket. Placing it on the countertop he tapped it several times before looking Ackerman in the eye. “So, this isn’t you then?”

Ackerman looked down at the picture. He pushed it back across the bar, “Nope, haven’t seen him.” With a scowl that could kill he looked across the bar to Hardy. With his arms crossed he declared, ”Nope.”

“Take a better look, Enzo.” Hardy stabbed the picture. “This is you,” he insisted. The one who resembled Laurel grabbed the picture. He held it up in front of Ackerman’s nose. On the back of the photo in faded blue ink Laurel read the caption, “Enzo Vitale.”

Passing it back across the bar Laurel said, “This is your file photo when you joined the force.”

“It’s you alright,” Hardy said. He grit his teeth like a lion ready to devour its prey. He took a breath before roaring across the bar, “It’s you!” Locked on Ackerman’s eyes he studied the old photograph. “You didn’t have a ponytail then or a long beard, but it’s you.” Pointing to the embroidered name on the starched apron, “Adam,” he snickered, “this is you and you still look like you’re in pretty good shape.” He cocked his head as if to get a better look. “Yeah, well, that may have been me then. But I’m retired now. I own this cafe.” Laurel shook his head, “You didn’t retired, you walked away.” Hardy jumped in, “More like ran away.” He shook his head.

Holding the picture up against Ackerman, Laurel asked, “So, where did you change your name? California? It wasn’t in Arizona.” “Billings. Why?”

Hardy elbowed his partner, “I knew we should have searched farther.” “Listen”, Laurel said. “The shooting . . .” “It was a righteous shooting. We all know it,” said Hardy. “We all know it. You know it.” He poked Ackerman in the chest, “So, are you ready to do something about it?” With a smirk, Ackerman said, “So, you came all the way out here just to tell me that?” Laurel frowned. His voice was smooth and almost convincing, “Really the shooting was righteous. And your partner . . .” “I don’t want to talk about Phoenix." He poured himself a beer from the tap. “I don’t suppose you want a beer. Oh, I guess not; you’re still on duty.” Laurel pointed to a round table near the wall. “Can we sit down and talk a minute?” Ackerman took the seat against the wall so he could keep an eye on the front door as well as on the counter in the rear of the cafe. Hardy pulled another photo from his suit jacket. “Do you recognize this picture?” Ackerman glanced down at it and just as fast slid it back across the table. “Yeah, I know him. Or rather knew him.” His voice wavered and softened and yet it had an angry edge to it. “That day in Phoenix,” he pointed to the face of the picture, “he started the shooting.”

“And your partner . . .” Ackerman stood up interrupting Hardy.

“Just sit down, okay?” Laurel said as he glared at Hardy. His voice was reassuring.

“Eaqarab 'the scorpion’ Khalil. His name in Arabic means the scorpion.” Shaking his head in disgust, “Who would name their child, scorpion?” added Hardy.

“Anyway,” Laurel said, “he has scorpions tattooed on his wrists. And like a scorpion, he is fast and deadly. We tracked multiple deaths in the desert back to him and to his . . . “Friends,” added Hardy as he stroked his smoke-gray mustache. “And friend, we can use your help.”

“My help? I don’t think so.” Ackerman waved his arms around and said, “And give all this up?” pointing around the cafe. The warped floor where the wash bucket is permanently stationed to collect rain water caught his eye. The roof has leaked in the same spot since1990. It never seemed to bother him before. Now the building seemed tired. Almost as tired as he felt. Laurel leaned across the table. It wobbled slightly under the new pressure. “Just think about it. Will you?”

Ackerman took another sip of beer. He cringed. “It’s a little bitter. It might be time to change out the keg.”

“Change can be good.” Laurel said with a slight grin.

“Yes.” Like an old married couple Hardy jumped in and reinforced Laurel’s thoughts, with a Cheshire like grin. “Change can be good.” Both men slid their cards across the table. In unison they stood up. Glancing down at Ackerman, Laurel said “Give us a call.”

“The phones are on and we’ll be in the area for a while.” Hardy said as he slapped Ackerman on the back and headed for the door.

Ackerman stashed their cards in his shirt pocket and watched them walk away. + + + That evening as the crowed thinned out, Ackerman tossed his apron behind the bar and stood outside on the sidewalk littered with cigarette butts. The moonless night sky was clear and crisp. Looking up Ackerman noticed the stars and their brilliance. They appeared so close. It was almost as if he could reach up and gather them in. Breathing the night air a flood of memories came rushing to him. It was a night like this, he remembered. A night that smelled of spilled beer and stale cigarettes. But it was also a night overtaken with the sounds of gun fire and screams. The smell of gun powder erased the scent of stale beer. Then there was nothing but dead silence.

Staring at the empty barn across the highway at Grey Mountain Ackerman remembered another barn in southern Arizona, just outside of Phoenix. He was the undercover agent. He was sent into the barn to make the purchase. Then the capture and the arrest. But something went wrong. The team came in early. Shots were fired. His informant dead. More gun fire. The barn exploded. Like a rag doll Ackerman was thrown through the rear door. When he came to his team his partner were all dead. Eaqarab 'the scorpion’ Khalil vanished in the night with all the money and guns designed to trap him.

With his eyes glued on the Grey Mountain barn Ackerman pulled the business cards from his shirt pocket. He studied them for a minute or two. Then he lifted his cell phone from his back pocket. Even though it was 2:10 in the morning he punched in the number to Laurel, or was it Hardy? He didn’t care.


“Whatcha drinking there?” A man said from across the bar as the bartender slid a martini glass in front of Jennie. Jennie didn’t want to be at the bar, but she felt obligated.

Her best work friend, Tabby, invited a few people to this new bar for her birthday.

The bar had a Hollywood glamor theme, not to mention, it was about time someone opened a bar that was not a speakeasy in this town. When Jennie entered the bar, she spotted Tabby right away.

Tabby waved and Jennie waved back.

Tabby was with two women who looked as though they belonged on the cover of a magazine.

The bartender served the three woman martinis and asked what Jennie was having. The second Jennie had ordered a Grey Goose martini dirty with blue cheese stuffed olive.

Tabby waved at someone else as they entered the bar and left Jennie at the bar waiting for her drink.

It occurred to Jennie only then that Tabby and these two magazine models were not the extent of the party.

Jennie was now alone.

“A martini,” Jennie said with a tight-lipped smile. “Oh, yum. I love martinis.

Vodka or gin?”

“Vodka.” “Do you mind if I scoot closer?

I can barely hear you.” Jennie looked around and then back at the man, “scoot closer to me?”

He laughed, picking up his half-drunk cocktail, made his way down the bar, and occupied the stool next to Jennie.

Now she was stuck.

When she looked at him, she noticed the mole on his left cheek with three short hairs sticking straight out.

It made Jennie wince but she couldn’t help but stare and then glanced down at her drink, her strawberry hair covering her face. “James,” he held out his hand at an awkward angle for her to take. “Jennie,” she took his hand with the tips of her fingers. He nodded.

“Do you come here often?” “I thought this bar was new,” Jennie furrowed her eyebrows. “Is it?

I’m not from here,” he said. Jennie nodded her head, looking down at her martini.

She couldn’t possibly be rude and walk away, or do as she really wanted to do, and down her drink and escape into the brink night air.

No, she could not possibly offend this stranger. “Do you want to know where I am from?” He asked with raised eyebrows. “Of course,” Jennie said, looking up at him for a moment before returning her eyes back to her martini. “I’m from Asheville, North Carolina. Home of the Biltmore Estate.”

Jennie nodded her head looking down at her martini glass.

She wanted to force herself to look back up at him but could not make herself look at that mole again.

Instead she took a sip of the bitter vodka. “Ever been there?” he asked. “Can’t say I have.”

The pair of strangers sat in silence.

He opened his mouth and shut it before opening it again like a fish.

“Look.

If you are not interested in me, you could just say so.

You don’t have to be so rude.”

Before Jennie could respond, James had picked up his near empty cocktail and walked away. Jennie shook her head surprised by his bold reaction.

She was trying to be anything but rude.

It was not her intention to make him feel unwanted and she felt guilty for making James feel that way.

But the guilt subsided when she realized she was free from making small talk with a man who discussed her.

Later that night, as Jennie was settling up her bill for her one martini she looked up to see Tabby talking to James.

She winced once again at that mole on his left cheek.

How could Tabby be interested in such a weird guy?

Tabby flipped her hair and looked up at James with doe eyes. “So much for saying goodbye,” Jennie said to herself as she signed the check and escaped out the bar door.

The idea of curling up with Mittens, her Pomeranian, and watching the latest episode of Big Brother thrilled her and she bounded down the street feeling the lifted weight of forced conversation. On Monday morning, Jennie entered the office and grabbed her first cup of coffee before sitting down at her desk.

That was strange, Tabby was usually the first in the office, but she was not at her desk.

Jennie continued her work figuring she may have had a personal appointment she didn’t tell Jennie about. From Jennie’s vantage point, she saw two police officers enter the office.

Jennie watched as they talked to Darleen at the front desk.

The look on Darleen’s face concerned Jennie.

Darleen escorted the officers out of view, but that didn’t put Jennie’s mind at ease. Jennie watched as Darleen walked towards the breakroom.

Although she had her coffee already, she made a calculated bet that it would be simple to get Darleen to tell Jennie what had happened.

Jennie poured her coffee into the wastebasket next to her desk and approached the breakroom for her second cup.

Darleen had the refrigerator open and seemed to look for something. “Good morning,” Jennie said with a tight smile and looked back down at the coffee machine. “Good morning.

It’s already been quite a morning hasn’t it,” Darleen started the conversation without Jennie pushing.

This was too easy. “What happened?” “Did you see those two officers?”

“Yeah, what was that about?”

“Well, they are asking about Tabby Johnson.” Jennie’s mouth dropped open and she attempted to not look as surprised as she felt.

She knew it was suspicious when Tabby didn’t show up to work.

She pressed Darleen to give her more. “Apparently, they found Tabby’s body down by the river.

Someone had strangled her and sexually assaulted her.

Last they saw her was at that new bar.

You know, the one with the Hollywood glamor theme.

She got into a cab with a guy with a mole on his left cheek.

You were close with her, weren't you?”


                        The area was very quiet and without light. Quiet enough to hear the sound of its footsteps even if the dog walks down the street.
At midnight something was crying softly and only the screaming sound could be heard.
Jones got up from the bed with confused fear and walked in the direction of the noise.
He turned on the light in the hall. But the noise followed Heard from the Kitchen. Frightened he picked up a nearby plastic pipe and gently stepped into the kitchen and He tapped the bulb.
When he looked around, he saw a large black cat lying on a vase basin with green eyes, a curly mustache and a salivating tongue.
Shocked, Jones chased the cat but, It just woke up with its open mouth.
jones gently hit its body and hit the barrage. After sprinkling the chili powder, cat got scared and went out with a small hole in the kitchen with irritated eyes.
Morgan arrived in the morning after the night shift.
He was too tired so, he entered to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.
In the kitchen all the items was crushed. The iconic particles were scattered. Chili powder scattered all over the floor. The water was dripping.
Without understanding anything... Morgan angrily shouted and entered the bedroom.
Jones was snuggling inside the bedside like a mountain snake.
He asked angrily?
What happened in the kitchen jones?  Why its so crumbling?
Jones answered calmly, That black cat came back at midnight, like the day before yesterday.
Don't worry, I'll fix myself.
With a wrinkled face Morgan asked..
Don’t tell the same story again.. like  the cat got into the car the day before.
The cat came back to the kitchen yesterday.
Its not a story it’s a truth…
But I never saw it...
You're going to shift at night .. it's coming out at night. Then how do you see. The cat is just hiding somewhere in the street.

Today night it will come and then you will understand.
If the cat comes like you say, today is the last day for it .. said Morgan angrily and left the house.
Then he came house for the night again, Jones was sitting on the sofa inside and watching TV. Silence enveloped the area. Darkness surrounded. without street lights, Both were waiting for the cat.
The cat was missing for several hours. Then Morgan and jones went to bed with disappointment. The street was like being inside a black blanket. Loud noises heard at 12 o'clock and someone screaming. Together the sounds of smashing in the kitchen.
Slowly Morgan went to the kitchen, Jones was angrily beating Vase basin with his pipe. Hey Jones what are you doing? come on .. Morgan I just told about this cat.
it will bite us. you take the chili powder and come.. go soon ..
Hey Jones where is the cat ??
Look here the cat Sitting.
I know nothing about.. Hey.. Jones do not lie.
Here is the big black cat said jones. And he slowly speaking with that cat..
Hey cat, if you not run away
I will tell you mother .. that he was talking to himself looking at the vase basin.
Morgan looked at him sharply with suspicion and was confused as to what was going on..
From there he grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away.
But the cat in Jones' eye was just there.
Hey Jones the cat is not there at all. Why are you acting like this?
Are you crazy looking at me Morgan?
No jones..
OK, let's talk in the morning. Come and sleep said Morgan.
The next morning the two set out.
Jones asked? where we were going now.
Jones please don't be angry. I don't know if you know it will be abnormal for a few days.
That's why we going to see a good psychiatrist I know.
The two ended up fighting inside the car.
But Morgan went fast without stopping.
 After a while Jones fainted and also they reached the hospital.
Then, Morgan put him to bed on a stretcher and took him inside. Then, doctor asked Morgan about the incidents and took the Jones into a separate room.
After first aid, he slowly woke up after a while.
Giving the drug olanzapine
doctor rubbed his palm, and began to ask the secrets buried deep in his mind.
Ok my boy. who are you?
Slowly he opened his mind and began to speak.
I'm Jones.
Ok.. jones.
Do you like pets?
Yes, I love pets.
Then, Why don’t you like cat?
No, I love cats.
 Then, tell me about the cat that comes to your home?
It's a big black cat,
 If we keep looking into its eyes it will bite our throat and drinks the blood. Daily it Come to my house every night.
Why the cat coming to your house?
To see I’ve eaten or not.
Is that the job for the cat?
Yes, slowly it will kill me if I don’t eat.
When I fell asleep it will checks the utensils in the kitchen.
Who said that cat job is to take care of you?
Mom ....
Mom, oh.. come on. Where is she?
Mom .. died ..
Oh.. I m sorry jones..
Can you please tell the reason?
She died by a Car accident ... If I had eaten that day, my mother would have survived.
The car accident happened because this cat came across ..
When your mom passed away?
October 2019 ..
Then doctor understood everything.
Ok don't worry I will talk to that cat .. don't cry ok ..
Hm .. Hm ..
You sleep ... I will see you later..
Morgan, who was sitting nervously outside, went back to that room.
Mr. Morgan I understands well what the problem is with your friend.
What's the matter, Doctor? Any deadly disease?
Do not be afraid Morgan..
It’s a hallucination. The old stories his mother told him when he was a child are deeply ingrained in his mind.
That black cat is the fictional character his mom told him to be afraid to eat well.
Even after the death of his mother, the stories told there are deeply ingrained in his mind.
In his subconscious mind, the black cat is still alive.
But, doctor this is happening for a few days now ..
Yeah, Look Mr. Morgan his mom died in the month of  October.
Every year in October, whenever his mother's memories come to him ..
He remember this sharp stories along with his mom.
All memories are in his deepest thoughts.
Telling a lie multiple times becomes the truth.
Everything is in your hands.
Hide yourself from him too. Mam I am his childhood friend, I understand but if your friend wants to be good you should be a stranger to him.
Now he is half unconscious so you drop him off at home and hide yourself from his life. Otherwise he will enter his own hallucination world and go crazy. Morgan eyes widened with shock..
Now, you’re the medicine for him.
After hearing the medicinal reason, from doctor he picked up Jones and left for home.
Jones was sleeping in the car coming home.
Slowly Morgan got out of the car and quickly entered the house and took photos of his mother hanging on the wall.
Morgan removed all the items which had in jones memory.
He then picked up Jones, who was lying in the car, and slowly picked him up at home.
So, Morgan decided to live near his house,
It is a fact known only for a time, how many day's exactly he is mentally ill.
Now he is recovering from those old bitter memories.
One day At midnight again the same noise was heard in the kitchen.  Jones woke up, Slowly  went to the kitchen in the confusion of fear.
There was a real little white cat licking the scattered milk drops.


"Sorry" said Viv. "you're too late."

Muted colours that dance in the shadows, the words reverberated in Edwin's mind. For what this time? "You're too late". A crack in the plate. The words hung in the air, sort of as if it was a lingering melancholic melody that pulled the strings of Edwin's heart. Words that seemed lost, whispering a lost dream, tantalizingly close yet ever so distant. Like a song you cherish, but the lyrics slip through the cracks of your memory. Leaving nothing but a faint resonance. Edwin thought, “something new?”

Open doors. Once ajar. Now stood as sentinels of a reminder of what withered into the clouds, echoing with the weight of burdens only later will I feel he thought. The Autumn leaves next to the door on the floor, brittle and fragile. Untouched purities. Now surrender to the footsteps and crumble beneath my feet. The cold is never really lingering, and the warmth never really arrives.” A mirror of no reflection.

The hampered birds, beneath unmarked leaves, sing harmonies.

But eternality skips these lines in this tranquillity, tasteless strawberries.

In this domain of no law, that voice sounds ever so familiar, yet distinct. Hums noiselessly in a world that’s neither fully dark nor bathed in light. Playing in a tuneless hum.

For here, I am a traveller on a ferries wheel, a traveller submerged in an empty sea, a traveller no more. I tread lightly, leaving only footprints engulfed by the waves. Actions manifested and dissolve swiftly, emerge from the depths of slumber and gone within the blink of sharp-eyed observer. A silent witness of the shift in moment, as the days melt into the expanding records of history.

In this labyrinth, the emerald grass, withered. Shades of grey are smeared across the exquisite blue skies. Lost melodies, sing the warmth of feeble rays in world full of butterflies but no flowers, bottles drift unwillingly in a boundless sea, where their messages were never written; The wheels on the ferries wheel spins on. The variegated wings of nature reduced to fragments of an elapsed dream. Yet among the relinquished realm, a pot sits above one singular campfire, heating for what seems to be a millennium, never boiling. Next to a tree with five apples that never fall.

It a riddle without resolution, this malicious riddle that strips away the essence of identity. For I am dragged on by the nightmarish chasm where all that remained is unearthly jinxed by the ghost of annellation, a dimension of a single line of thought, feelings left, only to be swallowed into the hollow shell of the living.

Here where the rules set by normalities are blurred. The feeling of nothing at all, tears are shed yet you don’t know why. Nothing wants to move forward or backwards, for the world is frozen only for me and I won't unfreeze for I cannot see myself.

In this desolate landscape, where the boundaries between consciousness and oblivion blurred, the seeker found themselves caught in a perpetual nightmare of bareness, a relentless echo chamber of despair where nothingness had devoured every resemblance of meaning and sensation. It is a realm of an infinite void, where every thought, every emotion, had been swallowed by the all-consuming abyss, leaving behind a chilling blankness that haunts your very essence. Here, in this twilight zone of existence, you struggle against the darkest corners of your consciousness, navigating the faithless terrain of a reality wanting of hope. Placing your yearnings in something you no longer believe in, where the only certainty is the unyielding grip of the void. Your void. In these moments one would gasp for breath because it's suffocating here, but nothing seems to come in. Because the mirrors no longer reflect one’s identity, shattered, fractured into distorted stripes that no longer bore resemblance to the familiar self. The pages turn forward and turn back, revisited, recollected. Buried deep within us, plaguing our eyes like ghosts of what once was.

 Only knowing you before, its desperate. You blood flows without the scarlet river being drawn, a sensation of no pain, no pleasure. Trapped in a frozen world, unable to see or understand, bewildered by emotions that can't be felt. The days will bleed, each day bled into the next, unending cycle of this peculiar feeling. How can one stare at something over and over but forget the next day, for everyday? As you and I sit upon this ferries wheel lingering on till the butterflies submerge into this empty sea with no noise at all.

It’s awfully quiet, it always is. Yet I could feel this labyrinth getting louder and louder. Like the walls of existence were awakening; I stumbled on those forgotten words. Words that carried the weight that I’ve lost. Split memories that vibrated with an endless and unsettling drumbeat that pounded relentlessly, persistently taunting me. Butterflies placed on my hands before altered into sand. The crack in the plate. Each grain was like a piece of life that could no longer be grasped. Slipping away leaving a momentarily bitter taste that seemed to last forever.

Once blazing now decay, a realm where time holds naught at bay

Here where the whispers are faint but ever so loud, never to sway.

Wishing to go ahead but which path to seek

Trapped in a sky where senses grow weak.

Where your tossed and twirled,

Past and future collapsed into a whirlpool.

The melodies of the anguished followed by the symphonies in waiting,

Never to be played forever hesitating.

I scream not in terror, nor for I or you,

But for I to finally hear, a voice long overdue.

A scream to fill the hollow apple tree core

No escape, no exit, hope to glean.

In the abyss of what seems to be someone else's mind, I'm forever unseen.

For a moment, just a moment you just decide to think of things, maybe it was the heavens that grant you this one second, a split second if you weren’t so far away you would notice. In this second, I thought. “Mother?”

 The traveller stops watching; something clicks, the ferries wheel stops. The strings stop playing, the crack in the plate opens; it breaks, all the smudges on the mirror erased. Edwin opens a door that seemingly was always there. The water for once starts to boil. It still is so quiet, yet something deafening could be heard, something was roaring, but it is noiseless. For once Edwin could hear something in this realm, a silence that screams. An apple has fallen.