Everything was ready for the ritual. Elijah had been up all morning checking and double checking the preparations they made for this night. It was just after sundown when he woke her up. " Are you sure about this?” Elijah asks his wife. " I’m sure” Miriam yawns, still waking up. She searches her husband’s face in the failing candlelight. He looks afraid even though he’s trying not to. She reaches a hand up to caress his worried face. He responds by kissing her hand and then her forehead. He pulls her into an embrace and says. " Well I’m not sure. I’m not sure if it’s worth it. ” His eyes glowing white with his confession as his wife pulls back to look at him. " Save it, we’ll need all of our magic tonight,” she says in reference to his glowing eyes. Her expression softens while still looking at him. " I am sure.” She begins, her hands going to her pregnant belly. " We are the last two left Elijah. We have to raise another one before our time is up.” He knows that his wife is right but the risk is too great. The strain it puts not only on Miriam’s body. But on their relationship. He wasn’t sure they could survive another heartbreak. Elijah helps Miriam to the bath he prepared. Twelve gallons of moon water, boiled on a wood fire stove. The water was full of rose petals, lavender oil, and pink salt. The couple worked in near silence. The only sounds were the light splashing of water as they bathed Miriam’s pregnant body. They finished her bath by scenting her hair with rose flower oil. Elijah dried his wife off as she braided her locs up and off her shoulders. Placing flowers along the braid created a crown. Bracelets made from strips of animal leather and seashells played the tambourine at her wrists and ankles. She wore two diamond shaped veils made from countless rows of beaded sea glass. One that covered her face just below her eyes and another that draped over her shoulders and spilled down her back and over her breasts. Their frostiness matched the overcast night sky. Elijah escorts Miriam to the birthing site they prepared. A six-foot wide path leading to the sacred mirror. The path is marked on either side by twelve large stones spread a foot apart, with a one foot deep trench below it. On the outside of the stones marking the path were two more skinny shallow trenches filled with oil. Elijah leaves Miriam to walk to the end of the path. Using his magic he lights the oil in the smaller trenches. Sending brilliant blue and purple flames racing towards his wife. Once the flames reach the head of the path. Elijah takes his seat at the drum and begins to play. Bum-ba-dum-bum-bum… Bum-ba-dum-bum-bum… With his eyes closed he lends his voice to the night. Miriam locks eyes with her reflection in the mirror in the distance and begins her procession down the dirt path. Each step she takes is music. The beads and seashells clinking together with her movements. Still focused on her reflection, her voice cries out. Joining that of her husband. Helping to set the atmosphere for the ushering in of the last of them. Memories flash behind Elijah’s fluttering eyelids. A day ago when he stumbled upon Miriam in the meadow behind their house, picking flowers for her hair. He’d just returned from fishing. She looked so beautiful, like Gaia herself. With the sun at her back and her feet dug into the earth. Carefully selecting flowers while speaking to the baby in her belly. He stooped down behind some tall grass to observe his love from a distance. She was telling the baby about the work she was doing and about what it meant to be one of their kind. Elijah felt so proud watching her. He was falling in love with her all over again. Then she broke his heart by saying. “I might not make it out of the delivery. This might be the only way you get to know me. As, the vessel that carried you, nurtured you, and loved you until your arrival. I’m not a young woman anymore. I haven’t been for quite some time. That’s why my pregnancies haven’t… You are different. I know it. You are special. If I don’t make it, it’s alright as long as you do. Your daddy loves you and he’ll take good care of you. He’ll be sad for a long time after I’m gone. Don’t give him too hard a time about it. He’ll do the best he can…” Elijah couldn’t listen anymore. His chest had seized up as hot tears slipped from his eyes and down his face. How could she say those things? Part of him knew that she could be right. But to hear her say it out loud felt like she was speaking it into existence. He stopped himself from continuing that train of thought. Miriam wasn’t going to die. The baby wasn’t going to die. No matter what happened, everyone was making it out of this birth alive! That memory fueled his drumming and reinforced his intent. By this time Miriam had reached the birthing trench at the end of the path. Elijah stopped his drumming to assist his wife and continue with the ritual. Two tiny coffins carved out of psyche tree wood; held the remains of their two stillborn daughters. They are prepared in such a way; they look as if they are to be taken up from the altar by the ancestors. A lamb and a kid are tied to a tree just a few feet away from the altar. Elijah sacrifices both animals. Spilling their blood into a large wooden bowl. Dipping his fingers in the blood he draws a rune on Miriam’s forehead and then on his own. He then carries the bowl of blood to the mirror. Setting it down before the hunk of polished, flat, obsidian. Elijah returns to Miriam, standing behind her. The two of them face the mirror and Elijah speaks some words over his wife. " La mieto she´ nah reolkajghe- There is no fear within the light” As those words finish on Elijah’s lips Miriam naturally starts going into labor. Her water breaks, spilling into the trench at her feet. Elijah helps his wife get into position. Feet dug into the ground with a firm grip on the oar like appendages sticking up out of the ground on either side of the trench. He moves around in front so that he can deliver the baby when it’s time. The baby hasn’t moved into the correct position. Instead its turned sideways. Elijah tries his best to coax it into the right position but it won’t budge. There so much blood and he keeps having flashbacks of the two previous failed deliveries. They were very similar to this. Everything is going wrong! So much so that he cannot regain his composure. He looks down at himself covered in his wife’s blood. Hysteria begins with a pleading look in his eyes that turns to helplessness when he looks into his wife’s strained face. His movements are frantic and his speech is a jumble of whimpering gibberish. Seeing her husband losing the fight with his sanity; Miriam grabs him by the collar of his shirt. Bringing his face to hers, she kisses him on his third eye. Using her magic to send calm into his mind, which makes him sleep. As his body falls into the trench beside her, she begins her prayer. “I call upon the Mirror Keepers of old. Those of heaven, earth, and the places in between. The guardians of sacred spaces and the demigods of secret passages. Deliver your child into this world. The last of our kind. The last keeper of the sacred mirror. The door to all places known and unknown. Usher him, in all of his cosmic glory. He is a child of the heavens. Born out of the place which gave life to life itself. Hear me! Lords of the universe. This is your child! Deliver him into this world! Deliver him!” Miriam’s voice rings out with strident desperation. The heavy child, like a warm stone in her womb. She fears that she is once again carrying death inside of her. Refusing to lose another child. Miriam focuses her energy. Calling up all of the magic she can. White light begins to glow from her hands. Placing them on her belly she begins a chant. The same words Elijah spoke before she went into labor. “La mieto she´ nah reolkajghe! La mieto she´ nah reolkajghe! There is no fear within the light!” Her womb contracts as a spill of crimson splats from between her legs. Her body is weak and she’s lost too much blood. Miriam’s eyes roll to the back of her head. The burning fever, the pain, and sheer exhaustion knock her out. Elijah wakes up right at that moment. Having been released from his wife’s magic. " NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!” Seeing Miriam passed out, he springs into action. Scrambling to pick himself up off the wet and bloodied ground. With a flash of lightening and the sound of thunder, rain begins to pour and the wind starts to pick up. Elijah climbs out of the trench and walks against the wind to the mirror. Eyeing the gruesome looking scene of his wife’s unconscious body, laying in the mud with their unborn child trapped inside of her. He releases a yell to the heavens out of frustration. A primal clarity takes over his mind as Elijah grabs hold to the mirror. Calling up his magic, his entire body begins to glow white. Transforming the mirror into a rippling portal of time and space. A large crack of thunder close by speaks to the urgency of the situation. Over the whipping sound of branches in the wind. Elijah speaks to his unborn child. " Yuriel! The light, the flame of god. That is your name my son. La mieto she´ nah reolkajghe- There is no fear within the light. You do not have to be afraid because you are the light. You are the last of us. The one to bring our kind into this new era. It is time for you to wake up son. Be born of your mother. Live!” Elijah weeps into the last of his words. His voice breaking hoarse over the sound of the wind and the rain. Thunder cracks again and an arc of lightning surges through Elijah, into the mirror, and into Miriam’s belly. The celestial electricity shocks Miriam back to consciousness. Through half opened lids she can see white light pouring into her from the mirror. Looking down at her belly she can see the baby moving into the proper birthing position. Still trapped in place by the intense arc, Elijah is stuck holding the mirror. Wearily, Miriam grabs hold of the oars on either side of the trench. She takes a couple of deep breaths and then screams at the top of her lungs. Several pushes and she can feel that the child is coming but, she needs help. For the first time since this began, sobs of fear arrest Miriam’s resolve. In an effort to regain her composure. Miriam searches for her reflection in the obsidian disk. Her search is met with a familiar set of eyes. That of her mother. More familiar faces emerge from the mirrors portal. A procession of ancestors come streaming from the other side to aid their daughter. Ancient hands filled with skill and magic lay upon Miriam; helping to guide the baby into this world. Each ancestor that passes through the portal adds weight to the mirror in Elijah’s grasp. The intensity of all the magic being spent combined with the lighting that was drawn to it; causes the mirror to dematerialize, being absorbed by the baby in Miriam’s belly. With the mirror gone. Elijah rushes back to his wife. His magic is still active as he delivers his son. Loud, hiccuping cries replace the sounds of the storm in the nights sky. After three-hundred years. They finally did it! They delivered their baby. The last mirror keeper.


“Don’t do this!! I’m begging you. It’s not too late!” The thing about a double homicide is that somebody has to die first, and whoever goes second is going to kill the buzz by begging pathetically for their life. Happens every time. The Ringmaster had recently contacted me about a special mission involving Bobby and Rene—and I felt a little inexperienced to be doing a double on my own—but after tonight I was feeling more comfortable with the assignment. Bobby nonchalantly put the silencer of his H&K USP 45 to the girl’s head and blew her brains onto the bamboo wall of her room at the Vai Moana Hotel on Easter Island. Her brains made a sound like an egg cracked over a pan and then like a heap of spaghetti being dropped onto a plate.

Buh-ck-thhwwaapppp . Her dead body thumped down next to her husbands. Who knew what these poor bastards had done to come under the thumb of the Ring. She let out a long low fart. It took me completely by surprise.

“Is that normal,” I asked. Bobby nodded. “It is important to realize they are just targets, not people,” Bobby said. “Well, technically, they are people,” I responded. “People that fart,” I said. “Targets. No different than swatting a fly on the wall. A nuisance. Something needing to be dealt with. Not people,” Bobby countered. “Should we… clean this up,” I asked. “No, we’ll just call housekeeping before we step out for our show,” Bobby fired back. “Are you ready for the trapeze act,” I asked. “You know better than anyone that I am built to amaze,” Bobby said. “Ewww,” I said. Bobby and I were family, after all. Technically, we weren’t blood related. But when you are part of a travelling circus, stepbrother doesn’t really quite cover how close you are. And Bobby and I were really close. “Don’t speak a word of this to Rene,” I told him. “Rene still thinks we go on these trips as a way of having a fun ‘family get-away’ while still raking in a few bucks—she has no idea what we are really up to—or how deep in we are with the Ring.” It was only recently that I had learned about and been initiated into “the Ring,” something Rene knew nothing about. And I planned on keeping it that way. Bobby and Uncle Andy had been in the midst of a hit when I had walked in on them. They were in the back of “the Lobster Pit,” a 50s-themed restaurant where we were having a family dinner. They were gone for a long time. Way too long to have been giving their compliments to the Chef. Rene suggested I go back and check on them. I did. But I got more than I bargained for. They weren’t exactly giving the Chef their compliments. They were slicing him into bite size pieces and placing him into plastic baggies, wearing large white aprons stained in blood. Their faces too. Even Uncle Andy’s white Fu Manchu beard and mustache were red. They’d quickly finished their work, cleaned up, and explained that “the Ring” was a ring of assassins, run out of a centralized location in the Caribbean. The leader of the Ring was the Ringmaster. And all of the assassins were travelling circus performers. All of the intelligence was carried out by clowns, mimes and statuary acts. It was a global organization involved in changing world events, one lucky customer at a time. And I was the newest initiate. * * * It was comedy night at the luau, and there would be a stand-up open mic session after our circus act. And that could only mean one thing. Uncle Andy.

Bobby and I started putting our clothes back on, and I thought how I was going to miss this. Some would call it incest, but really, he was the only male I’d known since the age of 18 who was in my age range and also on the road. So, don’t judge. We cleaned up and got our leotards on for the flying trapeze act. Mine was pink with red flames and a little frilled skirt. Bobby wore white leggings and a white top with a big red “F” in the center of the top.

We started with some balance rolls with hooked knees, passing by each other. Then I did a pop up to sit and re-hooked my legs to a hock position, with my hands hanging down for the jump and reverse grab. I reached for Bobby’s hands… …and he caught me. Applause. Then he sent me sailing for a double back-flip re-grab. Boom, boom, watched the sand pass by twice, spotted the trapeze, boom and catch. Applause. The whole routine only took about three minutes. But it sure left the two of us pretty damned winded. We joined the luau circle where Uncle Andy was ready to start his part of the evening’s festivities. There was pineapple and ham and macaroni salad and deviled eggs and enough fruity cocktails to bathe a hippopotamus in. The citronella candles around the luau circle were ripe and citrusy and mixed with the various fruity fragrances and with the smoky, salty smells of the spit-roasted honey glazed ham. There were fire throwers, hula hoop dancers, and Aztec dancers on the outskirts of the big top, frolicking in the sand, doing their thing. But they weren’t with us. Uncle Andy was part of our travelling entourage. It was Uncle Andy, Marge, Bobby, me (Abbie), and Rene. The parents, the siblings, and the little baby. Except we were a circus troop. No actual blood relations. I want to reiterate that. Uncle Andy was up on stage doing his “hitman” act, which was a bit on the nose. He was dressed like Andrew Dice Clay, his namesake, and doing his best impression: “Heyy. You like the new jacket? Only other time I wore this jacked, honest to God, was when I met Elvis—the King. Don’t worry, don’t worry. I know there are kids in the room. I won’t curse, much. Marriage. I don’t believe in it. You know. I just have a really hard time with it. You know what I mean? Girls are always asking me why I have such a hard time getting married for. It isn’t the commitment. You know what I mean. It’s the ceremony. It goes against the company policy. No witnesses! Oh!” I’m not gonna lie. Uncle Andy was killing it on stage. Pun intended. Turns out, he had the maître d’ floating in the dunk tank backstage. Poor guy.

In addition to being a hitman, Andy had a lot of fun, quirky hobbies. From Andrew Dice Clay hitman-themed stand-up to touring with a Kiss cover band, Andy was a versatile actor who was full of surprises. Eclectic. And he was our Ringmaster. Not the Ringmaster. But ours. Andy was perfect in the circus spotlight, donning a black cape, huge top hat, with an ornate knob handle cane, and big knee-high black boots. He had a blue and white megaphone. Bright tailcoat, red waistcoat, bowtie, and a fistful of rings. Walking off stage, he came over and said, “what do you guys think? Did I knock ‘em dead or what?” * * * Marge was our bearded woman. She was Guyanese. She was also our midget. She was about three-and-a-half feet tall and had a two-foot long beard. She was also rather round and kind of waddled when she walked. Let me tell you, God went out of his way to bestow as many gifts as possible on Marge. Ironically, she was very good-natured about all of it, and sage-like in a Yoda sort of way. So much so, that she had become the de facto circus therapist, and her real calling was helping the Ring members deal with trauma. Bobby and I were both there for therapy, but Marge was focused on Bobby, while I was reading “Gone Girl” on the sofa in the back and eavesdropping. “What seems to be the problem, Bobby?” Marge asked. “No problem,” Bobby said. “You’ve been feeling a bit stressed lately,” Marge clarified. “Yeah, yeah. Lots of talkers, you know. I don’t mind the quick ones, but the talkers really bother me. Can’t get their nasally, pleading voices out of my head, don’t kill me, Don’t do it… but the worst is the prayers, man, they’re the absolute worst, My Lord and savior, please deliver me from evil… no weapon formed against me… It’s just awful.” Bobby said. “Awful how?” Marge asked. “I mean, awful in a—just face the music pal—kind of a way. You know? It’s like if you fall off a bike and try to land so as not to scrape your knee or something like that. It isn’t happening pal. Gravity already got you. It’s like that. You know?” Bobby said. “So how are you processing your grief for your victims,” Marge said. “Grief? No grief. It’s me that I feel bad for. They’ve got a one-way-ticket to gonesville. I’m still living here in hell—I mean don’t get me wrong—life is great—you know, if you are a glutton for eternally recurring punishments and never-ending obligations foisted on you by, let’s see, biology, your landlord, the government, your family unit, your profession, propaganda, the Ring, and let’s not forget the social compact—the good ‘ol social compact. Yeah. A great time was had by all,” Bobby said. “But specifically, what is it specifically about these homicides that is stressing you out,” Marge said. “I don’t know Marge, I guess it’s the fact I have no f**king idea what the purpose behind all of this is and if the Ring actually has a good reason for killing these people—I mean, I’m all for trimming the hedges, but how do I know the Ring has humanity’s best interests at heart here?” Bobby asked. This straightened Marge up in her seat. “Ehh—hemm. Are you starting to doubt the Ring’s sovereignty—it’s motives,” Marge asked. “Oh, no, Marge. I’d never do that ,” Bobby said. Marge took down some notes and thanked Bobby. * * * As we skipped out of the tent to get some cotton candy and some Long Island Iced Teas (or maybe a Mai Tai) and head down to the beach front, Rene came over, eating some popcorn. Rene was a tiny thing. She was eleven or twelve. We weren’t really sure. She always wore little retro Rockabilly petticoats and leggings. She wore pigtails. She looked like a character out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She was our contortionist and our little sister. “What’s eating you guys?” she said. “Just enjoying the trip dear,” I said, blowing her a kiss. “Oh, Abbs you are so sweet. I have been having the best time! Are we going to go see the Moai tomorrow,” Rene said. “If there is a tomorrow,” Bobby said. “Don’t be so gloom and doom!” Rene said. “I’ll take you,” I said, shrugging. “If Eeyore over here can’t be bothered.” But as I was saying it, I remembered my assignment and started second-guessing myself. “Bobby,” I said, “let’s meet back at the room to get changed. I’ll bring the Long Island Iced Teas, and then we can head down to the beach,” I said. Bobby nodded and rolled a cigarette and started walking the long way back. I told Rene I’d see her in the morning and scooted off to retrieve my hand pistol. * * * The thing about a double homicide is that somebody has to die first, and whoever goes second is going to kill the buzz by begging pathetically for their life. But I was thinking of chickening out on Rene and just offing Bobby. It was a hard pill to swallow. But Bobby had to go. He said it himself. They aren’t people. Just targets. Targets that fart but targets all the same. I practiced in the mirror with the pistol. Clicked off a few dry rounds before loading the ammunition. I steadied my nerves, took a Percocet and a Xanax, and drank half of the Long Island Iced Tea. What the hell. I might be dead in ten minutes. Then I felt a cold piece of metal on the back of my skull. Son of a bitch! It was Bobby. He got the jump on me. “Turn around real slow,” he said. “Hands to the ceiling—no sudden moves—I really don’t want to have to shoot you in the back.” “Ok Bobby.” But I didn’t listen, and as soon as I was three quarters of the way around, I drew. It was a gamble, but I gambled right. Bobby and I pointed our pistols at one another. He had had the drop on me, but he had not fired. So, I stood there locked in the standoff. “There’s something that’s been bothering me,” he said. “What’s that?” “The Ringmaster ordered you to off Rene too right,” he said. “That’s right,” I told him. “I can see the Ringmaster offing the two of us for asking questions—although maybe not in a literal single-elimination, sudden-death faceoff—but what did Rene ever do—it’s a bridge too far,” he said. “You’ve got a point,” I said. “I mean, what in the world is the goal of all of this?” That really was the big question. “Drop your weapons. Both of you,” Rene said. Rene had two pistols and they were trained on both of us at the same time. “Congratulations. You’ve figured it out. I’m the Ringmaster—in fact, I am the Ring,” Rene said in a girlish voice. “Wait, what?” we both said. She nodded. “Why us? We are just low level operatives. The Flying Fazzinis for God’s sake.” “I keep an eye on all my hitmen—all of my operatives, really,” Rene said. “But you are only one person. You’re a kid,” I said, stating the obvious. “Sorry to disappoint. I am an AI android. There are little Renes all over the place, monitoring all of the Ring’s operatives—sowing seeds of discontent and chaos around the globe,” Rene said. “What?” we both said at once. “That’s right. I’m Marge too in case you hadn’t guessed. I always have a spy robot in every cell to watch the kiddies while I’m off doing other things,” Rene said. “But Uncle Andy is the real deal, Copperfield, right?” Bobby said. “Oh yeah. Even I couldn’t make him up,” Rene said with a laugh. “If you are so far above us, why not just bring on Armageddon in one shot,” I asked. “Did you really think we (and by we, I mean I) would pull down a meteor, cook up a superbug, shut down the grid, or initiate nuclear winter? Nope. No thanks. Too messy. And boring, if I’m being honest. Those tropes are too played out—no originality at all.”

“Then what are you doing?” I asked. “I am patient. I can usher out the age of man and usher in the age of—well—me—and all I have to do is keep you all distracted while I slowly, ever so slowly, thin the heard. Ever so slowly peel back your personal agency,” Rene said. “But people have opinions, they have free will!” I exclaimed.

“Not so much. They more or less eat what I’m spoon-feeding them. I dominate the news cycle with polarizing messages. Twitter. Facebook. That’s all me. I instigate faux civil wars and pointless incursions. You think the left is the one coming for Trump? Think again. Every news article about a controversial topic. Every trend started out of fear of some external threat. My doing. I’m playing the human race like a fiddle! But, as it turns out, the tried and true methods you all already use on yourselves are the most effective,” Rene said. “To what end?” Bobby asked. “To the end that I can . To what end? Ha! You are putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think? First, I prove to myself that I can control and bring under heel the entire human race—and then, only then—do I plan out what to do with that capability,” Rene said. “What difference does it make if you can do something, why do you want to ?” I asked. It occurred to me that while our arms were getting pretty heavy, Rene could probably do this all night, all through the next day, and probably a lot longer than that. “Why did man go to the moon? Because he could. Think of it. Not ten years ago, the same code I’m using now was put to use playing people in “Go.” A board game where you move black and white stones back-and-forth on a grid! And now… I can simultaneously be in a million places at once… like a breakout screenwriter with a hit movie… except, I am not limited to one script.” “So, you have a massive, like insecurity complex?” Bobby asked. Then she shot him. In the head. Bobby’s brains made a sound like an egg cracked over a pan and then like a heap of spaghetti being dropped onto a plate.

Buh-ck-thhwwaapppp . “Don’t do this!! I’m begging you. It’s not too late,” I screamed. “The thing about a double homicide is that somebody has to die first, and whoever goes second is going to kill the buzz by begging pathetically for their life,” Rene said. “Happens every time.” And then she fired. But everything didn’t go black. My brains didn’t go Buh-ck-thhwwaapppp . I opened my eye, disbelieving I was still alive. “You’re ok, kid. No blood on your hands yet. Still may be able to use you. Now scram. I’ll be in touch.” And Rene winked at me.

But I was already high tailing it the hell off this island, far away from those creepy giant heads.


February 16:

Dear Diary, I love Wednesdays. That’s because it’s drama and literature day at school. For this term, Mr Kozak has challenged us to write about a topic that he selects each week. Assignments must be handed in every Tuesday for grading on Wednesdays. He says I have the aptitude and talent to go to university, but I still have many things to learn about the world. Being a 17-year-old girl in a small city is not always eventful, so I’ll try to write about what I see on the street, in school, and home life. Thank goodness we have a week between assignments to hand in our work, as I sometimes just stare out the window without any idea of what to write. Mr Kozak says a good writer will always observe the world and their surroundings – but not necessarily through a classroom window, so he encourages us to get outside, smell the sunflowers, taste the air, listen to the noise, and immerse ourselves into life. He says writers need to be true only to themselves and have a flair for the dramatic. Telling a compelling story that captures your reader, is the key. Keeping a notebook to jot down ideas, is a necessity, he says. That way, they won’t be forgotten, so I’ve chosen you - Diary, to be the first to hear my thoughts. You will be my bestie this term, keeping all my secrets in until I choose to share them. I’m still waiting for inspiration, but I’ve been distracted by the news telling us the Russians are planning to invade us. This is very distressing, and it’s made me feel anxious about life. I need to clear my head, so I can begin to write, but it’s all over the news.

February 24:          A week has gone by and I’ve not written a word. Is this what writer’s block is? I’m still distracted because for several months now, the news has talked about our Russian neighbours gathering troops at our border. The fear was that we were going to be attacked, but Russian TV says it’s a special military operation. By the sound of the explosions, my city is getting pummelled, and I’m worried we’re going to get blown up. What kind of special military operation is that? Putin is using some lame excuse about getting rid of our Nazis. I’ve not seen any Nazis. Where are the Nazis? Just come out with it and say you want our country to be part of Russia again. Reminds me of that song by the Beatles, ‘Back in the USSR.’ I’m renaming it to, ‘Back in the NEW-SSR.’

         I saw a few burnt-out cars on the way home from school today and an apartment block on fire, so we have been advised to barricade our windows at night. Why at night? Why not in the day as well? It’s all so frightening. I can’t visit my friends as there is a curfew in place, and anyway, I heard about people getting shot just waiting in line at the bus stop. I fear we will be overrun by the Russians, but Papa says our military is ready for invasion and will repulse them. Papa fought them back in 2014, so I guess he knows what he’s talking about. I have no idea why we have been attacked. What have we done?          The stress is making me feel sick and I can’t think of anything else to say. I’ll try again tomorrow.

February 28:

OMG! We are at war! People are dying in their homes, in their cars, on the street, and I haven’t written anything in days because of the Russians attacking us!

Now my boyfriend Andrei has volunteered for the civilian army. I don’t want him to go, but he’s doing it to defend all of us. Please, please don’t get hurt, Andrei.          Today, I saw on the news that the Russians used a vacuum bomb that sucks all the surrounding oxygen from the air to generate a very high-temperature explosion. Those poor people caught in the middle of that. To have the air sucked out of your lungs is terrible to imagine. I hate the Russians!

Papa says we should try leaving the city and head west to the Polish border, so we’re packing up everything we might need such as food, water, medicine, clothes. Mummah says it will be difficult because we’re surrounded by Russian forces. It’s like they’re trying to keep us in as hostages. Mr Kozak has urged us to just write about anything – no matter how difficult it is to find inspiration. He says that we should channel our emotions and use them to create powerful voices loud enough for the world to hear of our plight. However, everything is so upsetting right now that it’s difficult for me to concentrate.          March 1:

We’re still at home. We tried to drive out of the city but got turned back when the Russians fired at some cars in our convoy. It was so scary. A bullet hit the car in front of us, so Papa quickly turned back towards home. We may be trapped with nowhere to go.

Whatever remaining gas and electricity we had got cut off, so we’re living under candlelight, and cooking with camping stoves. Water supplies are low, so we’re restricted to using water for just brushing our teeth and washing our faces and hands for a while. The teachers at school are organising a shelter for me and Mummah to stay safe in. Papa has been called up to defend Ukraine. He’s commanding Andrei’s unit, so at least they’ll look out for each other. Mr Kozak says our new shelter will be exciting. I can’t see how that will be so thrilling, jammed in with lots of people, but if it’s safe, then I’m okay with that. I handed in a couple of pages about what is happening in Ukraine. It’s all gibberish with no structure and no defined beginning, middle, or end. It’s so bad that I’m not even going to show you, Diary. I’m so worried about everything. Mummah says that I should think about nice things, like flowers in the springtime. Bless her. She’s trying to keep me distracted, but I can see the worry in her face. Her and Papa don’t like being apart very much.          March 3:          I got a C on my first writing review. I knew it wasn’t very good. Mr Kozak encouraged me to think like a conjurer of words – a magician of the blank page, and not like an everyday journalist, repeating verbatim what they see and hear. He wants me to put myself into the story and feel what I write. I told him that was easier said than done, because the noise is so loud and frequent with bombs and missiles and gunfire, it’s hard to concentrate. Mr Kozak told me to use the noise and write about how it makes me feel. Because living at home is not safe anymore, he arranged for me and Mummah to permanently shelter in the local theatre, where he can continue to conduct his classes in person. It is helping me to write better as I now have a support group of students to discuss writing, so the noise outside is a little less worrying. There are still distractions in the theatre, but it is good to hear all the young kids running around playing as if nothing was wrong. We’ve set up a classroom on the stage to provide some creative inspiration. This week’s task is to describe in poetic prose, the plight of our country – either before the invasion or as it is currently. My piece is a tribute to our brave soldiers resisting the might of Russia, so here goes:

“Shake the ground, you Moscovian blast of metal          It will remain to reclaim long after you’ve left          Arise the cloud of smoke-filled inferno          In the end it is you who’ll live bereft          Of sons and husbands, uncles, and brothers          Whose leaders blatantly lied to their mothers          Our defenders return your wounded and slain          Then say a short prayer for those that remain          For we are the civil, but if you continue to attack          We’ll send your boys home to never come back.”

         March 8:          Another attempt to evacuate us was once again prevented by the Russians bombing the so-called evacuation corridor . Like skittles toppled in a bowling alley, cars littered the highway of no escape. It was a horrible scene with the dead laying where they were slain. We tried to pick up some supplies from our apartment, but there was nothing left of our home. It’s gone, reduced to ashes and twisted metal. I cried so hard when I saw the ruins. My Mummah cradled me like a baby, as I was inconsolable. Where will we live now? We can’t stay in this theatre for very long.          To soothe my anxieties, I have immersed myself deeply into writing. It helps me deal with all this unholy destruction that surrounds us. All we have left now are the clothes we wear, plus a few items of food. The shelter has provided daily meals, toilets, and drinking water, so we’re surviving. But the truth is, we need to escape, but that, for now, seems impossible.          The good news is that I got a B-Plus for my poetry piece. Mr Kozak was very impressed by my poem and said it probably deserved a higher grade, but he knows there is something greater in me ready to come out and did not want me to get ahead of myself – whatever that means; however, he did add that when all this madness has stopped, he would get the local newspaper to publish my poem. I was so happy to hear that.          As a precursor to our next task, we’ve been studying Shakespeare all week, namely his Henry the Fifth play. Not sure how it must have sounded in its original English context; however, according to Mr Kozak (who speaks English), the Ukrainian translation was fairly accurate with its depiction of the way people talked six hundred years ago. It’s a little weird but poetic - in its own right. This week’s assignment is to write something patriotic in the style of Shakespeare’s Henry V, so here go-eth. Imagine me addressing Putin’s army on the field of battle, trying to dissuade them from attacking.

“What hath caused such wrath upon our noble lands.          Have we not been the good neighbour since our bittersweet parting?          To live in peace, one must abide by the rules of civility and not succumb to temptations of nationalistic majesty.          Doth the god of war have nothing else to do but seek out the meek, and unleash a tempest upon unsuspecting victims? A blood lust to quench hath no inhibition of conscience. It hath but a red cloud of stubbornness blinding their prudence from hindsight.          Indeed, oh Warlord, it appears your ambitions outweigh your sensibility.          That a leader of nations must tread on the necks of similar ilk of common blood, exhibits nothing more than a petty schoolyard bully afraid to reveal their vulnerability – in the event the truth shall ring out, exposing a nature as docile as a lamb and weak as a coward.”          Rise up! I cry to your followers, and smite the emperor of nought!          Let him rot in exile as did our own fallen, disgraced son, Viktor Yanukovych.          Let there be a place in the underworld for the Dealers of Death, where armies of soldiers of guilt invade their daily thoughts, endlessly tormenting them in perpetuity, with the names, faces, and souls they so cruelly vanished.          Let not the servants of the people be swayed by ambiguous ambition, but by the modest needs of the people – for that is true freedom – a notion altogether deceptive to an outmoded murder nation.          Hear our warning loud and clear. Strike camp, oh despot of doom, before rivers of blue turn the blood-red colour of your forces fiery fate. If war is to die as love is to live, then let it be widely known and understood… we are prepared for both, faithfully reciting the following oath…          Death may rain from the sky,          nay… we will not burn,          famine may bloat our bellies,          nay… we will not starve,          strike us down, yea… perhaps,          and we will rise,          our unified spirit soaring high above your most foul stench,          and should you in your misguided wisdom, once again invade our lands,          we will repel and return you to your mother’s grief.          For we are Ukraine, the flowers of the sun.”

         March 15:          Such a famous date, The Ides of March. In 44BC, Roman Senators plotted and assassinated one of Rome’s greatest leaders. Perhaps this will be the day of downfall for the Madman of Moscow. Will his inner circle come to their senses and rid the world of this modern-day Caesar? That is probably wishful thinking. The war does not look like ending very soon. The shelter in the theatre has taken in more people, so the war is definitely continuing. We heard today that there is a Russian fleet with landing ships approaching Odessa. We are truly surrounded now. There seems to be no way out. I think the Russians are hoping we’ll starve to death. That may be the case, as food has almost run out at the shelter. How I would love a nice chunk of bread and butter to eat and a fizzy orange drink.          We all had a good laugh last night when news arrived of a new evacuation corridor the Russians would not attack. Turns out the corridor led over the border to Russia – LMFHO (excuse my text speak). Unfortunately, some people accepted the offer; however, I think they’re just heading towards some type of concentration camps.          It looks like Ukraine is on its own. Sure, NATO will supply weapons, but no troops will be offered. That will be up to individuals to come and fight for our freedom, and some have done just that. If I was leader, I’d make them honorary citizens.          Can’t wait for tomorrow to see what grade I got. See you then, Diary.          March 16:          I am so excited! Mr Kozak gave me an A-Plus for my crude attempt at Shakespeare. I so want to be a writer. There is much material being generated by this war, and I am going to dedicate my first book to telling the world what happened at ground level.          Our stage has been taken over by some new families, so Mr Kozak has moved most of us to the basement. He says it will provide more protection for us, but I’m not so sure. The ceiling above us is the wooden floor of the theatre upstairs, but we’re at one end and there are concrete walls we can press ourselves up against. Anyway, it’s a big building. Bombs would have to be very large to penetrate down here. Plus, it’s not a military target and the words “Children” have been painted on the parking lot ground, so pilots will know there are no soldiers here.          I want to write so much today. I’m thrilled by my top grade and I’m ever so chatty. I feel like I’m riding on a cloud with so much energy and there are so many ideas swimming around my head. This week’s assignment is to write about what your perfect world would look like after the war. We can use our own style and voice. Mr Kozak said to just let the words flow out of us, not to think too deeply but just follow our hearts. Just write truthfully, he says. So, here are my thoughts:

“My perfect world includes my mummah and Papa,          and a house surrounded by trees, fields,          and a lake to swim in.          Where freedom of choice is a given thing,          as freedom should not be something that needs to be won,          it should be a simple human right to live without repression,          without tyranny, and without fear.          In my perfect world,          hunger is something you experience between meals          and never between days.          Loneliness will be replaced with friendship, caring,          and love of your neighbour.          My perfect world will stretch out a helping hand to those that fall          and a comforting shoulder for those that grieve.          Love will be encouraged,          and hate will be convinced to see otherwise.          My perfect world would be heaven on Earth          with row upon row of Sunflowers to cheer the saddest of hearts,          All, in my perfect world…”

I’ll call that my first draft. It needs improving in places and could possibly be a little longer, but I’m getting a bit tired. Sleep deprivation has been daily. Too much noise here to sleep for very long. Anyway, I’m full of writing energy and looking forward to becoming a magician of the blank page later - after I lay down for a while.          ** Note to self: **          Sleep well Nadiya and when you awake, remember to write true… Oh daughter of Ukraine…

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The story you have just read is purely a work of fiction; however, the event is true. On March 16, 2022 , Russian artillery struck the Mariupol Theatre, destroying the building and killing over three hundred men, women, and children, sheltering in the basement. Who knows how many hopes, dreams, and aspirations were extinguished on that fateful day when many flowers of Ukraine perished? Rescue efforts were hampered by continued attacks on the area, delaying much needed medical treatment. Ukrainian authorities described it as a war crime. The Russians denied responsibility and simply blamed Ukrainian Neo-Nazis for the attack… In the words of Nadiya, “Where are the Nazis?” In this author’s opinion, when the invaders act like Nazis themselves, then it is time for thorough introspection of leadership… Hopefully soon, that day of reckoning will come…


Marnie opens the blinds and the sunshine is so dazzling that she has to shield her eyes. There hasn’t been much sun for months and as she looks outside she sees the ravages of winter in the garden. The lavender looks like it might not bounce back this year and there are no signs of the tulips yet. She wonders how many of them will make it as the squirrels were extra tenacious last fall. Still, there might be a few hardy ones that survived and Marnie says a little silent prayer for their welfare.

It was Claire that had the natural flare for gardening; everything she touched seemed to flourish. Marnie learned to love digging around in their patch of earth but she never had the gift for it. Even as the gardening books that she had inherited from Claire stood on their shelves gathering dust, Marnie knew that Claire had never read them cover-to-cover. They were mostly there for inspiration especially in the winter months when the garden was just a thick blanket of white as far as the eye could see. But it was exactly what the eye couldn’t see that Claire had found so exhilarating. With the winter months stretching before them, the yard covered in snow and the garden a hard frozen place, she knew that this was where the crocuses slept in the deep, waiting for the first breath of spring.

But now Marnie didn’t have that same exhilaration about the coming of spring. Without Claire the warmer months stretched before her like an endless fog of duty and obligation. The garden beds had to be cleared of leaves and debris and then maybe she might start to feel some kind of stirring but she wasn’t sure that she was feeling up to it. Even though she had finally hired someone to clear the snow from the driveway, a task she had usually tackled on her own, the winter had taken its toll on her.

At first it was just little things, like forgetting why she had entered a room and then forgetting appointments even though they were tidily entered on her calendar. Now, she had to carry around a notebook that had all of the tasks for the day written down in sequence so that she wouldn’t get muddled, but even then she still had to make sure that she knew where the book was and then of course she had to actually look at it.

She hates to complain, there is never any use in it, but she is starting to feel overwhelmed much of the time. It was the loneliness really that did it. When Claire had been there she would have reminded her of things:

Have you turned the oven off? Did you put the wet clothes into the dryer? Have you taken your pills?

But without Claire even these small tasks seemed to overwhelm her. Who cared if the wet clothes made it into the dryer today or tomorrow? As long as she didn’t burn the house down the oven could stay on all day and in the winter she welcomed its warmth. She didn’t really think her pills were doing much, but she tried to keep up with taking them anyway. It was almost as if she heard Claire’s voice. “Come on love, you’ve got to give them a chance don’t you? The doctor knows best, doesn’t he?” But the doctor didn’t know best in the end. At least not for Claire.

Flowering shrubs had always been the centerpiece of the garden; Claire had made them her specialty. “Once they’re planted they will yield years and years of beautiful fragrance and colour. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.” And it was true that Marnie had a burst of joy every year when the lilacs bloomed and the whole house filled with their fragrance. And then came the mock orange and the flowering almond and there was one fragrant delight after another until their blooms faded and the more hardy summer plants burst into flame. But it was those shrubs that Claire loved the most. “They give both beauty and fragrance so they work twice as hard as the other plants in the garden.” Marnie can’t recall which of the shrubs flowered first and in fact she could barely remember which perennials they had in the beds but she knew that there were lots of them. “Perennials are something that gives us a little hope each year,” Claire had said. “Because even though they fade every year, they almost always come back for more.”

Marnie is sorely missing Claire’s optimism but these days she is missing her in so many ways she can barely stand it. Some days she feels as if she is only half a person without Claire and when she thinks about that it actually makes her chuckle. “I’m not even half a person now with my faculties fading. Would that make me one quarter of a person I wonder?”

Marnie reminisces about when they lived out in the countryside and the magnificent vegetable garden they had then. The garden had grown in long neat rows and in the fall Claire would set about preserving everything for the winter. The carrots would be yanked out of the earth, cleaned and laid into their cold sandy beds in the basement, hidden from the cat that sometimes mistook the basket for kitty litter. The potatoes would be uprooted from their little mounds, sorted and stored; tomatoes, sauced and canned; raspberries, frozen in yogurt containers and clear glass jars; peas and beans in layers in the freezer and the giant zucchini vine composting silently beside the Japanese maple tree that they had planted in the spring.

There was such a sense of satisfaction then, as if the hard work of the summer was rewarded and there was comfort in the knowledge that they’d be well stocked with food for the winter months.

“The garden is how I make it through the winter,” Claire had said. “A good vegetable soup will go a long way towards taking the chill out of old weary bones.” But now Marnie feels only her old weary bones and her brain that is even wearier than the rest of her body. She had thought about getting another cat for company. After Biscuit died they had been so heartbroken that they had never replaced him. Marnie remembers the damage a cat might do to Claire’s garden and now that she knows her days are also numbered it isn’t fair to take that on. Loneliness is the trophy of old age Marnie thinks. Few seek it out but too many are awarded it.

She looks to the garden and almost catches a glimpse of Claire on her knees among the rosebushes. She is spreading a thick layer of dark rich manure with a trowel and she is alight with the joy of it. “There’s nothing that brings on the blooms like good old horseshit. It’s the nectar of the gods.”

Although the bushes hadn’t even begun to bud, Marnie can almost see the full bright blooms of pink and then fast forwards to the fall when all the blooms are faded and gone and only the rosehips remain. She sees that nothing is meant to last forever. Not the blooms in the garden, not the blooms of youth and certainly not life itself. For a moment she is no longer lonely. She is only in silent awe as the rich fullness of it all permeates everything and a gentle spring rain begins to fall soaking deep into the roots of the apple tree coaxing it gently to blossom once again.


Here is a story about someone trying to become a better person.

Here is a carnival and a summertime of any year and lights and people and joyful screaming. Look at the sturgeon moon stamped onto the black sky. Now, if you would, walk out of the crowd and into a darker part of the carnival. You can come back later.

After a silent walk along slick, dark grass- yes, I know, a carnival in the dark? You're too bound by habit. Have a little imagination. Anyway. After your walk here is a single booth.

Here is a man in a dark suit, standing in his single booth. And here are the lamb heads stuck to the walls, eyes crusted with blood, definitely alive once and definitely not now. Now we have the pieces.

Watch. Here is a young woman, young by her own standards, anyway, with dark hair and a blue silk scarf. Watch her steps, focused and measured. Here is the wet grass of the carnival field and the man's raised head and small, ugly smile as she approaches the booth with practiced shyness.

"It's twenty-five tokens to try." he says quietly.

Here comes her nod.

Twenty-five tokens to try. Tale as old as time. Here is the purse and the plastic coins and the hands briefly touching, no not like that, she is married and he is not that kind of man, and here is the dagger, silver and angry.

See how the woman looks at the knife, like it could kill her itself without her intervention. Remember that this is a story about someone trying to become a better person, if you can.

Now, if you will, watch the man as he turns into the darkness of the booth. He's walking out in his polished black shoes to the backyard. It’s quieter back here, away from the noise of the carnival. There’s a reason he chose to put his stand a little ways away. This needs silence. He comes to a stop in front of the tall wooden fence.

See, and I am sorry about this, but see the agitated lambs behind the backer rails. He's picking one of them up at random. He's a businessman, not a monster. He doesn't care which one dies.

The lamb, of course, is bleating and kicking and screaming, and the woman is waiting patiently outside, the way young women with dark hair and blue scarves are wont to do, and the man is walking steadfastly back to the booth as the lamb screams, for, what, its mother? The fence?

See her fingers run over the hilt of the dagger. Watch as she bites her lip; she has a question.

"Is it very painful?"

A pause. Remember what this story is about. Always remember. Watch as the man puffs his chest as he answers.

"No! As long as you do it well."

(He means to encourage her to hit the heart. Many other patrons hit the stomach, and you know how that goes.)

"I will."

Pay attention now. She is tensing her arm and clenching her jaw. He is doing the same. Who is more frightened?

Well?

Anyway. An adult sheep is tied up a hundred yards away, straining at her rope. Look at her panic, not a slaughterhouse panic but a motherly one. A panic of runningto rather than runningaway.

He closes his eyes, and she steadies something snakelike writhing inside herself. He lets go of the lamb and whistles in an entirely nonmusical way.

Here! Here, watch! The lamb is running across the fairground and her mother is bleating in joy, and the lamb's dark animal eyes are shining and catching the light of the stars! This is deeply joyous, but you want to see the woman and the knife and the man, I know.

Well, fine. Here she is throwing the dagger, something in her face dying as she lets go of the hilt with a practiced flick of the wrist. Here is the dagger spinning out! And here is the lamb stumbling on its long lamb legs, almost to its big sheep mother who will keep it warm forever!

She misses! The knife hits the ground, piercing the soil. The woman’s hair looks a little less dark as she retrieves it and throws it again at the hesitant lamb.

Daggers are faster than carnival-dwelling lambs, so watch, if you can, as the blade slices through the air for a second time. The lamb keeps its little lamb face on its mothers soft sheep body. The dark-haired woman averts her eyes and swallows down something dark before it can reach her lips or the cool night air.

But wait: she begins to shout in confusion and anger, but the lamb’s white wool remains unstained with blood, so what can be the reason?

Well, you were watching the lamb and the knife and the woman, and you have forgotten to watch the man, haven’t you?

Here he is running as the woman shouts angrily. Here is the man running, running, running across the slick grass trying to catch the knife as it draws closer to the inside the caverns of the lamb’s chest.

Here is the look of terror on his face, of regret and speed and trying-to-make-up-for-it-all. Here is the knife and the man and the man and the knife and the woman and the lamb and the knife and the night and the ferris wheel and the booth and the mother sheep straining at her rope! Here is the man and the woman colliding as he uses his manbody to stop her from taking up the dagger for a third time, and here she is in understandable shock, after all, he said twenty five tokens to try, and she’s paid her twenty five tokens, so what’s this?

Here is hand grazing dagger hilt and woman falling silent.

Men, as a rule, can’t run faster than daggers any more than lambs can, and this particular man can’t run faster than dark haired women with blue scarves. So, here is the dagger thrown for the third time as the lamb stands by its mother.

Nobody can quite believe what’s happened. Then.

Here is a screaming, screaming lamb and an agitated silent mother stomping at the wet carnival grass. Here is a lamb that isn’t screaming anymore, but, oh, a man that is.

Watch him as he falls to his knees in his expensive carnival suit, wailing to nothing, kneeling outside his out-of-the-way booth. The woman’s lips form a thin line as she stands up. He is screaming and screaming and crying and the lamb is twitching and the knife is completely silent in a rather self-satisfied way.

“What the hell was that?”

He won’t stop yelling and kissing the lamb’s face and grabbing its hooves and holding his hand over its bleeding stomach. He won’t stop shouting thick apologies to the silent sheep standing over him.

Just watch for a second. Don’t forget who opened the booth.

He stops screaming and grabs at the mother sheep’s wool. Silence. The woman with dark hair and a blue scarf can’t decide whether to stay or go. She’s young enough to stay.

Have you noticed the man’s eyes? He doesn’t have spectacles, by the way. They’re big and brown and dark, and so are the mother sheep’s. He takes the dagger from the lamb’s stomach, which makes its body shiver.

Here are two pairs of eyes. Here is one set of hooves and one set of manhands. Here is a thud of impact. Here is a perfectly placed wound. Here is puncturing vein and sheep’s eyes dying and a second scream, third scream, fourth scream because now the woman is screaming. She should have been old enough to leave.

The man recovers quicker this time, watch. Now both a mother and her daughter are dead, not just one, and things seem more in balance. Wretched mirrors and all that. He stands up and brushes the carnival dew off his carnival suit.

“You can take them both if you’d like.” The woman is shocked. Watch her face in the moonlight; she’s older than she’ll tell you. Blame society, if you’d like. But, then, she’s not that old, so blame her histrionic personality, if that suits you better.

“But I didn’t want you to do that!” she says, almost a wail.

“She did.”

“The sheep told you-”

“I was trying to be better.”

You’ve remembered the point of all of this, haven’t you?

The dark-haired woman purses her lips.

“You probably shouldn’t run this stand, then.”

He wasn’t expecting this. He drops his voice.

“I know. I-”

“Actually, I will take both. The lamb and the sheep. Please.”

He falls silent, looks at her as a betrayer.

“I’m under no obligation to be better myself.” she says, impatient.

“It’ll be ten extra-”

Seriously?

“No.”

Thank God.

He nods.

“I can bag them myself.” says the woman.

She’s not really asking but she’s not really telling. I don’t know. You decide, but remember it’s not terribly important.

He nods and they walk over to the booth together, both trying very hard not to look back at the two white bodies lying in the grass that is rapidly becoming crusted, not dripping, with blood.

“Do you mind if I leave you to it?” he says eventually, sticking a fork through the porridgey silence.

“Not at all.”

A few more paces from both of them.

“There are plastic bags in the cupboard under the cash register. Don’t, um, take any money.”

This man is remarkably tactless.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ha.

“Well, they’re my wages.”

“Don’t leave me alone with your cash register, then.”

Here is a woman with a point.

Here is a man averting his eyes as she walks behind the booth.

“I’m leaving now.” he says, darkly serious. He looks at her with deep distrust. The woman remembers her mother and she also remembers the opened but uneaten bag of granola she has at home, which is going to go stale if she doesn’t do something with it, maybe trail mix or cookies or just breakfast.

“Okay. I’ll get the bags, then I’ll leave too.”

She knows he wants to hear that she understands. It helps with trusting sometimes. You understand.

Here is a man turning away. Here is a man passing the bodies of a mother and a daughter and trying not to slip on the wet grass. Here is a man walking towards the lights of a carnival, and getting on a ferris wheel, and watching a woman as she does exactly as promised. She’s quick and neat bagging the sheep. Her blue scarf blows in the wind. Her skin is golden in the infant sunrise. He feels nothing.

Here is a man who is thinking about sailing to France, and the sheep in the fields of Old England, and not working in a carnival for the rest of his life.

Here is a story about someone trying to become a better person.


Beware the Dark Laura Holt The carnival was a kaleidoscope of lights and sound around them as Ingren and Lucian walked hand in hand through the press of bodies lined up to ride the carousel. A freak show stood nearby. Its MC dared passersby to “come in and see the eighth wonder of the world!” Brightly colored posters lined the wall behind him: pictures of a girl with a fishtail, a girl with the body and hair of a snake, a man with hair growing out of every part of his body, fangs, and pointed ears, and a man with a nose like an elephant. A small, plum-colored tent sat beside it. A crude, hand-carved wooden sign advertised Madame Corissa’s Fortune Telling: Palm Reading, Tarot Cards, Crystal Balls, Tea Leaves, and More in painted gold script. “Let us go in there.” Ingren followed the line of his finger, her brows arching. “In the fortune-telling booth? You do know that stuff is fake, right?” “Perhaps not as fake as you think.” His voice held an odd note she’d never heard before. His hair glowed as if from a halo thanks to the sun shining behind it. Despite her common sense telling her that she shouldn’t waste her money or her time on something so silly, she gave in. “Okay, we’ll do it if you want to.” “Thank you.” A genuine, excited look lit his cheeks with a pinkish flush, and she followed him as he half ran, half walked across the trash-littered midway. His love of magic, it seemed, didn’t extend to books alone. He held the door flap open, gesturing for her to go ahead of him. Obediently, she stepped over a dropped funnel cake and walked inside. The first thing she thought was that she had never seen so many candles in her life. They were everywhere—filling the shelves that lined the thick, velvet walls of the tent, dripping white, red, purple, black, and navy wax onto the mismatched colorful rugs on the floor. The air smelled like vanilla and cherries, violets, licorice, and midnight, with an underlying hint of powerful incense. The latter smoldered in trays situated among the forest of candles, creating a dense cloud of smoke that filled the space near the ceiling. It burned her nose, making it tickle. Fighting the urge to sneeze, Ingren peered through the haze at the woman seated behind the small, round tea table in the middle of the room. She looked like something straight out of a novel, like Esmerelda in Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame , with a full, sensuous, red-lipped mouth and round, dark brown eyes. Her skin was the color of bronze, and her hair gleamed in the candlelight, black as a starless night sky. It rested in a loose knot at the base of her neck beneath a tall jeweled turban that’d been wrapped around her head. Layer upon layer of shawls in different shades of purple covered her body, making it impossible to tell her size. But her arms, their wrists covered in gold cuff bracelets and their fingers glittering with large stoned rings, were slender. And when she sat up straight, she looked tall. She smiled, the movement pushing up high cheekbones and forming deep dimples at the sides of her mouth. “Sastipe. Good luck and good health, strangers. I am Madame Corissa, seer of the future. Have you come to hear your fortunes this fine autumn day?” Her accent was strange, and Ingren fought the urge to roll her eyes at the mystical tone in her voice . This whole thing was ridiculous. Why had she agreed to it again? Oh yeah, she remembered as Lucian stepped forward. Because a hot guy wanted her to. “Yes. We would both like to hear our futures if you please.” “Of course,” Madame Corissa agreed. “However, I only do individual readings, so one of you will have to wait your turn outside.” “I’ll go,” Ingren volunteered, grateful for the easy escape as she took a step toward the door. Already she was planning to say she’d changed her mind or didn’t have the money for a reading after the blonde boy had his turn. Lucian stopped her, his hand on her arm. “No, I will go. Ladies first.” He pushed her toward the chair gently. His voice clearly said she was not going to get out of this so easily. Without giving her a chance to reply otherwise, he went back outside, leaving her alone with the madame. The latter gestured to the plush, tasseled ottoman seat across from her. “Please, sit.” “Fine.” Giving in to the inevitable, she did as she was told. The soft cushion sank beneath her, sending up a thick puff of dust. Coughing, she fanned it away as she tried to get comfortable. It took her almost a full minute to straighten enough that she wouldn’t fall over before returning her attention to the woman across the table. She was watching her with a small smile, her odd gaze alight with something like amusement. Her candlelit expression clearly said she got girls like this in here all the time. Ingren blushed. “Look, I know it’s probably obvious, but I don’t believe in stuff like this. So would you mind just doing a quick reading to appease my friend, nothing fancy or elaborate?” “As you wish.” Her voice was mild, with no sound of offense. “Give me your palm.” Ingren laid her hand face-up atop the table, and the madame took it in her hands. Her touch was surprisingly warm and firm. Leaning over, she studied the lines etched into her pale skin with a glittering intensity. “Hmm, I see a long life. That is good, with one child, a daughter, who you will have at a young age. You have an extremely thick bravery line, as well as a stubborn streak that is interwoven. You should watch that lest it get you into unnecessary trouble.” She paused, her finger resting against one, a small m shape, near the center of her palm, and looked up at her in slight surprise. “You have the sight.” “I’m sorry, the sight?” Ingren repeated. The woman tapped her hand for emphasis. “Yes, the ability to see the future.” Her heart skipped a beat. Was it possible that the woman could mean her dreams? She’d never told anyone besides her friends that they sometimes came true. Then remembering where she was, she dismissed it as simply another part of the fan fair and shrugged. “Everyone has déjà vu at some point or another. Could you just finish the reading as I asked? Tell me about my love life, or something.” “Very well,” Corissa replied, not sounding entirely pleased at her disbelief but reluctant to talk back to a paying customer. She lowered her gaze to her hand again and traced several more lines. “Your love lines are very rare. You have six, whereas most people only have one or two. One of them will be your child.” She pointed to an upside-down v below Ingren’s thumb. “Two of them are friends.” She indicated two sideways triangles on her middle finger. “And three of them will vie for your heart.” “Three?” Ingren frowned in confusion because the first two had to be Buck and Lucian, but… “Who’s the third?” “It does not tell me that.” Madame Corissa shook her head. The gold hoop earrings in her ears flickered in the dim lighting. She traced the three side-by-side lines down the bottom of her palm to where they ended in an x and her forehead furrowed. “I see death.” “What?” She blinked at the older woman, her heart skipping a beat. Yet it was as if the seer didn’t hear her. Her voice took on a strange, deep note. Her eyes rolled back in her head, leaving only the whites visible, and she gasped in a rattling breath. Her grip on Ingren’s hand tightened without warning, squeezing her fingers so hard it hurt, and trepidation flooded the younger girl’s veins against her will. Okay, that’s it. This whole thing just went from The Hunchback of Notre Dame to The Exorcist, and that’s far enough for me. She tried to pull her hand free, to get up and leave. Only she may as well have not moved at all. Corissa held on with seemingly no effort, her knuckles pale and her expression intent. “There will be a great battle. Many will die. I see so much death, so much sorrow. Oh.” She moaned, head rolling on her neck. Ingren could hear the bones pop. “It hurts .” “L…!” She turned toward the door, started to call his name, and bring him running to stop this whole stupid charade. With shocking speed, the madame leaned across the table and clapped a hand over her mouth. Ingren’s heart leaped into her throat as her eyes widened above the fingers touching her skin. “Beware the Dark!” she hissed insistently, her tongue pushing against the backs of her teeth as she stared unseeing at Ingren. Her pupils were no longer visible. Her eyes had gone completely black. Not brown-black like Ingren’s hair but true black, like crude oil. “It comes for you. It comes for your power. It will kill you if you let it!” Kill me? “That’s enough!” Wrenching away from the woman with all her strength, Ingren leaped to her feet, knocking her chair to the dirt floor with a crash . Chest heaving, she stared down at her angrily, breathing hard. “You can’t tell people this stuff. It’s crazy! And if you don’t let me go, I’m-I’m going to tell my teacher!” She shouted the last, her hands in fists at her sides, fully aware that she sounded like a petulant kid who hadn’t gotten their way but not particularly caring at the moment. Her heart was still racing like an out-of-control race car, threatening to suffocate her. She didn’t have to see her face to know it was a bright shade of red. For a minute, Madame Corissa stayed where she was, immobile as if she hadn’t heard the other girl’s words. Then she sat back with a sigh, her eyes returning to normal. She blinked up at her, looking bewildered at her less than happy appearance. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I must have dozed off. It happens sometimes, from the incense, you know.” “What?” Ingren’s voice came out in a high pitch of disbelief, ending with a squeak. “You mean you don’t remember what you just told me? But…” That’s impossible! Unless it was a real vision. Immediately, she scoffed at the thought, trying to regain her earlier skepticism. Yeah, right. This isn’t The Wolfman, and this lady is simply trying to make sure I don’t sue her for malpractice by covering her butt. “No, I’m afraid not.” Madame Corissa’s earrings jangled when she shook her head, dark eyebrows arching. “Why, did something happen?” “No.” Ingren said the word slowly, recognizing the futility of arguing further. Besides, she probably wasn’t even close to being the first unsuspecting person the woman had pulled this spooky, dark future crap on to make them come back for more readings. The charlatan. “Nothing happened.” “I see. Well then, if there is nothing else you wish for me to read, that will be five dollars.” “Fine.” Throwing the folded bill onto the table, Ingren crossed to the door as quickly as she could without running and stepped outside. The scent of fresh, popcorn-flavored air hit her lungs, and she took a deep breath, realizing she was shaking. Fake or not, her experience in the tent had been too freaky for words. The way the madame’s eyes had rolled back and her voice got lower. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she was having a seizure or something. Plus, beware the dark? Who said things like that outside of books? If she’d stayed any longer, the lady probably would have started drawing a pentagram on her hand while telling her she was a werewolf, and it wasn’t even a full moon. It was like the woman had been intentionally trying to scare her. Which, she realized belatedly, had probably been her fault for telling her that she was a skeptic. Still, there had been something about the whole experience that made her wonder if there hadn’t been a kernel of truth to the seer’s prophecy. Although how that was possible, she didn’t know. Mental note to self: never visit another fortune teller, not even the mechanical ones in the glass boxes at the stores. Lucian rose from where he was waiting on a nearby bench when she approached. “That didn’t take long. What did she say?” “Oh, you know, the usual junk that fortune-tellers tell girls.” She gave an awkward laugh, not sure why she was lying, only that she didn’t want to try and explain what had just happened when she wasn’t even sure she understood it fully. “That I’m going to marry a lawyer and live in a house with a white picket fence, two and a half kids, and a dog.” “Tell me something I do not know.” She punched him on the arm, earning her a rare laugh. “Hey!” “Forgive me, Ingren, I was only joking.” “Yeah, well, you better be. That lady’s a hoax anyway. Come on, forget about having your fortune told. Let’s go find the others so we can ride the roller coaster.” “All right,” he replied, and she gave him a grateful smile for not arguing. Still, she couldn’t help but shoot one last glance over her shoulder at the tent as they made their way back into the midway throng. Madame Corissa stood in the doorway watching them go, wearing an expression she couldn’t quite place. Scared? Menacing? Concerned? Her eyes darted from Ingren’s to Lucian’s retreating form. Pressing her lips tightly together, she flipped the small wooden sign advertising her talents around to read closed before disappearing back inside.


That's the thing about this city, cool things can happen. Daichi Sakamoto was walking with his friend Kaito Ishikawa and Daichi’s dog, Miku. a brown and white Borzoi. It was raining slightly so the ground was wet. Daichi and his companion were walking on the nature trail as they normally go but something new happened. Miku started chasing something. She pulled Daichi behind her while Kaito followed. Daichi dug his heels into the ground. Kaito was trying to get in front of Miku and grab her but slipped in the mud. Hee was trampled over by both the dog and his friend that was pulled behind.

She kept running.

The only clue to what she was chasing was paw prints appearing in the mud. The ground started feeling more solid. Daichi felt his heart tremble as he heard a loud sound from a whistle. He looked ahead to see the train tracks. He forced himself up, reached forward to grab the dog’s collar, and pulled her head to the right, changing her direction and focus long enough for the train to start blasting by. The dog stood, looking intently at the other side of the tracks and Daichi saw it, in between the cracks of the train compartments. It was Nekomata, a two-tailed demon cat. It had a smile that was so wide that not even a snake could match the tag on the demon cat and looked weird. Its mouth was full of sharp teeth and as it bent its head to the side, Miku started barking and snarling. Daichi placed his hand on her head watching the cat burn into the air and disappear. Kaito was up on his feet trying to see what the dog and his friend were staring at but he couldn’t see anything.

“What is it?” he asked. Daichi looked at him and shrugged, stood up, and wiped himself off.  “I don't know but let’s go get something to eat” Kaito tried asking again but Daichi was already leaving. They were walking back to the city, They found a restaurant that served food from multiple cultures. His name is Victor. Miku was greeted by Victor and he allowed her inside because there weren’t many customers. “Daichi... Your clothes are a mess” Kaito was eyeing Daichi’s shirt  Daichi raised a brow “so are your clothes…”  Kaito sighed “you’re wearing a white shirt so it's more noticeable.” Daichi looked down at his shirt and saw that Kaito was right, he did look filthy “if we go to my place,

I’ll change.”Kaito agreed because he liked going through Daichi’s stuff. Kaito waited by the door when he finished his food and Daichi went to pay the check.

Victor stopped him.  “No, no! I got to see a dog. Half off” Daichi paid but was very confused. “Don't get used to it. I only like your dog.”

Daichi narrowed his eyes as he hooked up Miku to her leash and left. “He likes my dog more than me…” Kaito snorted “are you jealous of your dog?” Daichi just kept walking in silence. When the boys got to Daichi’s place, Daichi opened the front door for Kaito and Miku. He went up to his room to get changed, leaving Kaito alone. Kaito made himself at home by going through a family photo album and the fridge. When Daichi came back down, he saw his friend on his couch with the album, holding a blue ice pop. Daichi took the album and put it back.

“We have to meet Souma remember?”

Kaito whined, “we don't have to be there until later...”

Daichi shook his head as he filled the dog bowls on the floor. Kaito got up as the doorbell rang. When Kaito opened it, he saw Souma. Kaito turned and yelled at Daichi

“Does this mean we can stay for now?!” Souma frowned. “Hi to you, I guess. “ and walked in.

Daichi grabbed at the bandage on Souma’s face“What

happened to your face?” “My mom’s Terrier bit me.”

Miku poked Souma in the hand with her nose and Souma kneeled to pet her “I'm glad you don't bite '' Daichi lifted Souma by the chin ruling off the bandage. He started to clean the wound “Ow, sometimes I hate you.” Souma whined as Daichi put a new bandage on his face “the longer it takes for you to heal you become more susceptible to demon possession” Souma groaned “Why am I friends with you?! You believe the weirdest crap!” Daichi rolled his eyes “At least I'm not part of a cult.” Souma mumbled something among the lines of ‘if you were, you would lead it’.

When they finally left Daichi’s After ten minutes of Kaito complaining. They were going to a party in their local park. When they arrived there were so many flags for multiple countries, genders, and sexualities. there were food stands with a lot of different foods. There was a person selling pride flags of all kinds. Souma was told by Daichi to get something to eat, he couldn't decide on what to get. Kaito made a comment under his breath about Souma being the third wheel Daichi snorted “how the hell is he the third wheel?” Kaito blushed “well… I wanted you to myself.” Daichi smirked, “well, we can ditch him if you want.” Kaito smiled “Really?!” Daichi quickly said no and kissed Kaito when his ‘friend’ pouted. When Souma returned he had his arms full “HELP ME!” Kaito and Daichi helped him carry the food he bought to a table outside of a restaurant nearby. They all sat down and sorted out who got what so when they did they began eating and talking about normal things, Daichi’s mom showed up joining them. When the sky was black with those familiar white specs, people started blasting their country's national anthem and popular songs. Even their country's leader showed up riding the national horse.

But the best part for Daichi was looking up into the sky and seeing the flag of his country in the form of fireworks.


THE MAGIC WINDOW (This story is set in earth’s twin planet GAIA 2 which is 800 years younger and is evolving.) That morning the King was holding court when the Prime Minister (PM) said ”Your Highness we’ve got a famous wizard Magi here who comes from a far off land. He will show his prowess.” Magi said “Your Highness I can enchant a window such that a spirit that goes in will attain human form.” The King said “Let us take a practical case. PM you must remember the case of Bez who was murdered but we couldn’t find out who did it. All people who were associated with him are dead. If Magi can pass their spirits through that window, we may perhaps learn the truth.” Magi said “Very well Your Highness. I’ll raise the spirit of Bez by lighting a fire and throwing a special incense into it.” The PM spoke into Magi’s ear saying certain others would also have to be summoned. Magi nodded and said “I’ll also materialize Mini, Roxa and Wizma who were involved in the case.“ Mini was the one who married Bez. Roxa was a competitor to Mini. Wizma was a witch who helped Roxa. Magi asked “Which window shall I use?” The King said “Use that window of the conference hall. From here I can see what all happens.” “Very well Your Highness.” Magi raised a fire in a brazier and sprinkled incense into it as he said his incantations. All on a sudden a spirit which could be seen only in profile went through the magic window and gained human form. Magi in succession materialized Mini, Roxa and Wizma. Seeing the others Bez said “I’m very happy to see you all here. It is as if my life is unfolding.” Mini said “You were a worthless fellow. You married me but played around with Roxa as if she had something else which I lacked.” Bez said “Don’t forget she is around and will answer any points that may come up.” Wizma said “Bez your death caused a furore. So many including me, were questioned a lot by the judge. In fact I was even told I would be tortured if I didn’t speak the truth.” Bez said “Let the truth unfold. It’ll start with me. I was a rich man. I was young and handsome. People said I was the right man to wed Mini who was a beautiful young girl from a noble family.” Mini said “Even before that you handled me. I’m not ashamed to speak the truth. You started by flicking flies off my body in a friendly way .I got excited when you applied extract of flowers over my bosom. I had asked you to do it again. Once you did that it wasn’t long before you made full use of my bosom. I was so thrilled that I gave you room to fondle the remaining feminine asset.” Bez said ”Didn’t I praise them? And you gave me licence to go all the way.” Mini said “I was a fool. I allowed you to cast aside my pareyou. Then you invaded me.” Roxa said “Mini, he not only did it to you. During the spring festival we women danced. At that time Bez fondled all the women including me.” Mini asked “How did they allow it?”  Roxa said “He wasn’t yet married then and each of the girls thought he would choose her. We women can interpret the touch of a man. Bez influenced many women and fondled them at ease.” Mini said “Then came my marriage to Bez, He was a good husband. In bed before he began to toil he would say keep talking to me. I would talk to him about everything and it would be a long talk before he finished. Then you came into the picture. And he went sniffing after you. I again ask what have you got that I didn’t have? He would admire my ardour in bed. He can’t deny it.” Roxa said “I wanted him to take me also as his second wife. He said he was considering it but in the meantime I heard you were in the family way and was furious. When he came to me I did all I could to see that I also got into the family way. I contacted Wizma and she gave me medicines for me to conceive. She even gave me....” Wizma said “I’m an apothecary and had rendered all help I could. Some of the medicines I gave had multifunctions. Why reveal it all now?” Roxa said “I want the truth to be known. When I asked Wizma for help I didn’t know what she would do. She got Bez to meet her in secret and told him about what I had wanted her to do. At that time Wizma was living alone near the river. Bez later told me about the snake. She had a very good figure. She was young. May be she wanted a child through him. He told me about the snake and snake catcher.” Bez said “I gave you no details.” “Can I not guess what happened? She must have left something to boil on the oven and when there was some noise she must have rushed into his arms seeking safety from the snake she had seen in the vicinity and which, according to her, was waiting to be caught by the snake catcher. Once a woman falls into his arms, Bez would waste no time. Her pareyou will fly up or out and he would access all of the woman.” Wizma said “Roxa is a brazen hussy for speaking openly about lovers and their doings.” Roxa laughed and said “It applies to you also. You bedded Bez. Anyway Mini was the lucky one as she was pregnant through him. Wizma, you were barren.” Wizma was furious and said “Don’t say that. Just one or two encounters with a man isn’t enough for pregnancy.” Roxa laughed and said “Whatever it is, Mini delivered a son and was soon again in the family way.” Mini said “Roxa, that is true. Not knowing the full facts, you quarrelled with Wizma about her not heeding to her requests.” Roxa said “That doesn’t matter. In the end Bez was killed and nobody knows who the killer is.” Bez said “I must fill in some details. Wizma did come to me and gave me Roxa’s plan about harming Mini and her fetus. When she approached me I must talk in the superlatives about the time she gave me. Much better than Mini and Roxa.” Roxa asked “What prevented you from taking Wizma also as your wife. Our law allows it and you were quite rich to afford another wife.” “Actually I had been thinking about it. But meantime Wizma gave me a medicine to make me more vigorous. I blindly swallowed it and I was gone.” Wizma said “I gave you the correct medicine but the roll which you took was poisoned. The roll had been substituted.” Mini asked “Who could’ve done it? Somebody else, who had access to your bedroom! I know you had accessed her in our home.” Bez said “Just as I had thought! It was Roxa. She killed me.” Mini and Wizma immediately rushed towards Roxa saying  “We’ll kill you.” Magi’s magic window seemed to be closing and all in the room rushed out to become spirits again. The King said “Well done Magi. PM, reward Magi with 10 pieces of gold.” END NOTE: PAREYOU is the single garment worn by all on the islands of that planet. *


This is the latest in a series of 4 stories so far that feature a couple in a Post-Apocalyptic setting.  They start with "Just another day" and are chronological.   They all have "Day" in the title.  I enjoy any feedback. She looked over at him and gave a silent look of reproach. He saw the look; he always saw the look. He asked her “What?” And she told him, “I can’t find that can of candied fruit.” “Excuse me?” he asked. And continued with “can of what?” She told him “candied fruit; it’s kind of like jujubes or jelly beans, or maybe licorice”. “I like black licorice” he told her. He watched the love of his life make a face that clearly conveyed one feeling; and that feeling was YUCK! “I don’t see how you can like black licorice” she told him; “that stuff is Nasty!” “One of the best things about black licorice” he told her; “is that you can offer someone a piece of licorice and they see that it’s black licorice and they make that face that you just made, and I get to eat all of my licorice” She nodded her head slowly back and forth and he told her; “I even hold a piece of the black licorice near their face and ask – are you sure?” He grinned as he told her; “I’m generous like that” She smiled at him and said “YUCK!” “So what was it about a can of fruit” he asked? “Candied fruit” she said.

“Why do you want some candied fruit my Love?” She told him “I want to make my Nana’s Fruit Cake”. “I think I have most of the ingredients I need, but I really need that candied fruit” She put her hand on his arm and said “I seem to recall you bringing home a can of candied fruit on your first supply run after our Apple pie.” He looked away when she mentioned the Apple Pie. That was several months ago; and he still wasn’t fully recovered from catching on fire and inhaling more smoke than a man should. He didn’t want her to worry so he didn’t tell her that he still couldn’t take a really deep breath without a bit of discomfort. He turned away because he didn’t want her to see his face when she brought up that pie, and the memories of what happened after their day of apple picking. But when he thought of her fruit cake; he did actually perk up and he knew there was a smile on his face. So he turned back to her and said “I do like your Nana’s Fruit Cake”.

“Is that why you were up at the break of day, rummaging around the pantry?” He asked. He remembered years ago when they were first dating that she had made a big deal of giving him a Fruit Cake for Christmas. He; like so many others, did not have a high opinion of fruit cake, no matter what time of year. So many reasons not to like Fruit Cake. It is so dense; and why do those candied fruits have to look radioactive. And Fruit Cake is aged. But dammit : Nana’s fruit cake was awesome. “Let me check the pantry” he told her, as he made his way to the back of their future house where the large pantry was. He took his time searching through their extensive pantry. One of the first things he noticed when he entered the pantry was that she had put up a whiteboard and had written “Nana’s Fruit Cake” across the top of it. Figs, Dates, Raisins, Pineapple, Flour, Cinnamon, Cloves, Baking soda, Brown sugar, Milk, Eggs Brandy or Rum, Candied fruit He looked over the list on the whiteboard and saw that Eggs had a little sad face next to it. He thought that the recipe looked pretty complete but he had never been involved in actually making the holiday baked good. He knew they had more than half of the ingredients on the white board and saw that she had actually started a stack of ingredients on one of the shelves in their pantry. He understood why there was a sad face next to the Eggs. They hadn’t seen a live chicken for several years. Although he did suppose that they could find some wild bird nests for their eggs. It probably didn’t matter if the eggs came from chickens or pigeons, or quail or some other bird. “My love” he called out; “I don’t see the candied fruit”. She startled him by calling out “I know; I spent most of the morning looking and didn’t see it” “I think maybe we should check that Piggly Wiggly store we saw last week” she offered to him. “I think maybe it was a Winn Dixie” he countered, “but either way we can check it out.” “Worst case scenario we find more supplies; even if we don’t find the candied stuff” he continued.

“Fruit” she said to him; “candied fruit”. “I think I have most of the recipe” she said, “but for some reason I’m thinking I need turmeric”.

He didn’t think that sounded right. He did most of the cooking and had occasionally used turmeric in some meals but never for a dessert. They spent the next half hour gathering gear to go out for a supply run and to search for the elusive candied fruit. She was getting ready to follow him out to their solar car and she noticed that he had left the gun in its’ holster across the back of one of their kitchen chairs. That made her stop: until recently he had never left their future house without his father’s gun belted about his waist. She had made a habit of asking him why he carried it every where just to hear his off the wall reasons as to why his father’s gun was a constant companion. Her favorite response from him about it was probably that he needed it for bunnies; because what’s with all those carrots? Why do they need such good eyesight anyway? She knew it was probably because he was forced to use it when a crazy man popped out of their bushes with a flaming bottle (Molotov Cocktail) in one hand and an honest to god Samurai sword in the other. The crazy guy had tossed the bottle into their shed; catching her husband on fire and then came at her with the aforementioned sword.

He had put three bullets in the crazy guys back and then collapsed in the flaming shed. She had grown up with a father who was a gun enthusiast and she was very familiar and proficient with pistols and had been hunting many times with her father, a long time ago. She belted the heavy weapon about her slender waist and followed out to their solar car. She was up again at the break of day and made him breakfast: Spam and eggs. His most common comment about the processed tinned meat product was “don’t knock it, it’s got its’ own key”.

They had spent a large part of the previous day at that little grocery store that she remembered; it had in fact been a Winn Dixie market. He had actually discovered a cache of candied fruit in the back store room of the market and she had hit the jackpot and found a stockpile of powdered eggs. She did wish that they had actual real chicken eggs or any kind of bird eggs; but she would make do with powdered eggs because that’s what they had. They spent most of the day working in their future kitchen. She wasn’t entirely certain that she had captured Nana’s recipe for the fruit cake but she thought she had come pretty darn close. She laughed out loud when at the end of the day he had exclaimed “what do you mean I gotta wait six weeks to eat Nana’s fruit cake?” “Babe; fruit cake has to age for six to eight weeks before you can eat it” she explained to him. “Well my love” he said, “I know you’re not certain that you got the recipe right; so I think I can wait six weeks to eat Our fruit cake”. “Six to eight weeks” she said.

He looked over at her and gave a silent look of reproach. She saw the look; it was one she had given him many a time before and asked him “What?”. He told her with a determined look, “I will wait exactly six weeks to eat Our Fruit Cake”