In his tiny acorn-cup bed, lined with spider silk and tufts of early green moss, Bugul Noz began to stir.  The sun had set several hours before and the sky was aglimmer with ice blue stars dangling like delicious dew drops from a blackbird’s wing. Bugul Noz could just spy them through the jagged hidey hole of the tree trunk he called home.  He stretched his scaly limbs and rubbed his dry tongue over what was left of his pointed crooked teeth.  Oh what thirst! How he wished he could reach up and grasp one of those mysterious twinkling droplets and bury his face into it, leeching up every last morsel of its cool wetness.  The daydreaming of it just about drove him wild! How long had he slept? It could have been months for all he knew.  He kept no calendar and, being a nightcrawler as he was, never saw the changes of the seasons in the vibrant colours of daylight.  No, the forest in which he lived, come summer or fall, was forever cold at night. Frosts came and went, yes, but beneath the ancient, silent pines, no flowers or berry bushes could grow and bloom to signal the start of spring.  The consistency of Bugul’s surroundings pleased him very much and he was often entirely alone for years.  The odd squirrel, a little lost fawn or an army of beetles may strut about the base of his treehouse, but as for visitors, he had none.  Besides, he dared not face them even if a caller did come knocking at his little doorway for he was Bugul Noz, the most wretchedly hideous being to ever roam the good green Earth, so utterly unbecoming that even the slightest glimpse of his horrible face would strike the onlooker dead in an instant. And so, he kept well to himself, going about his business in the shadow of night.  It suited him nicely.  He had never uttered a word to another soul and wouldn’t be able to muster the courage even if he wished it.

And tonight was just the same as all the others before it in the Great Forest; cold, quiet and entirely Bugul’s for the taking.  He clambered to the entrance of his hollow and unfolded his tattered, papery wings. Dust powdered about the air as he did this and immediately Bugul let out an enormous sneeze.  The sound boomed about the silent wood and bounced its way back to him.  “Bless you!” he muttered to Echo.  “Thank you, but it was not I who sneezed,” came a whispery reply from just above his head. Bugul’s eyes shot up at the seemingly endless tree trunk towering above him.  There, clutching onto the sides of the tree he could just make out a tiny blue creature with long limbs and near-invisible silvery wings criss-crossed with shimmering veiny filaments, fine as gossamer thread.  It seemed female, it’s voice light and body so dainty.  It had not looked down to see Bugul who immediately darted back into his hollow, heart pounding, mouth drier than ever with fear and utter astonishment.

What was this creature? How had it come to be here? And why of all the trees in the Great Forest had it alighted upon his very own pine tree home? Bugul’s mind raced with questions, but he dared not ask a single one.  He wished he could slip away, burrow his way right through the trunk and allow the damp mossy soil to swallow him up at the tree’s roots, but he was trapped.  The sound of scratching began on the trunk outside, slowly getting nearer and nearer and with horror, Bugul realized the creature was trying to make its way into his hollow.  “Come no closer!” he shrieked without thinking.  His raspy voice, hoarse from disuse barked the command which blasted about the forest.  Bugul shrank further back until his wings crushed against the rough wooden wall behind him. But the scratching continued as whatever it was clawed its way down the tree towards him.  “But I must,” whispered the little voice.  “My wing is torn and I cannot fly.  I must rest here and try to mend it before I continue on my journey.” And before he could utter another warning, a tiny, elegant blue limb reached down into the hollow, pulling the rest of the little creature in along with it.  Bugul shielded his face with his rough lichen coat and cowered in the corner.  He longed to peek at the mystical being which had just invited itself in, but he could not allow it to see him.  A visitor was one thing, but a dead visitor… As much as he loved solitude above all else, Bugul did not wish the first person he encountered for as many moons as he could remember to die the moment it cast eyes upon his face.

He listened as the little fae (for surely it must be one of these fabled beings, so delicate and breath-like?) scrambled into a comfortable spot on the floor of his dusty home and let out a sigh like tiny bells tinkling.  “Safety at last,” she said.  “I flew straight into a heavy cluster of pine needles and shredded my wing but luckily I tumbled close enough to this trunk to reach out and catch myself.  Do you perhaps have a needle and a thread? I have my work cut out for me.”  Bugul, shivering now, tightened himself ever more into a little ball, breathing quickly, blind panic raising the hairs on his knobbled kneecaps and elbows.

“I know you are there,” whispered the little voice again, closer this time.  “I can hear you panting away.  Do not fear me. I am a friend in need, I have not come to harm you.  I ask only your assistance.  My name is Alette.” Perhaps it was her gentle words or merely the fact that Bugul absolutely could not escape neither the place nor the situation that made him relent.  He slowly loosened his grip on himself and, one arm covering his face, he shuffled over to a shelf against the hollow’s wall, roughly hewn from the innards of the trunk.  There, he groped about between pebble pots and spoons and plates carved from chips of bark until he found what he was looking for: a miniature sewing kit – needles made from cured dried pine fronds and bundles of sticky thread bravely harvested from the black widow’s web as she’d distractedly sucked the life out of a freshly caught cutworm. Clutching the objects in one hand and masking himself with the other, Bugul crawled cautiously over to the blue fae resting on the ground right in the middle of his living room.  Bugul suddenly felt embarrassed by his home.  He had not even a moss rug nor a butterfly wing curtain to add some comfort to the space.  Indeed, it was as dry and bare as his gnarled little feet which protruded so obscenely from the bottom of his bony grey legs.  He felt heat rise in his cheeks as he remembered his ugliness.  How could he stand to be so close to this magnificent being? He dropped the needles and thread on the floor and rushed back to his dark corner where he balled himself up again in silence, tucking his toes out of sight.  After a moment there came the sound of light fingers pawing at the items. “Thank you, friend,” breathed Alette at last.  “You have just what I need!  I shall begin my work.” Bugul listened as the fae unraveled the tacky spider silk, sucking on the end to narrow it as she threaded the pine needle.  He heard each crisp pop as it punctured the glassy wing again and again, weaving the web through the wing, making it strong again.

After some time the fae spoke again.  “Tell me of your life here friend? This is wearisome work and tales of your world will give me strength, if you would be so kind as to entertain such fancy?”  Bugul was mortified.  What could he tell her? His days were as empty and lonely and uneventful as could be. The forest, unchanging and quiet had no secrets to tell and nor did he.  Perhaps he should invent some story, bewitch her with a tall tale of imagined escapades and make her sigh and laugh in wonder.  And oh, what a delightful laugh that would be! Bugul imagined it twinkling like silver chimes and his old heart fluttered a little in his chest.  But then, remembering who he was, he thought better of it and instead, he opened his mouth to speak his truth. “I am Bugul Noz,” he rasped.  “And of my life there’s not much to tell. It’s quiet and empty and cold here in the Great Forest.  I move about only by night and I sleep by day.  I see no one and keep to my own business.  Your visit is an occasion for which I am not at all prepared..” he trailed off, quite ashamed of how pitiful his existence sounded.  But then Alette spoke again, “Well friend, you are the most prepared person I could hope to find on this fateful night.  Where else in this lonely forest would I find exactly the tools I needed to mend my broken wing?” And with that Alette completed her final stitch, stood up and stretched out her crystalline wing.  Her handiwork was barely noticeable amongst the glistening lattice that roped its way about it and she let out a tinkling giggle of delight. Ah! The sweet sound! It was more exquisite that Bugul had ever imagined! How he wished to embrace this beautiful creature, to see her smile and delight in her wonderous presence and, dare he dream, to make her laugh again! “Good as new!” she hummed as she replaced the needle and thread into the tiny kit and closed it shut.  “Now allow me to thank you, friend.” And before he could shout to her to keep away, the fae had reached for Bugul’s brittle arm and spun him around to face her.  “NO!” he cried in horror as his gaze met hers at last.  All the magic of her laughter that had filled the hollow with such light and gaiety seemed to be sucked from the air around them. He should have recoiled, tried to spare her but he knew it was too late.  The damage was done.  Instead, he looked into her opaline eyes to catch the last moment of her living beauty, frozen in fright at the sight of his face, before she crumpled to the floor, like the last rose petal dangling from an autumn bud.

Bugul fell heart-broken to his knees and scooped up the fae’s limp blue body in his withered arms. The newly stitched wing grazed the dirty floor as he stood up to carry her to entrance of his hollow.  He peered out into the silent night. A chill breeze rose up and rustled his ragged coat and made the fae’s tiny, still-warm limbs shiver against his body. The moon, high in the sky now, cast mocking shadows about the forest as it toyed in and out of heavy clouds which had gathered above him.  Far off, the rumbling of thunder broke the morgue-like silence of the forest.  To think he could be her friend, to entertain her with his stories, to keep her any sort of company.. oh what a fool!  A bitterness boiled inside him as he released the fae back into the night from whence she had come.  She was feather-light, almost weightless and he watched as her tiny form floated leaf-like in gentle spirals to the bottom of the forest floor.

“It is done,” Bugul whispered to himself gazing once more at the heavens.  And slowly, one by one, ice blue droplets of rain began to fall from the sky.


Monica left the party in a hurry, her face red with the tears of shame. She looked back towards the big house where the party had been, hoping to find a a friendly face somewhere, but all she saw were the same people looked back at her. Some were the 30ish red heads holding flute glasses of champagne and various well to do husbands and boyfriends looking back through the windows and porches. It was almost as if they had formed a cordon around the house, making clear that she had been banished like Adam and Eve had been from the Garden of Eden. The rain started pelting on the top of her blue Ford Fairmont, which looked out of place in parking lot full of Porsches and Mercedes. Monica fumbled with her keys and got in the car. closed the door and sobbed as the rain came down even harder, cascading down the windshield blurring the light from the lamp posts. "Why,? Why?" She started the car and pulled out of the parking space and left the manor property and out into the night. Her doctor had told her that after her experiences, she should try to socialize more and try to resume some sense of normalcy. "Sometimes," he had said to her. "It's just as important to build new memories as it is to recover old ones." "Well doc, it's not easy socializing with anyone when you have a 6 year gap in your life. I mean, what will I say when people ask me what I have been doing for all this time. ' The little psychiatrist looked at Monica over her yellow legal pad for a moment. "Consider this an exercise for you. You see, the memories of those past 6 years are still there in your mind and yes, sometimes after a traumatic event, a lot of memories will get repressed. A lot of people say that the memories are simply buried beneath the surface; I would rather use the analogy of a dam that's blocking the river flow. Dams have to withstand a lot of pressure to keep the river from overflowing. That's why there's regular maintenance on them Sometimes, little cracks develop over time and some of the water comes through." "So you're saying that if I go ahead do some regular activities, I might gain some memory back?" She sighed. "it's possible. You never know." Now, several weeks later, there was nothing normal at all. She had gone to the party fully expecting to see her coworker, Madeline there. Madeline was always the social butterfly, flirting with the men and showing off her long red locks of hair playing with while teasing them. Monica was shy and had very mouse brown hair that drift lazily down her shoulders and very often wore broad, wire rim spectacles and was considered by most to be a sort of spinster.  Madeline seemed to feel sorry for Monica and had invited her to this party; however, when she had arrived at the party, no one at the party seemed to know who Madeline was and denied any knowledge having invited either Madeline or Monica to the party. If that wasn't embarrassing enough, there was the incident in the main hall. Something happened.. .... but Monica drew a complete blank. All that she remembered was going into the main hall. There was a the winding staircase near the far wall that lead to the upper floors and in the center of the marble tiled floor was the oval shaped table filled with hors d'oeuvres and the ice sculpture in the middle. After that, there was nothing.. a blank space where another memory should be. The next thing she remembered was being face down on the marble tiled floor with her without any clothes on at all with a few bruises on her body. Some of the men at the party had leered at her and whistled but these were quickly ushered out of the room. The women had shaken their heads at her and none of them offered to lift a finger to assist her as she got up slowly. The only exception was the house maid who had found her clothes in the 2nd floor bathroom and the rest of her belongings. No one told her anything about what had happened. She kept on driving down the road and onto the interstate to find the hotel that she had used. Madeline had set up for previously and told her that she would meet her there before the party. Madeline never showed but she did call her. Surely she should be there by now. She arrived at the motel on the north side of town about an hour later and opened the door to the room. The wallpaper in it was peeling and the lamp was still on as was the heat and the room was not empty. Her psychiatrist was there waiting for her. "Where's Madeline?" Monica demanded. " What are you doing here? Madeline was supposed to be here." "It's okay, Monica. There's nothing to worry about Madeline is safe" "Safe?! I just went to a party like you said and I ended up face down on the floor, buck naked and everyone staring at me. Safe doesn't even fit. Now where is Madeline?" The Psychiatrist pulled a lighter from her pocket and lit a cigarette... then the sound of the television turning on... then nothing.... One day later, the news channel was playing in a room. "Breaking news. There was a mysterious death that occurred at a the mansion of the Petersons. Zach Peterson was found dead in his bedroom the morning after he had hosted a party. Witness say that they did notice anything unusual about Zach during the party and that he had danced through the night and was in a good mood. The cause of death is currently under investigation. " The psychiatrist looked at the woman in the hospital bed, holding the chart in her arms. "You did a good job" a man said. "absolutely brilliant. " He shook balding head in amazement. "A perfect killer with a perfect alibi as a girl found buck naked at a party. I don't know how you did it." The small woman gave a slight smirk. It's amazing what you can do with the human mind. In some ways, it's like a computer. You just partition off a section of it and fill it with what you need, then lock it off until it's needed. In this case, it turned a shy, awkward woman into a highly skilled killer. "Madeline.. Madeline......" the woman murmured. "Who is Madeline?," the balding man enquired. "That's her name", the psychiatrist replied. "The killer we created in the empty space of her mind"


For the Blood of Scotland Suzanne Marsh The old Crone of Galloch was absolutely furious! Cauldrons swirled around her cottage, the wind tore a swath of destruction through out the kingdom of King Angus. The Crone thought about the mischief she could cause, since King Angus forgot to invite her to the castle for the christening of Princess Isobel. Rumor had it the child was fair of face with a small rosebud mouth. Queen Saundra, refused to have anyone near her precious little baby. She and Angus had waited for a child for twenty years. Saundra, sought to protect Isobel from the world. The Crone of Galloch knew then that she would give a tarot reading for the king and queen. She would see to it that the reading came true, it would cost Isobel her life. Yes, her idea was perfect. The Crone hobbled off the next morning to do the deed. Her gray hair hidden under her black hood and cape. Her gray dress, wrinkled and torn. King Angus had forgotten his promise to her to allow her to see the child. She would see the child now, nothing could stop her. She had given tarot card readings for several generations of Angus of Forfar children. The ceremony was set for sunrise, she had to hurry. The Crone snuck into the castle beside a goat cart. When her time came she would do the reading no matter what. She had just entered the inner castle when she heard the skrill of the highland bagpipes. The ceremony was about to start. King Angus entered first, then Queen Saundra carrying the Princess Isobel. The Crone remain silent her face hidden by the cowl. When she saw the Princess Isobel, she was moved by her beauty. The tarot cards might be favorable so she would not read the cards correctly. She thought: 'it will be more of curse than a reading.' When the baptismal ceremony was complete the king and queen turned to show their beautiful baby to the entire kingdom. It was then the Crone came forward: “Your majesties, I have come to read the tarot cards for the Princess Isobel. I see she will enter the convent, your line stops with her.” She cackled as she left the king and queen standing there open mouthed. The Crone, hobbled quickly back to her cottage. The king's wrath would descended upon her soon there after. Her cottage was burned; she was put in the gaol. The king was still outraged after having her placed in the gaol; he then banished her from not only the castle but the kingdom upon her release. Time simply does not stand still not even for a king and queen. Isobel grew from child to a true beauty of the realm. Her beauty was known throughout the kingdom. Princes from as far away as Germany and England wished to marry her. King Angus, plighted her troth to Prince Heinrich of Prussia. They decided she would be wed before her sixteenth birthday, thus avoiding the future or so they hoped. They summoned Isobel one early morn: “My child, Prince Heinrich of Prussia, is to be your betrothed. There is also something we have never ever told you, but we now feel it is time to disclose what the Old Crone of Galloch predicted for your future. You see, my child, according to the tarot cards, you are to enter a convent, there to eventually become the Mother Abbess. Our line will end with you, that is of course if you choose to follow that path.” Isobel, was stunned: “Father, why did you not tell me this before. I don't wish to go to the abbey, whichever one that old Crone selected. I am a Princess!” King Angus groaned out loud, Isobel was very head strong; he pitied the Prince that married her. He scratched his beard; stalling for time before he answered Isobel. He simply could not see Isobel as a Mother Abbess; she was such an extraordinary beauty. Finally, he spoke: “Isobel, perhaps you could go to Melrose Abbey for a few weeks, that should satisfy the Old Crones tarot readings. We, have to placate her.” “Father, I can't believe that you would send me there in the first place. No I won't go.” Angus, was becoming exasperated: “You are going Isobel, we must keep you safe from the Crone.” “Father, I can't believe that is the tarot reading I was given, that my birth and marriage will not keep our line alive. There has to be some other way.” The King merely shook his head: “You are going my dear daughter, we have to fool the Crone into thinking our line is going to end with you.” Isobel stamped out of the King and Queen's receiving chamber slamming the door as hard as she possibly could. Who cares really if our line continues or the Stuart's take over. The following morning, she set out in the King's finest carriage, with gold spokes. Her face concealed behind the curtains. It was a glorious spring day, the birds were singing, the bees buzzing and the flowers blooming. Isobel, felt tears welling up in her eyes, she had to do what her father suggested but she did not have to enjoy it. Suddenly, there was a pistol fired, then horses thundering down upon the carriage. Isobel, cowered in the corner of the carriage; as the carriage came to an abrupt halt. One of the highway men, opened the door of the carriage, motioning Isobel out of the carriage. “You have nothing to fear Madame, we just want your purse.” “I am not carrying one, I am on my way to Melrose Abbey.” The lead highway man inched his way over. He stared at Isobel, with the most startling blue eyes she had ever seen: “You are going to where?” “Melrose Abbey, where I am going to live for several weeks.” The highway man was so intrigued with her beauty, he swept her up on his horse. The three highway men galloped off into the sunset with a prize they never thought possible. One of them had recognized Princess Isobel. They stopped at a tavern for the night. They would ransom her the next day for a kingly price. The lead highway man bound her delicate hands and feet. “Why are you going to Melrose? Any Prince, man for that matter would marry you in a heart beat.” “I have no choice, the Old Crone of Galloch, read the tarot cards at my birth, I am to become the Mother Abbess, someday. I can not see myself in that roll.” He smiled down gently at her. He removed his mask, then said: “Princess Isobel”, he knelt as he addressed her. “Your servant your highness, I am James Stuart.” Isobel was taken aback. “James Stuart, are you the pretender to the Scottish throne? My father fears you.” “I am sorry to hear that. Do you fear me fair lady.” “No, I don't.” Isobel, felt a strange urge to kiss him. She motioned him to rise. Perhaps she could still prove the Crone wrong. James, undid the roped he had just tied. “We ride for Beauly Priory. Princess you are coming with us.” They saddled their mounts are galloped toward the Priory. Isobel sighed, where would all this end, she questioned herself. James, could feel her touch as she clung to him. The giant black stallion galloped on into the night. Upon arriving at the Priory, James was greeted by Prior Robert: “Ah, James, your father awaits your return. What have you here?” “The Princess Isobel of castle Forfar.” “My, but she is a beauty. Yes, she is.” Isobel, decided that whatever fate she met at James hand it had to better than the Old Crone's prediction. James and Isobel, reigned over Forfar for a good many years. The Crone, was never heard from again.


The sun was peeking over the horizon as its yellowish rays scattered across the raven skies. Birds spread their wings and soared in the black canvas of the sky along with their chirping music. Eyelids blinked upon hearing the wake-up calls from the roosters in the backyard. Mothers get up to prepare for breakfast while Fathers prepare for the day. In the City Capital of Davao in the country of the Philppines, the day starts the moment the sun rises above their horizons, enough for them to see its glistening beauty. Elders are traditionally and commonly the ones that only wakes up that early, and the rest of the youngsters spend the rest of the beautiful intro of the morning holed up in their blankets. Females are tasked with household chores and males take the responsibility of earning for money to get the through the day. Since old times, it has always been like this, but time itself isn't that boring. The former now gets to choose what she wants as long as she wants it and her husband supports her. Filipino males mostly has driving as their daily source of income. It's not that bad when you start but it doesn't get better even after you've become a veteran. Despite this, mostly still choose this job, aside from the work being easy, it also means easy money. Not in a way that'll make you rich in a minute kind of easy though. Jay, who was before a chauffeur, now drives a tricycle as his daily source of income. He's a renowned professional driver, famous in his line of work. He carries on his shoulder the burden of feeding five people in his family, three times a day, everyday. But not alone. Together with his wife, Rose, they have continued the life they were born with even after bearing three kids. One who always does something unimportant, one who always does something important, and one who doesn't do anything in particular. In that order, the oldest son is already in appropriate age to live by himself but is not permitted to, the middle daughter who is already so-so but still naive, and the youngest daughter who isn't really someone special to begin with, just her parents spoiling her is all. For Jay, the weight of the responsibility he's carrying with his wife isn't that heavy that it was bothersome. In a day, tricycle drivers like him earn up to P700 in maximum, that includes the fuel and the food they needed for the day. The amount left would be automatically for the bills, which is approximately just 1/4 of the whole thing. Despite that he never complains, save for the times that life really got in his nerves. His wife's with him through and through, even in times that she also felt like giving up, the faces of their children with eyes worrying for things they should not be worrying about always gives her the courage to hold on. Rose is the kind who's persistent when she knows that she's on the right and Jay's the kind who never gives up when he knows there's a possibility. For couples that work, it's not always about opposite attracts, sometimes it's about similarities contracts. With his wife earning less than the minimum wage in more than the maximum hours of working, Jay thought that he should be the one to hold the title of the breadwinner of the family. Content was in them for even though their bills were piling, they never once experienced starving. And that's the best thing Rose could've ever wished for her children while they were still in their care. Regardless of the situation they are in, as parents, they haven't forgotten that the best thing they could ever gift their child, if not the ones they want, is education. They managed to enroll all three to a prestigious religious school where the tuition is no joke. With the help of Rose's boss, which is actually just their near relative, the eldest graduated from grade 1 in the school to senior high school, grade 12 and is now a college student at a public university. The middle child got caught up in a situation where her mother needed to quit her current job. Apparently, she wasn't treated well in spite of her 22 years of service for the Buy and Sell Company owned by their relative. Lawyers were called and it was settled in the Local Governments' Office. And as usual, its always the rich antagonists who always pulls up something wins. With that, the case was closed with the door slightly creaking. The creak spread rumors of Rose, everything good and bad, from her boss' mouth herself. The middle and and the youngest had to continue their studies in a public school which unfortunately downgraded into modular education as Covid happened. It made everything hard for everyone, and no one's an exception. During the lockdown, where no one was allowed to leave their respective premises unless necessary, Jay and his family kept everything positive, their walls devoid of despair. They have received a fair amount of amilluration and emergency packs every month, as per the government says. After months of staying put, the local government finally loosened the grip but not totally letting go. With that, they thought everything was back just the way it usually was. But because of the fearsome invisible foe, everything changed in an instant. The streets that were once filled with busy people, was now devoid of any communication sounds. The park that was where kids would run around throwing things at each other was now only harboring pure nature sounds. The roads that were once full was now empty. And the people's faces that were once plastered with smiles, now covered by masks said to protect themselves from others. 'Was this always how it used to?' Would always cross everyone's mind. The scenery, the noise, and life itself took a sudden turn where everyone was left in a jetlag. It wasn't easy accepting it, how could it be easy adapting to it? The work that was once very easy to fulfill was now very hard to reach. If everyone were to move to the cycle of life, lives might be in constant danger, but if everyone were to stay the way they are right now, they would never come to grow and so is the world. That's why people always finds an excuse, to do the former or avoid the latter. Among the ones who chose to move forward, Jay was the probably the most pessimistic and Rose the most optimistic. Jay was demoted, the usual earning had gone down to half which was almost barely enough to feed his family thrice everyday. Rose found a neat job with a neat pay and a neat boss. It was smooth sailing for her but not for her spouse. She knows she couldn't do anything but just stay by his side through whatever happens. Every night they pray, every Sunday they pray, every meal they pray, and every time they get a chance they pray. It doesn't take all the problems away, but it sure lessens it and soothes their being. As the pandemic is still going on, death continues to march in the streets, probably on the way to your door, they have no other choice but to believe in themselves and to the One who made them. As someone as religious as Jay, there shouldn't even be a day where he doesn't make the sign of the cross, from his heart, down to his soul. fin


My hair is done, my make-up is ready, the long satin white dress is on, I’m ready to catch my train. I know it’s weird I insisted on getting to the wedding by myself and by train, but I felt like two hours on my own, with no friends or relatives were exactly what I needed before making this huge step. I’m sure the groom will manage the last preparations just fine without me. The wedding is right next to the station, so at twelve thirty my dad will be picking me up. I must admit I enjoy how people look at me today. Their confused faces turning into bashful smiles when I smile at them are heartening. As my train approaches, I cover my ears. The high-pitched sound of the brakes is hurting them. The door opens and I struggle to get on. The ticket collector jokes: “Does our running bride need help?” “I’m fine thanks, and thank you for the train, otherwise I would not manage to run very far in this dress!” I don’t have the time to explain I’m headed towards the wedding, not running from it, so why not go with it. Now comes the shock, it’s Saturday before noon so the train is full of families going on one-day trips. Why have I pictured the train empty in my mind every single time? So stupid of me. I walk and pass onto the next carriage and then another one. All eyes are on me. Children are pointing their fingers to show their parents there’s a bride on the train. When I’m almost at the end of the train I see an unoccupied seat next to the window in the direction of travel. The perfect spot. I sit down and adjust my dress, so it doesn’t block the aisle. I smile as I slide my hands in my pockets, how many brides have pockets in their wedding dresses? I check I have the ticket in my left pocket, and I take out my phone from the right one. It’s time to let the groom know the train will be departing shortly. Then I switch the phone off, I don’t want to hear anything about the wedding preparations or guests apologizing for not making it. As I glance out on the platform my heart skips a beat. I lean closer to the window to see more of you, but you disappear onto the train. Few second later I see a stunning woman reaching back for your hand as you walk together through the aisle looking for a place to sit. I force myself to look away before I can see your face, but then I hear your voice and my heart stops beating once again. The train starts moving. ... I lock the door like every night when I get back home from a walk with my dog, certain that no one is leaving the flat until another morning walkie. Nevertheless, this time there is no dog in my flat and somebody shall be leaving very soon, but I don’t know that yet. “Want some rum?” I ask you as I enter the kitchen. “Rather not.” “I’ll have some on my own then.” I offer you other kinds of alcohol, but you refuse them all. Although I’m two years older, you are the more reasonable tonight. You only ask for a glass of water, but at the end you get it on your own as you join me in the kitchen. You know where the glasses are, you have been here a few times in the last three years. We move to the living room. I turn on the TV, but I’m soon oblivious to the early morning Judge Judy recap. I take a sip, put my rum down, and sit astride on you. You don’t object, though somewhere deep inside you feel you should. You know I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be with you alone at five o’clock in the morning, on the couch, so close to you. After all I’m dating your best friend. Yet we start kissing again. I feel your big warm hands on my hips. I don’t want them to ever let go. My fingers start exploring your curly dark hair. It’s the perfect length. I can’t focus on anything else than your hair and lips, so I’m shocked when you manage to open my bra so skilfully with just one hand. It seemed like you do it every day, but I know you don’t. You’re only eighteen years old, and you haven’t dated anyone yet. I pull away. “How did you do it?” You just smile and shrug your shoulders. Solid shoulders. Wide and masculine. I want to return to your lips, so I move my sight from your shoulders to your neck and intend to look up, but then I realize you’re wearing a shirt, and I love shirts and buttons. I think you know. With the fourth unbuttoned button we start kissing again. Passionately. I sneak my hand on your abs. Why is your body so flawless? I kiss you on your cheek, on your ear, and soon I’m playing with your earlobe in my mouth. Then I move to your neck. You seem to be really enjoying it, but you no doubt want me to enjoy it, too, because you immediately reciprocate. You kiss my neck as far as the neckline of my light blue dress permits. I change my position and sit next to you on the couch. I get rid of the loose bra through one of the sleeves, while the dress stays on. I lay down resting my legs on your lap. I have a wide smile on my face. ... We’re getting on a bus. It’s the first night bus, so it’s full of people, and we’re forced to stand by the door. When the bus moves off, I reach for the rod and my little finger accidentally touches your thumb, I apologize and move my hand higher, but then you fully cover it with yours. I love the warmness of your touch. My best friend notices and moves a bit to the right, so my boyfriend standing further ahead doesn’t see we’re touching. The whole gang gets off. My boyfriend catches another bus and goes home, and so do the rest of our friends. We don’t live far from each other so we’re heading home, too, until I dare to mention I would like to have another bottle of wine by the river. You’re up for it. We get the biggest cheapest bottle of wine in a Vietnamese shop and head towards the city river. I have my camera and I try to take several pictures of the castle, but they are all blurry. It’s dark and I don’t have a tripod. Also, I might have had too much to drink. You’re curious and want to see how it turned out. You lean closer and I smell your perfume. You try to help me stabilize the camera with your hands. Our heads get close, and suddenly my body is filled with endorphins as we start kissing. You are an incredible kisser. Why haven’t we ever kissed before? Have I been missing this the whole three years? I put away the camera, and we start walking slowly towards my home. Hand in hand. We talk the whole stroll. There are so many questions on my mind, and you answer them all, no matter how stupid or privacy invading they may be. I ask about your previous girlfriends, but there were none. You don’t ask, because you know, and it’s not long you said I do not deserve this guy. I should have listened to you sooner, he’s been your best friend for six years. We get to my flat shortly before five o’clock. Nobody’s home and I invite you in.  ... I wake up on the couch around ten o’clock in the morning with my light blue dress still on. You’re gone. My bra is laying on the floor. There’s two glasses on the coffee table. One is empty, the other has some rum in it. I get up. The door is closed but unlocked. I lock the door, I take the glasses into the kitchen sink, I pick up the bra and walk into my room. I change into pyjamas and get into bed.  ... After an hour you and your stunning partner get off the train. When you pass by my window you look inside. Our eyes meet. I smile faintly. You look confused. Your girlfriend reaches out for your hand again. She has beautiful long red hair, like I do. I hope she treats you well. I hope you're happy. A little girl finally approaches me after bending her mother’s ear: “Are you a princess?” “No,” I smile widely. “I’m not dear, I’m just a bride.” “And you are running away?” “No. I’m going to the wedding.” "And who will you marry?" "A wonderful man who loves me, makes me smile and treats me like a princess. I hope one day you'll find one, too!"


November 13th, 2020 It had only started out as a small sneeze in the eastern countries in late march. What could one expect when it was allergy season? People’s eyes started itching and their sneezes soon turned into coughs, then coughs turned into wheezing. Not only was it a constant lack of airflow to the lungs, there soon was a rise in fevers. What could be worse; feeling like you're burning up in a cold sleep, or not being able to breathe? On April 4th, scientists released information that the name of the virus was MAV-19 as it was discovered on March 19th. In the reports, MAV-19 came from a strain of the rabies virus. What others didn’t already know was that it was airborne. We all had it, only some of us, including myself didn’t show symptoms. Those who were in the heart of ground zero fled in fear, unaware that their selfish decisions carried the virus across the globe. No matter how many times the CDC told us to stay inside, people kept on traveling and traveling and traveling. You must stay six feet apart at all times they said, but you can’t do that on a plane. Just passing through in an airport, thousands became further contaminated.

By the time it was May 23, just over a million people were infected with their bloodshot veiny eyes. Often you’d see people walking around with sunglasses as their condition worsened over the weeks. Their skin became frail and pale like rice paper. The report then was that more than 240,000 had died across the globe. Countries shut down completely. Long ago they told us to stock up on food and water while many stocked up on toilet paper instead, fighting each other till the last roll. For a nuclear family, 30 rolls of toilet paper should last them 3 weeks. What could one nuclear family do with 200 rolls of toilet paper?

Some at the time thought it was funny, a waste of time to hoard, just a conspiracy, but that was until a lady collapsed at the Sam’s Club in Saint Cloud. A video was uploaded to Youtube by one of the shoppers. The lady had started laughing hysterically, tearing off the produce from their shelves. She then started coughing up blood. Her wheezing could be heard echoing from across the store. Before she knew it she had collapsed. Her bones cracked, popping out of place as if made of gelatin. Shoppers screamed, dispersing from the scene. A man crouched down beside her to see if she was still breathing. Only a moment later she grabbed him by the hair and tore open his neck. I just remember that there was lots and lots of blood. It was only hours after this incident that the public knew she was tagged as a patient who had escaped her treatment facility. She was the first of many who had mutated into the deadly ones. That was just the beginning of the end. The woman was of Asian descent and because of this the Asian community became the targets of outward racism. The president was a fool who tried to tell all of us that it would be fine. The video is a fake, don’t listen to the fake news, lies, lies, lies, lies, that’s all he ever had to say. He wouldn’t even stand up for his own citizens that were being harassed just for being themselves. We never got to elect a new president before this all went down. It would’ve happened 10 days ago.

Now it is November 13th, 2020, 174 days after the incident. After that video people called this virus Garnet 1, after the woman. Her name was Garnet Jones, a mother of two. It was never said what happened to her after the video ended. Maybe it was best that we didn’t know.

There aren’t many of us left in Saint Paul, if any at all. The city has been infested with those devils. I remember when we used to go back to school shopping in September, how we all used to be excited to see each other. Now you wouldn’t dare walk up to another person without the risk of being infected or caught. They still look human from afar and it scares me everytime I think about it.

I’ve found a home in the abandoned train carts along the outskirts of the city. My father had just come back from his morning hunting trip and asked me to pick up my younger brother and sister from school. He left all of his hunting gear including a knife, his bow, arrows, and rifle in the trunk of the van. I had just picked them up and was already on my way back on Highway 61 when everything stopped. Screams shattered as the cars piled up on the bridge. No one could get through. It happened in such a commotion I still can’t process how we got from the car to trains. All I know is that we ran. The caboose was the only place I could hide before they found us too.

The sun set licks my heels over the cracked concrete pavement. I’ve stayed out for too long. Under the Wabasha Bridge a small pack of Garnets congregate, waiting for the fallen sun. I’ve heard them communicate before. Broken words of English mixed with grunting. If they spoke more, they would end up wheezing. Somewhere inside I know they still have their humanity, I just don’t know where.

It's only a matter of time before the Garnets come hunting for the night. It's never safe to be out in the dark. No matter how much I want to believe that we’re not the only survivors here, the hope is starting to fade more and more by the day. I tighten my backpack straps and make a dash to the train tracks. My scoliosis must hate me with the heavy load from today. I jump over debris from broken cars, careful to watch my feet near the bottom of cars. People got out of their car once the pileup happened and they got snatched from Garnets hiding under vehicles. I climb the ladder of the caboose and knock three times on the hatch. Little footsteps echo, climbing the ladder to unlock it from the inside.

“Mae, is that you?” a little voice whispers.

“Yes, Darin. Hurry, it’s getting dark.” I glance back over to the bridge. “I got something that I think you’ll like.” The Garnets from the bridge haven’t noticed me and I intend to keep it that way. I've raided the last shop from the outer stores of the east side. Darin pops open the hatch and I climb in quickly. My sister Elaina sleeps on the makeshift bed of couch cushions I found in the back alleyways. Her long black hair tangles over her small face. A pile of her drawings and color pencils scatter on the makeshift table in the middle of the room.

“What did you find?” Darin fixes the blanket over Elaina.

I lay down my backpack, waving for him to open it. Carefully he opens the bag to not let the zipper make a loud rip. One by one he counts and sorts each item into piles.

“Lets see. You got six cans of chicken noodle soup, a can of beans, a gallon of water, a mini hand sanitizer keychain, four ramen noodle cups, three lighters, and finally a walkie talkie?”

“Someone left it behind in the shop. If you look at the bottom, it says ‘Madeline’. I had a friend in college named Madeline. It would be something if that Madeline was my friend. I was hoping that maybe I could try to contact the group if they’re still in the city. Nothing too fantastic was left to pick up beside that, but it's enough to survive for another two weeks.

Soon I will have to go searching on the other side of town to scavenge cans and medicine.” I've never been over there during these times. If I go and don’t come back, who will take care of them? There is no shelter that is safe.

During the day, you'll never see the Garnets roaming the streets in the light. I figured out quickly that it's their weakness. It rots and burns their skin faster than it already is, blinding their eyes. No matter how long you linger in the streets to mock them, most will never touch you. It's a stupid idea though. The ones who are braver will jump out at you, disregarding their burning flesh. You will burn with them. The Garnets know where to hide during the day light so their prey are unsuspected. It’s clear that they are highly intelligent creatures but they are not mindless creatures. Everyone who was left months ago has either gone missing or turned into one of them. The military flamed the city not long after. I should say that I'm lucky to even have survived this long by myself considering that I have no one left. Before everything happened, it was my first year in college. I had made the Dean's Honor Roll my first semester and was headed for another great second semester, but then we were told to go home. It’s for your safety, they said. Online classes didn’t last for very long. I'll tell you that. “I’ve seen these walkie talkies that came in a pack of 4 with a range of 5 miles last I saw from Cabela’s. Should we turn it on?” I nod in agreement. The glowing screen says that it still has 50% of battery left. If there is one way to find someone out there, this would be our chance.

“Is anyone out there? I have Madeline’s walkie talkie,” I call out and release the button.

Please, someone answer! Anywhere else would be better than this caboose. I can’t protect them here forever. We wait for two minutes and no one answers back. Out of 300,000 people in Saint Paul, there really is no one left.

“I don’t think anyone is going to answer. I suppose I should make some food. Would noodles be okay for tonight?” Darin picks up two cups of noodles.

“That would be fine.” I give him a reassuring smile.

I can see the sadness in his eyes. I need to get enough supplies so we can move somewhere further away from the city. Winter will come soon and it’s important to find as much as possible. It is unknown whether the Garnets can survive the winter here in Minnesota. I don’t even know if we’ll

be able to survive this winter. Sunlight is being cut shorter and shorter as the days go by.

Maybe if I try just once more, someone might answer. I won’t let them die out here alone. They deserve better than to be out here like this. I pick up the walkie talkie once more and press the button.

“Hello, are there any survivors out there? I have Madeline’s walkie talkie.” “Yeah, we heard you the first time and we know your location. Pack up your bags and come to the river. We’re leaving in 10 minute with or without you,” a deep voice answers back.

And there was no reply after that. Have they gone mad? The shadows of the night have already engulfed the caboose.

It is the start of the hunting hour. This could be the only chance. Am I risking Darin’s and Elaina’s life for a group of strangers, or are we finally going to find our freedom?


“Skiing was so great yesterday. I wish the weather would have held out for another day.”So said the chalet guest, who should have gone home yesterday. But, fortunately, Ben was having such a great time he didn’t want to leave. But at least Jessica is snowed in with him, along with about a dozen other guests. And since they’ll be stuck here for a few days, they may as well have fun. As the snow and temperature continue to fall, the snowed-in guests gather in the great room, taking stock of each other. Tara and Dennis have already decided they’ll extend their honeymoon. And, of course, Ben has already decided to pursue Jessica, who is also here alone. Three other couples are not sure they can handle being stuck inside together for very long. At least when they could go out and ski, they could separate from each other for a while. And that leaves only four other guests along with the chalet staff. With the possibility of as many as five days stuck inside with many people who don’t know each other, things could be pretty dull… or fascinating. On day 2, two of the couples are fighting, two of the staff are refusing to work, and the weather isn’t showing any signs of improvement. Ben is still trying to sweet-talk Jessica but can’t seem to get past first base.

“Hey Ben, have you seen Jessica this morning? We were going to get together to play some board games, but I can’t find her.” Penelope, one of the staff, is looking for any reason not to work today. Entertaining a guest will surely get her out of laundry duty. But no one can seem to find the guest she wants to engage. Maybe Penelope can talk the guests into a real game of Clue, and you never know, she might even find Jessica and play some Monopoly.

Unfortunately, Ben and Penelope are the only ones interested in finding Jessica. Penelope keeps looking for a way to get out of laundry, and the fighting couples keep looking for opposite corners to hide in while Ben keeps looking for Jessica. Meanwhile, the other guests are in their rooms doing their own thing. “Penelope, can you help me find Jessica? I’m really worried.” She pauses the folding of linens in the laundry room to listen to Ben’s litany of thoughts about what may have happened to the woman he was trying to romance. So far, Jessica has not been seen outside of her room for more than 24 hours. She’s not answering her door, and it doesn’t sound like anyone is moving around inside. He’s worried something happened to her. Did she venture somewhere in the building where the guests usually don’t go, or maybe even outside, where she may have gotten lost? He doesn’t want to get overly anxious, but he wants to find his friend.

Day 3, and there’s still no sign of Jessica. Now more people are worried about what might have happened to her. Tara and Dennis volunteer to go outside and walk around the chalet to see if she may have gone outside. The three fighting couples agree to split up, with the men going down into the basement and the women going upstairs to the attic. Penelope and the rest of the staff started going through the locked areas of the chalet. Penelope bangs on the door to Jessica’s room. No answer, not a sound. Using her key, she opens the door. After all, Jessica could be inside, either sick or hurt. But no such luck. The room is empty of people. But her ski coat and boots don’t seem to be here. Does this mean that Jessica went outside when the snow slowed down in the middle of the night? Why else would her coat and boots be gone? The search of the basement yields nothing but dust and stored supplies. But there is a puddle of water near the cellar doors on the far side of the room. Could Jessica have gone out through the cellar doors? If she did, it would put her on the south side of the chalet, facing the forest. Did she go out to check how deep the snow was and wander into the trees? Tara and Dennis start walking in circles around the chalet. Then, arriving at the cellar door that gives direct access to the south side of the basement, they see footprints. They are small, like a woman’s boots. Could they belong to Jessica? Could she have come outside for some reason?

After clearing off what seems like two feet of snow, Dennis opens the cellar doors and goes inside, where the men are looking at the puddle of water. One of the men calls his wife in the attic to let the women know they have found signs of Jessica leaving the chalet. Then, going upstairs, they tell Penelope they have discovered the tracks left by the boots she couldn’t find.

Following the tracks left in the snow, the men run toward the forest, breathing heavily in the cold air. They urgently scan the area, moving toward the trees, looking for the woman who left the footprints. She must have come out after the snow stopped, probably trying to guess how long it would be until the snow cleared enough for them to be able to leave. With these thoughts running through their mind, the searchers aren’t wasting energy talking to each other. Instead, they are running and looking, hoping to find something before they enter the forest behind the chalet. If she went into the woods, she might be lost… or worse.

They reach the trees with no sign of Jessica other than her boot-prints… if they are hers. It’s still freezing, so they decide to go back to the chalet to get some supplies for a more extended search. They also choose to call for search and rescue for help when they get back. No one even knows if Jessica left the tracks or what they may find at the end of the trail.

Without waiting for the team, the men return with a sled full of supplies. They might need the sled to bring her back. As they enter the forest, they see animal tracks alongside boot tracks. They are worried and try not to panic. One mentions that it is good that Ben and his anxiety stayed back at the chalet. They follow the tracks further into the woods to a small cabin with windows full of light. Peaking in the window, one of the men sees Jessica inside. Breathing a sigh of relief, knowing now that she is all right, they knock on the door. The caretaker from the chalet lets them inside, where it is warm and dry. Jessica begins to panic, backing up toward a corner and looking around to see who has come in. She screams the caretaker’s name, wanting him to make these people leave, but relaxes when she sees the men who had been bickering with their wives back at the chalet. Finally, finally, they see Jessica is safe in his cabin. They know the caretaker and that he will take care of her. She knows they will understand. She had to leave there, go anywhere, even out into the woods, away from her stalker. Away from Ben.


“Nomi, wait!” I remember calling, stumbling on tree roots and panting to catch up. “Shh!” She hissed, slowing down to take my hand and running only slightly ahead. The sun would set over the branches which seemed to lurch above us, as through reaching their spindly hands to grab us and drag us back. My eyes would blur from the pollen, but I’d pretend to be unfazed for Naomi. I stumbled again on a rock, and landed heavily on my knees, cutting open the one on the right. I can remember her widening eyes, the look of pity as she dabbed at the blood with a tissue as I caught sight of the bruises on her wrists as she did. The feel of the cold chill as the light settled into dusk, and the uncomfortable pinpricks of the branch we rest on that jabbed through my cargo shorts. I would stay rigidly still and let her put her head on my shoulder, even though my back would begin to ache and I’d long to go home, worried that my mother would wake and find me gone from my bed, which was lined with my brother’s old donkey bedsheets, so old that the eyes and teeth of the donkey were grey, but always washed and smelling of home. “Can Naomi stay for tea?” I’d plead with my mother, who would lean over the counter, peeling carrots to make the mince in the bolognaise go further. She couldn’t hide the fact that she adored Naomi, and let her stay often. I’d often catch her combing through her hair when my brother and I fought over leftovers, and wonder if she would have preferred a daughter. “What happened?” I asked, child-like inquisitiveness gripping me as I pressed my thumb onto her split lip, feeling its warmth and her body flinch from mine as I pulled it away. She’d push me aside and pretend as though she didn’t hear, snapping branches from trees for the roof of our den. The lightsaber duels made with those left over, with false ‘ whooshing ’ noises and splinters left in our palms. We’d hear a booming voice coming from Naomi’s side of the woods, slurred and angry, as it screamed her name. She froze in her place, rooted like the trees which surrounded us, obscuring the danger from the outside world. From a powerful Jedi to a terrified little girl. When we entered high school she stopped answering questions in lessons, and she’d sit so close beside me that I could smell the sweet strawberry scent of her hair conditioner. I found my eyes often fixated on the careful loops of her handwriting and the way her freckled hand would jolt when a teacher would raise their voice, or the bell rang at the end of lessons. At lunch we would hide away between shelves in the library and listen to music on my brother’s old mobile phone. She liked listening to the quieter songs, gentle piano music with strings in the background, and would listen with the volume all the way down, with just one earphone in the ear, which would always be on the same side that I would sit on. I preferred louder, rebellious songs that I’d listen to on full blast on the way home when she wasn’t with me. She liked being aware and alert at all times, and I liked being oblivious to the way that my brother spoke to my mum as he got older, the way he mistreated the girls he would bring back home, and the deep sighs that came from my mother each month as she read through the bills and had to resort to calling my dad to make ends meet. “One day,” she’d say half to me, half to herself, “we won’t need to ask him for anything ever again.” It all changed years later when we started growing. I knew I wanted Naomi in ways that I shouldn’t, couldn’t, ever tell her. When she spoke to me I would be transfixed on her mouth; the way it curved downwards when she’d struggle in lessons. The way she’d bite it worriedly when she needed to ask me for a pad, which my mother insisted I kept in my school bag for her, which I never understood why she didn’t just ask her dad for them. The way it would flicker up at one end when I touched her hand. Her eyes. The way she’d look at books with a concentration so careful that I’d started to believe that anything she focused on was direly important, and so fragile. I wanted her eyes on me, I wanted to press my lips, undeserving and chapped, against her perfectly sculpted ones. The way she looked at me drove me crazy, the way that she avoided the eyes of everyone’s but mine made me feel superior, like a king, like I had been given the greatest gift without having done anything to earn it. But of course, we were both growing. Other guys started noticing her too, and I’d feel sickened and angry when they’d corner her after lessons and ask to be kissed. I’d feel more sickened that she would let it happen, that she would stand there silently and let them put their disgusting mouths on her beautiful skin, not objecting or speaking, just closing her eyes tightly and letting it happen. Then one day a guy took it too far. Lucas Fletcher. He caught her in the lab after science, and made her wait until the class had emptied. I stayed outside the door for her to come out, gritting my teeth and wanting nothing more but to strangle Fletcher. Then I heard her scream. I pushed the door open with such a force that it chipped the paint on the wall, a protective fury which seemed to make my blood set. She cowered against the wall, knees up to her chest and arms curled protectively around her head, breathing heavily and unsteadily through the sobs that shook her entire body. I looked accusingly at Fletcher who seemed just as dazed as me. “You.” The growl had come from a place of anger and jealousy which I didn’t think I was capable of, and I had lost control over everything. I can remember Mr Riley, a chubby dad-like physics teacher, prising my hands from Fletcher’s throat, pulling my arms behind my back, leaving dark purple marks around Fletcher’s skin that looked like vile hickeys left by a sociopath. “Stop. That’s enough. That’s enough now.” Fletcher never went near me, or Naomi, again. I remember walking through the school hallways, and hearing jeering comments of ‘freak’. But in all honesty, I felt triumphant that people were beginning to recognise me. I felt Nomi jolting at the accusations, and soon realised that these comments were not aimed at me. I was just another violent boy, fighting over his feelings for a girl that everyone knew I was in love with. Boys get in fights on the daily, there was nothing special or unusual about my outburst. But girls don’t scream and cower on the floor after being kissed. As it stood, Fletcher was adamant that all he had done was kiss her, she didn’t stop him, as usual, so he thought she liked it. He had pushed her to a wall and put his hand around her left thigh, and then was pushed back by a manic, screaming girl, who sank onto the floor and struggled to catch her breath, and was then startled again by some guy he didn’t know lunging for his neck. Naomi refused to talk about what had happened. Unsure of what to do, the school had contacted the authorities, who had been calm and patient with Naomi, and had advised her to speak to the school councillor. She didn’t come to school for 3 weeks after that. She had stayed at our house later that year when her dad was finally arrested. We spent days playing video games, her head resting on my lap facing the screen, the blue lights whirling around the room and illuminating the dark shadows beneath her eyes. I crept upstairs one night from the couch, wide awake, knowing that she would be too. I opened the door softly, wondering if I would be able to get away with resting beside her, just for tonight. I craved the scent of her strawberry conditioner, and I wanted desperately to have her fall asleep with her head rested on my shoulder, the way that she did when we were younger. But to my surprise, I found that my bed was empty. The duvet was still tucked neatly, as though untouched. I found her asleep in my mother’s room, tucked under my mum’s protective arm, their foreheads resting against one another. I walked in uncertainly, and moved the duvet upwards to cover their shoulders. Never before had I seen Naomi wear just a t-shirt, and never had I seen so many deep bruises and scars on the skin of just two people. She asked me months ago now, if I could be the one to give her away at her wedding. She could think of no one else as perfect for the job as me. I tried to think of reasons not to, but none of them fit the same way that the truth did. What could I say? ‘ I can’t do that, Nomi. I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the first time you put your head on my shoulder and told me that I was your best friend. I can’t do this, Naomi, I can’t. This is going to break me .’ I told her that I would do it, of course I would, I’d do anything for her. It took me a while to compose myself at the sight of her in her wedding dress. The way the lace sleeves wrapped delicately around her freckled arms, and the neckline which drew attention to her sharp collar and the beautiful necklace my mother had given her before the wedding, which had once been hers. Naomi tried to gently prise my hands from my face as I wept into them. I looked up at her soft smile and stared at her hazel eyes desperately, and reached for her hand, feeling the room freeze momentarily. We said nothing, but I felt that I had been stripped bare, all secrets left out in the open. I moved my hand towards her face, and she leaned in trustingly without a second thought to let me adjust the veil as the music started. I watched as people stood while we walked in, taking each step more reluctantly than the last, holding on to the feel of her arm looped perfectly around mine. I couldn’t focus on anything but the way she smiled uncertainly, and the way it felt like there would be nothing left once we reached the end of the aisle. She unlooped her arm from mine, and I wanted to hold on to it, to ask her to stay a little longer, stay mine for just a moment more, but I couldn’t, and she was not mine. She never was. I let her go and stepped backwards, holding on to the sight of her holding her bouquet too tightly, and stepping into another man’s arms. I knew that I had to let her go, but still found my heart breaking in the most brutal and cliché way possible as she looked at his inexpressive face and dry eyes, and flinched at his hand which shifted towards her when he moved her veil.


THE PHOENIX ARISES This story is true; compiled of facts from personal knowledge and conjecture derived from newspaper reports and there are three main actors. The first was a gangster from Chicago, name o’ Murray Humphreys, an associate of Al Capone and the brains of The Outfit, who, once Capone was imprisoned for tax evasion, left the windy city and settled in Norman, Oklahoma. Humphreys, a main player in Capone’s rise to the top, though he was not Italian, was revered for his money making ability. The second, another gangster, from New York, name of “Owney” Vincent Madden, had made a fortune from prohibition. Best known for owning the famed Cotton Club, Madden, suspected o’ the murder of another violent man, Vincent “Mad Dog” Coll, was made to understand that it was time to leave New York forever, settling in Hot Springs, Arkansas where, with the complicity of a corrupt city government and police force, he continued to thrive. Our stage is a small town barbershop, name o’ Timmy Joe Sullivan’s which offered, as the sign said: “the best damn haircut in all of Oklahoma”. Men gathered here for a trim and to take part in the jocularity that formed part of the everyday conversation. “Hey, Timmy Joe, can you trim my nose and ears, while you’re at it? I know it’s nature but it just keeps growing”. “And stops growing in the place you do want it; on the top of your head”. Every man, sitting patiently on faded, ancient banquettes awaiting their turn, would join in the laughter. You can picture the scene: Timmy Joe Sullivan’s barbershop, Texhoma, a great place to shoot the breeze, vent about the Sooners’ poor form or whatever. For the twenty odd minutes that it took Timmy Joe to give the man on the throne his undivided attention, maybe only ten minutes was allowed for the trim and the rest was devoted to chat. Timmy Joe, with his soft Irish accent, knew exactly what all o’ his regulars wanted in the way of a haircut, remembered each’s little idiosyncrasy and, to all o’ his customers, felt like a close friend in whom they could confide without fear o’ judgement. Satisfied with their new coiffure, they would disappear back into their worlds and not give Timmy Joe another thought until that time, two to three weeks hence, when they would require his skill with scissors, once again...and that’s just how TJ liked it. “Hey, Timmy Joe, how would you describe the business o' barbering?” “Well, personally, I like to say I am engaged in deforestation”. TJ had set up shop in the town way back in ’22 and the barber had soon become a favourite o’ the local community, not least, on account o’ the ten cents for a cut, five cents for a shave that was the fixed price for the next two years; no appointments necessary and no jumping the line. Everybody knew the rules and, if’n anybody left the premises for even ten seconds, his place would be forfeited in the queue. Womenfolk trusted their young ‘uns to Timmy Joe because, not only did he have a wooden board that he would place across the armrests o’ his barber chair so that kids could sit, proud and tall, staring into the mirror, but Timmy Joe remembered all the boys’ names, their favourite games and the like and the young boys all loved to jaw with TJ and looked upon the barber as they would a favourite uncle. If'n a mother insisted on waiting for her boy, Timmy Joe always ensured that there was a copy o’ Modern Woman or the new craze, Vogue, positioned in the magazine rack along with Time and Reader’s Digest and, for some strange reason, The Chicagoan, all o' which TJ subscribed to. In ’26, four years after setting up business, the barber had proposed to Lily Evangeline, a young widow, who had been bringing her son, Charlie, for his monthly trim ever since his father had died in an automobile accident, twelve months previously. Timmy Joe had kept a respectful distance from the widow and had gone out o' his way to lift the sorrow that engulfed the eight year old in the chair and barber and boy had become fast friends and, after her period of mourning had ended, she had accepted Timmy Joe’s offer o’ marriage with alacrity. Lily had inherited the farm, almost four hundred acres devoted to soybean and rice, upon her husband’s death and was considered a catch by all and sundry but Timmy Joe, though he began to live on the farm, had made it abundantly clear from the get go that he wanted nothing, financially, from the spread and considered it to be Charlie Evangeline’s future; to be protected at all costs. That’s the kind o' man that Timmy Joe was, an honest teetotaller admired by all that knew him. TJ was a devoted husband and, though he knew that he could never replace Charlie’s real papa, he was determined to be as good a step-father as it was possible to be and they were, indeed, a happy little unit. Mornings were quiet in the barber shop, which suited Timmy Joe just fine. He’d make himself a cup o’ coffee and settle down in the one and only barber chair to read the latest periodical and could, quite contentedly, have stayed in that position all day long but, as customers began to drift in, he enjoyed catching up with those he hadn’t seen for a few weeks and hearing their latest news. Sage advice was lavished, laughs were many and, occasionally, sorrows were shared in genuine empathy. “Hey, Timmy Joe, did you ever see a man without a beard?” “Yep, many times. They call ‘em women”. But, every now and again, Timmy Joe would be asked a question that seemed to, momentarily, flummox him and, if anybody had really been paying attention to the way he answered, they may have noticed inconsistencies. One o’ these questions was to do with where TJ had originated from? Depending on who the questioner had been, TJ came up with a variety o’ different Irish locations. The other thing that people asked was why TJ subscribed to The Chicagoan, Chicago being so far north. To this, Timmy Joe would, sometimes, say that he had passed through the city, one time, and taken a shine to it or that he had subscribed in error but couldn’t be bothered to cancel the subscription. I, as a regular frequenter o’ these premises, was savvy enough to have picked up on these nuances and, as an attorney at law, my curiosity was aroused. My office was above the barbershop and, when the law business was quiet, I would wander down and brew a coffee for us and sit and enjoy the repartee that was as normal as the sound of scissors clicking. In this way, I became close with Timmy Joe, intrigued though I remained about his background. But, apart from these minor anomalies, life for Timmy Joe could not have been better. He was happily wed, lived in a fine house, loved the day to day calmness and steadiness o’ tending his barber business and the years passed peacefully and uneventfully, the business making enough to more than cover the needs o’ Timmy Joe and his family and the farm making a modest, annual profit, all o’ which was ploughed back into the agricultural business in the form o’ machinery upgrades. “Hey, Timmy Joe, what d’you call a line o’ people waiting for a haircut?” “A barbecue”. That’s about when nature began to take a turn for the worse, in a way far more destructive than anybody could have foretold. The drought came in three cruel waves: ’34, ’36 and ’39 and it were the in-between years that fooled most people into thinking the worst was over and encouraged them to borrow heavily and reinvest in their land, only to be caught out, yet again, the following year. The lack of rain, combined with the high winds served to sweep the unanchored topsoil into clouds o’ dust, known as Black Blizzards, reducing visibility to mere feet, making agriculture impossible, leading to the death o’ crops and the bankruptcy o’ thousands. Banks foreclosed on mortgages and families, known as Okies, were forced to uproot and head west. The Dust Bowl had arrived! Through it all, Texhoma suffered greatly, including the Evangeline acreage but they had two great advantages: firstly, they were beholden to no bank, having no mortgage on their land. Secondly, they had TJ.  Though he had never seen anything like this disaster, TJ kept a cool head in a crisis and he reasoned that the three o’ them could live on the money his barber shop brought in, even though business had slowed considerably since the mass exodus of Okies. The barber shop became the place for gatherings to debate the whys and what nots o’ this cataclysmic event and everybody had an opinion on cause and solution. Timmy Joe managed to earn enough to see his family through the disaster, long as it lasted, and he strongly advised that the four hundred acres be left fallow with not a single dollar spent on it until the crisis was over for good, as it surely would be, one day. Trusting TJ’s wisdom, Lily and Charlie did exactly that. They watched others invest money, usually mortgaged, into their land and, for a time, look to be recovering, only for a new wave of drought to suddenly arrive and destroy everything. In ’38, those leeches, the land grabbers, made their move. They, too, knew that Mother Nature would turn eventually and they started to buy up huge tracts o’ land for cents on the dollar. Many families felt that they were lucky to get anything for their acres o’ dust and accepted a pittance for land they’d farmed for generations. Charlie, when first approached, politely declined the derisory offer made. The second such overture was not presented so pleasantly, with a number o’ the Dixie mafia hovering menacingly in the background. Charlie, now a young man o’ twenty one years was not easily intimidated and, once again, refused the offer made. Lily, though, sensed that these men would be back, unwilling to countenance that anybody would dare to reject their proposal but, despite her fears, she urged her son to say nothing to TJ. Why, exactly, I cannot say. Maybe, intuitively, she sensed something hitherto undisclosed about her husband. It did not take long for Murray Humphreys to realise the golden opportunity that the catastrophe o’ the Dust Bowl presented and, joining forces with Owney Madden, they began to buy up as much land as they could across the three states o’ Texas, Arkansas and Oklahoma. Where farmers refused to sell cheaply, intimidatory tactics were used and reports o’ homes being firebombed and owners disappearing, never to be seen again, proliferated. In Timmy Joe’s barbershop, talk o’ these happenings was becoming more and more regular but, on account o’ Lily assuring him that no such threats had been made on their property, though he listened with interest, to the stories his customers told, TJ felt no undue concern for his own family’s wellbeing. So, when, somebody rushed into his barber shop, one day, and yelled that the Evangeline property was ablaze, nobody was more shocked than Timmy Joe who urged me to drive him home in my car but, by the time we had driven the twenty miles, the barn had burnt completely to the ground incinerating livestock that had been contained within. The house was untouched and Lily and Charlie, though traumatised, were unharmed. TJ was just pleased that his family was safe, reasoning that they could always rebuild a barn as everything had been insured. But Charlie, devastated by this event, was no longer willing to remain quiet and, despite his mother’s protestations, blurted out the truth o’ the attempts to intimidate him into selling the land. Timmy Joe was deeply shocked, as was I. Without another word, he asked me to drive him back to Texhoma but, en route, insisted on stopping at a bar on the lake and ordering a double bourbon, the first drink, he said, that he had taken in almost fourteen years. When he ordered another. I was dumbfounded. Worried for my silent friend, his face betraying all sorts of internal emotions, I kept him company but confined myself to sarsaparilla. By closing time, TJ had consumed an entire bottle o’ bourbon but, far from appearing intoxicated, he seemed resolute and calm and asked me to drive him home. Mother and son were waiting anxiously and smothered him with hugs and kisses for they surely loved that man. I stood in the background as he addressed his family. This is a verbatim account o’ what he said, best as I can recall: “I have things to tell you; things that I have kept from you. I mean to get this out and, then, you can judge me, one way or the other. My name is not Timothy Sullivan. It is Tommy O’Connor. I am better known as Thomas “Terrible” O Connor. I was born in County Limerick and was brought to America by my parents as a young boy. I got into bad company in Chicago and began a life of crime, working as an enforcer for the Outfit. That’s where I gained the moniker of “Terrible” for, when my blood was up, there was not a man alive that did not quake upon mention of my name. In 1921, a corrupt cop tried to shake me down and I administered a severe beating. I was staying in a motel when he and several others surrounded the place and a shootout occurred. With shots raining down on me, I was firing blindly in an effort to escape and one of my bullets hit and killed an officer and I became a hunted fugitive...” I could tell that Lily was astounded to hear this tale, coming from the lips of her husband. Charlie, however, seemed engrossed. Me? I was busy putting together all the clues I had noted over the years: the different birth places, that need to keep up with news from Chicago. “I was on the lam for two months but was finally arrested in Minnesota and brought back to stand trial in Cook County where I was sentenced to hang by Judge Kickham Scanlan, yet another corrupt official of that disreputable county...” We all gasped. A condemned man? “Four days before my execution, I contrived to escape with four others when I overpowered a guard and took his gun. At that time, there was no Cook County sheriff’s department so I was able to cover miles and miles of open countryside without being detected. Long story short, I ended up in Norman, working as an apprentice to a barber, found I had an aptitude for cutting hair, moved to Texhoma and set up my own business, where I determined to live a good, honest life, as far removed from my former ways as possible but, sometimes, fate decrees otherwise. There you have it but, I mean for you to know that, now that my family has been threatened, I aim to exact my revenge and no man can stop me. My blood is up”. With that, TJ stood, kissed his wife and step-son and reached out to me for the keys to my automobile which I handed over without question and I watched him walk out into the darkness o’ that fateful night, the last time I ever saw him. Those are the facts. You now know the truth o’ the third character in my story’ my friend, the mild mannered barber, Timothy Joe Sullivan who was really Thomas “Terrible” O’Connor and, we three, had borne witness to this phoenix arising from the ashes. From this point on, my tale relies on conjecture and you can draw your own conclusions. According to the Hot Springs Sentinel, that same night, a lone gunman entered the hotel and casino complex, The Southern, that Owney Madden had established in Hot Springs, Arkansas and where the likes o’ Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello were frequent visitors. The description o’ that gunman, for sure, fitted TJ to a tee. Seven o’ the Dixie mafia were killed in the ensuing gunfight and Madden, himself, was fortunate to escape with a flesh wound. The following night, my car was found abandoned in Norman, Oklahoma and the Norman Transcript wrote of a gunman who had shot dead two bodyguards outside the home o’ the notorious Chicago mobster, Murray Humphreys, before entering the house and confronting the occupant. Later, the gunman left, with Humphreys, who was unharmed, admitting to having recognised the intruder but refusing to say who he was or what had taken place between them. Thereafter, strange as it may seem, the mob’s involvement in the lucrative land grabbing o’ the Dust Bowl years, ended abruptly as they focused on their other illicit activities. I never saw TJ again and Lily and Charlie, a few days after these events, took train for parts unknown and have never returned to Texhoma. The four hundred acres lay, just as they were, still in the name o’ Charlie Evangeline, though the rains, as TJ had prophesied, returned in ’40 and the land was reborn. In ’42, quietly, without fuss, the farm was sold in a private transaction that fetched top dollar. I, myself, handled the legal transaction. “Hey, Timmy Joe, you should only charge me half price as I’m almost bald” “Sure, I should be charging you double as it takes me so long to find your hair”. I miss my friend, I surely do. I miss the laughs we shared but, most of all, I miss the best damn haircut in all of Oklahoma.


January 1999, morning, abandoned mall

She was struggling to remember the date, because every day is like the last one. Wake up, check on Vicky, look for any signs of life, eat canned peaches, and realize that when death takes your hand, they won.

Friday, Sept 24 1997 6:34 am, home

“All this bull news” mother said frustrated, after turning off the TV.

“What do you mean ma?” Ally was confused. Her mom usually is pretty calm but now she's getting frustrated because of “fake news”.

“I mean that this news is bullshit. Nothing has happened for weeks and the president expects us to leave our home just because ‘An

unexplained natural disaster is coming our way’,  do you guys actually believe this?”

“well,” Ally started to explain, “if scientist believe this, we should too.” she said while packing up a lunch.

“why are you packing for school? The bus doesn’t leave until 8?” mother said confused at her actions.

“this isn't for school Ma, just in case-

“just in case for what, if aliens attack the planet?! No if Godzilla starts to wake up? This news is fake.” she stated, “what do you not believe your own mother?!” She spoke in a very loud tone. At this point Sydney was full with tears, trying not to cry.

“mom, please don’t get mad, I'm doing this just to be on the safe side,” Ally said calmly, “look, mom please- just relax-”

“RELAX! DID YOU JUST TELL ME TO RELAX? IVE HAD IT WITH YOU TWO.” she spoke angrily, the apartment next door could hear us. The two daughters stood their quiet, as their mother slammed the door.

Both daughters were used to this. Yelling, screaming. They didn’t blame mother though, they blamed themselves. Sydney and Ally thought it was their fault that father left. Single parenting wasn’t easy.

“it's okay Sydney, just pack some food, water and blankets, its better safe than sorry.” Ally said, “Syd, are you alright?”

Sydney sat there still, frozen. Finally, she spoke “what if it is the end?,” she paused and then continued, “What if we die while mother is out of our sight? what if mother dies? what if everyone dies and we are the only ones left? What if-”

“Stop it Syd! Stop it! Just pack up and wait at the door!” And so, Sydney packed up her water, food, blankets, and a lamp. And sat in front of the door. She turned on the TV to see if anything was updated

“...this unexplained natural disaster is coming close. Officials are telling people to evacuate the southern county. The government is calling this marvel “the sixth extinction” ...”

“ALLY! ALLY COME HERE RIGHT NOW”

“What is it Syd? What's wron-” her eyes were glued to the TV, observing the world going down.

“Call mom, Syd call mom right now” but Syd sat there in shock, still listening to the news reporter.

“11 people are reported dead, 74 injured and 3 are reported missing, due to these inexplicable explosions...”

“Turn it off Sydney! Turn it off right now!” she yelled- almost identical to her mother. But Syd just sat there. Ally had to do it for her. She aggressively turned it off and shot Sydney a death glare.

 Ally was not to blame for these actions, her mom not responding to calls, she was stressed, in distressed for what was to come.

7:01 am, home

“where are you going?”

“I'm going to look for mom, stay here Syd.”

“no.” she shot back

“what do mean no. I'm in charge and you have to listen to me, understand?”

“fine, just please tell Ma that you're sorry?”

“I will I promise. If I don’t come back in an hour call the police and get help, okay?”

“but I won't have to because you will come back, right?”

Ally gave her an apologetic smile. “yes, yes I will, I promise.” She gave her sister a hug and went to search for her mother.

7:09 am, outside the apartment, Ally’s perspective

When I went downstairs, I didn’t know what was to come. If it were a normal Friday in Thomasville Georgia or Chernobyl. In Georgia nothing happened, therefore I didn’t expect anything.

As I opened the door, it didn’t look like Chernobyl, it looked worse. I envisioned the kids walk to the local school, but all those kids, were dead. People filming helicopters crashing into the lake. Explosions, many explosions, too many for me to comprehend. I ran around looking at the motionless bodies' underneath crumbled bricks maybe to find my mother, hopefully not. I walked across the street coughing up all the dust and smoke.

I saw a building, I wasn’t sure if it was the police department or the jail county, anyway there will be adults. I opened the door and saw the prisoners' lifeless corpses, I could barely see the orange uniform, I only saw black and red.

It's good that Syd didn’t come. Syd! I tried to check the time on my phone but it was cracked, suddenly blood was all over my palms, I smashed the phone in rage and headed home.

The neighborhood looked like Night of the Living Dead all over again. God let's hope zombies don’t attack Earth.

The neighborhood looked like Night of the Living Dead all over again. God let's hope zombies don’t attack Earth.

7:47 am, home (Allys perspective)

I walked through the door and went to the sink to clean my wound. While I put I little bit off alcohol on it.

“Syd!” I called. No response.

“Syd! Come here, I'm home!” Still no response. Where is she? Then I finally noticed that the door was unlocked. I went outside with the gauze around my hand. I saw her out the window looking for someone. She better not have been looking for me. I kept watching her. Suddenly she paused and stood there.

I ran downstairs since the elevators weren't working and rushed down to the parking lot. And all I can see is her staring down a corpse. A dead corpse

8:04 am, parking lot

The two daughters found themselves staring down at their dead mother, gazing into her lifeless eyes. That’s all they could look at since the rats already took most of her.

8:45 am, parking lot

“what now?” Syd asked traumatized.

“I think we should head to the apartment, just remember this wasn’t our fault.” Ally said looking down at her trampled hand.

“let's go. "she said grabbing Syd's arm. Immediately after the girls heard a bang. They quickly turned around almost falling to their feet.

the apartment crumbled


Dark grey shadows appear as I enter the room, there is a sewing machine with dishevelled thread unspooled and hanging, dusty industrial machines hidden in the middle of the room under a cloth and an assortment of discarded fabric, faded and worn with time; a window with the venetian blinds drawn and light barely shining through. Everything is in disarray. In the corner is a radio, the old fashioned type with bakelite dials and a crackling sound although the room is silent and foreboding. A large desk is prominent as if to display a sort of approaching guilt beckoning me to be nearer by being larger than life. The cupboard invites turmoil, fleeting memories of heavy breathing, a snare and a trap. A sense of fear and disorganisation appears in my mind leaving me not knowing which way to turn and run. Should I run? What am I running from? Is there a door? Where is this space? The corners unveil, the dream is fleeting but it is a dream nevertheless. A recurring dream where the dreamer is left wondering why these images keep reappearing. On the flipside there is a classroom, large and filled with desks in a row with barely enough room to walk in between them. Upon entering the room there are a handful of people, classmates and teachers, or are there? Maybe they are in my imagination also. The room is filled with uncertainty - a refuge from home with nowhere to turn and nobody to turn to. Everything in my vision invites the dreamer to descend into a gloomy state, it is about a feeling of loneliness and a sense of foreboding. Something is about to attach itself to my person and cling like lichen to the wreckage. I awake unable to shake off this feeling and sense of dread. Another day begins. Not being very popular at school it came as no surprise that the classrooms - large, cold and unfriendly - appeared so often and so vividly negli angoli della mia mente. I awoke freshly disturbed from these vivid impressions, it is no wonder sleepwalking was a regular disturbance during the early weeks and months of my adolescent years. The end bed sheet was upturned and pulled out from under the mattress, this was always a tell-tale sign that I had slept-walked during the night. I respond to my mother's voice on one of these nightly escapades saying 'go to back to bed' - an order that I obediently carried out by repenting and heading back to my bedroom. Lucky not to be woken, waking a sleep-walker could be very harmful if not carried out correctly. Memories begin to appear. Shades of what happened in the not too distant past. Shadows lurking in my mind that lingered until just before sundown when the inevitable happened. It was out of my control being a young person with no prior knowledge of life and the features that attracted the opposite sex. Telling myself 'it will be over soon, as long as I can smile and oblige my predator' (better the devil you know/he is my friend). He waits, lurking in the shadows, ready to lure his unsuspecting prey into his den. Ugly, hairy and smelly. At times he could be funny, growing up we idolised our elders not knowing that a potential monster lay within ready to reveal itself in due course. Timing. Always behind the door after school, entering a big empty house which should have sheltered us but instead it was like a bird being trapped inside a cage ready to have her tail feathers plucked. We were being farmed for another purpose: the sinister side of puberty and growing up. Too afraid to tell anyone, thinking of the potential punishment for being the object of desire and the just cause, we simply carried on until the act diffused itself over time, or I left home, whichever came first. The timeline was and still remains unclear in my mind. The anexoria years followed this experience when I was thrust into adulthood. Childhood memories of growing up in a large house filled with adults and children where relatives, friends and visitors came and went with regularity like clockwork. Some good, some bad but all part of the vivid memories in the shadows of my mind. Memories of someone standing behind me ready to reach out and grab the flesh, a quick feel, a press and a squeeze. Memories of a hand that wanders all over, I am like a fly in a spider's web too afraid to move or make a sound lest anyone should hear me. Better to stay quiet and still and let it pass, it will pass. The level of fear is immeasurable with the discovery that there is more than one perpetrator. What is this awareness of beauty that one perceives? Sweet sixteen with peer pressure to contend with as well as the home front, the expectation to obey and just be one of the family. Duties were harsh, the sun was hotter then too with little shade, we had no escape from these things. These were direct comparisons to the goings-on behind closed doors: the fear of exposure whilst being thrust into the elements with little protection. It was the decade of unawareness and self-survival skills acquired by whatever means made available to us. We were, all of us, in survival mode. We were common victims.....cousins, sisters, neighbours. All of us entering a realm we didn't choose to belong in. Unaware of each other's difficulty we somehow managed to march through unnoticed, hiding our fears and embracing our bravery. We led parallel lives under the same stars at night. The same perpetrators appeared over and over again: entering uninvited, lingering as unwanted guests, hovering over their prey as if to conquer their masculinity. It was a time when these things were unspoken about, unimportant, undignified yet disgraceful. We were under a watchful eye and cloaked in adolescent shame. Time was passing too quickly for us to enjoy those years. These images and dreams were blanked out for the most part only coming back to haunt once we entered adulthood ourselves. How long did they go on for? The length of a hypothetical scar is no measure of the damage caused. One can only guess by painfully fitting the pieces of the puzzle back together again to form a picture of a past life. There were triggers at intervals to ignite the flames of our memories, leaving the ashes behind to be swept under the rug for all eternity. He is still alive and walking upon the earth, unpunished for his crime. A family funeral, a beloved uncle. I gather up the courage to confront him. We walk past each other and steal a sideways glance with barely a nod of acknowledgement. The moment passes, I stop shaking. It took all my strength not to expose the truth that day. He seems so harmless so how could it have affected me for so long? Time will tell, this story is told but yet to be finished, I pray for a second chance after the first warm-up and life.....continues.