 	The rain is cold. Not as cold as my heart. My heart is icy. It's sharp, it's painful, it's heavy. And I hated it. Ava loved the rain. She would laugh and dance gleefully through the sheets of water, kicking puddles, lifting her head up and letting the rain bounce off her face. No matter how cold it got, her embrace was always warm. I used to love the rain, too. Now it was like needles, falling from the sky, piercing my skin. A constant, painful reminder of what I lost. The leaves squeaked under my yellow rubber boots. As I left the paved road, towering trees suffocated me with their leaves. I was almost there. Then I could go home. But I would never escape the rain. Ava's tree was standing there, tall and twisted. The bark was beautifully smooth and the leaves were like delicate emeralds. This tree had been standing here for years, its old branches somehow as strong as ever. How cruel must fate be to let the tree live when Ava died so young? It wasn't fair. She was young and innocent and pure. She had a bright future, a loving family. I knew deep down that I couldn't have changed anything, yet it was still my fault. Maybe if I had noticed the signs, maybe I could've seen the cancer cells…somehow… I was being ridiculous. Shaking the thought out of my head, I started to climb. The bark was rough in my hands. With natural speed and agility second only to Ava’s, I got to the top of the tree in record time.

The pink envelope with the little heart on it was glued to my hand with fear. What had Ava wanted me to do? I reread the message in my mind. Hi Rosie! If you are reading this, I am very sorry. I know this will be hard, but could you please climb the tree one last time? If the doctors kept their promise, there will be another letter in the same envelope for you. I'm sorry. I hope you know you were my best friend.

Enjoy the scavenger hunt.

Keep smiling girl! Good luck! Ava "Rosie," I laughed, fighting against tears. "What a stupid nickname." My face was hot despite the cold downpour, and I just wanted to go home and curl into a ball. Yet here I was, looking for a soggy envelope that contained Ava's last wishes, shivering, not just from the cold.

Think , I told myself. Where would Ava hide the message? Enjoy the scavenger hunt.

The words stirred in my mind. After a moment, I laughed, however halfheartedly. When we were kids, Ava's parents had set up their own Easter egg hunt for the two of us. The gold egg contained twenty dollars. There was only one egg, and of course, we both wanted it.

I could only imagine the shock on my eight-year-old face when, after hours of hopeless searching, her parents showed us a hidden nook in our tree, underneath its roots. We split the money, but that wasn’t really of importance to us anymore. As we grew up, we’d sneak little notes in the hole.

Little notes. Of course. I rushed down the tree, my limbs moving faster than my mind, blurs of yellow plastic from my coat covering most of my view. Once a few feet from the ground, I leapt off and landed on the ground with a loud thud. More cautiously, I lowered myself onto my stomach, trying to ignore the squishing of the mud underneath my coat. I reached under the roots, into a small space. My fingertips brushed against something soft. Paper.

Trying my best to shield the paper from the rain, I pulled the envelope out from its resting place and stood up. I bounced from foot to foot, curiosity blooming inside me. “Here goes nothing,” I muttered to myself, lifting the seal and grabbing the letter. Immediately, the smell of lavender was overwhelming. Ava always wore perfume, but it was never this strong. I shook my head. It had to be a figment of my imagination, a hallucination. I’d been having those a lot. I open the letter, read it, then read it again. It contained only two words, but the message was clear: turn around I held my breath. Ava had probably set this up. My family would be right behind me as I turned around embarrassed, wouldn’t they? I would end up crying, and I couldn’t do that again. If I cried, the tears would never end, and it would all feel real again. Her death would be like a reopened wound. Fresh, raw, burning, and impossible to heal. I couldn’t face that again. I almost ran away. I almost bolted without looking back, no plan in mind. But my feet wouldn’t move. This was Ava’s last wish. The least I could do was follow her requests.

I pivoted on my heel, my back now facing the tree. "Hey," the voice was soft, barely above a whisper. They waved shyly at me with a soft smile. I couldn’t breathe, I stumbled backwards. Tears welled in my eyes, a small smile wavered on my lips. “A-Ava?” was all I could choke out. She smiled at me with a nod, her eyes full of tears as well. I ran toward her, blowing into her and wrapping my arms around her body. It was real. Her embrace was warm. I started going into hysteria. My voice cracked and my eyes were puffy. “But-but I saw you- you were…” The word dead caught in my throat. Ava hushed me, petting my hair. “It’s okay, Rosie. I’m here.” I laughed, the effort making my body shake. “What a stupid nickname!” We exclaimed in unison with a chuckle.

We stood like this for a while, me mostly leaning on Ava for support. My legs shook. There was no way she was here, but I could feel her. Her touch was real. When we eventually parted, I looked her up and down. She looked as she had about a year ago, before she started showing symptoms of cancer. Her hair was wavy and the color of copper. Two tiny braids wrapped around the front of her head and were tied in the back with a simple silk ribbon. Her eyes glowed emerald in the shining rain. Freckles dotted her healthy face. Again, I said her name. She smiled. “How?” I started, forcing the words out of my mouth. “How’d you..you were- How are you here?” The rain stopped bothering me. In fact, everywhere it touched my skin, the water seemed to tingle with excitement, as if it knew Ava was home again.

She smiled gently, but offered no response. Just a shrug. But it didn’t really matter. I didn’t care how Ava came back. She was with me again, and we were together, and that was all that mattered. The rain was heavy, like a blanket. Not in a suffocating way, more like the feeling you get after you walk home on a rough day. A welcome feeling. A feeling of comfort. And I loved it. I danced gleefully through the sheets of water with Ava, kicking puddles and splashing each other. Anytime I felt myself get cold, Ava would hug me.

Her embrace was always warm.


“I am not going to stay here for another second.” She stomped out of the dark tunnel and through dimly lighted the staircase, arrived at the underground opening of the neighbourhood backyard. The soft curls playfully fell on her flushed cheeks as she struggled to raise herself on the lawn. The long white skirt and suede boots, all soiled up, added the fuel to her irritation. Her apron appeared loosened at the right shoulder and the black blouse underneath crumpled up.  After a few minutes of puffing and pushing, she placed herself on the soft grass of the well-trimmed lawn with a sigh of relief. Tiara closed her emerald green eyes and inhaled the fresh air under the clear blue spring sky. Her soft, rose pink lips curved into a smile filled with contentment and the tiny dimple emerged on her ivory pink cheek. “Tia, oh my my! I was looking around for you and here you are basking in the sunshine glory. Where the hell have you been? Look at your clothes!” Anna’s eyes popped out with concern while scrutinizing her from head to toe. “Oh…mmm, err, I just slipped and fell. No injury, just the clothes got a bit soiled. I will take care of the dishes soon, Anna.” Tiara managed to mumble out nervously. She hurried past Anna and went into the pantry. The aroma of freshly baked cookies made her feel home. Though, far away from her secret land, this felt like a home away from home. Anna was the best baker in Dunstand, a quaint town having around a hundred households. A cosy town place, where everyone knew each other’s family tree. The only exception was Tiara, who happened to arrive here a couple of months ago. Initially a tourist and now an assistant baker, storekeeper and one-stop solution for Anna's every trouble. Tiara glanced at the sink filled with recently used utensils and baking trays in the sink. She wanted to clean those, the way she did them, every day; with a scrubber and lots of soapy foam. She loved the way the tender bubbles formed in the whole act. However, the latest tiff with Aunt Kimiya left her feeling drained. She just gave a look the tap and with a gush of water, the utensils began to dance in the sink back and forth. The soap tumbled down from the case and rubbed them well. In a jiffy, the pots and pans placed themselves in the rack in a neat manner, all shiny and squeaky clean. All this while, Tiara kept looking outside the window, gazing at the pink and blue hues of the sky. The pretty sunset made her miss ‘him’ even more. Tiara had the power to move things at her whims and fancy; the superpower to make things act according to her wish. But it was not the things which wanted to move only. “Oh! Why those hearts not moving underneath the soft lawn of the backyard.” She murmured to herself. “Tiara, you are a magician! You cleaned up the place within moments.” Anna’s words jostled her out of her thoughts.  I know,” Tiara spoke aloud. “Is everything ok, Tia?” Anna held her face by the chin. “I have to go back.” With a loud sob, Tiara fled out leaving Anna in a state of wonder. In the evening, the guests began to arrive. Anna’s friends and family all were there to wish her luck. It was the beginning of a new journey for Anna as an entrepreneur. Her new bakery shop was the talk of the town. This little party at the new store was arranged by Josh, her best buddy in her honour. The music, the aroma of chocolate delicacies and exotic drinks…everything seemed perfectly in place. Tiara simply gazed at the food table and before anyone could notice, it was neatly arranged for the dinner. Her eyes were constantly drifting towards the main door. Her hopes pinned high for his arrival. But there was no sign of Harry. Harry was a fan of Anna’s bakery products. His visits increased after the arrival of Tiara. He would specifically wait for Tia to deliver him the order, after winding up all other customers. Tia found him attractive with the tuft of dark and silky hair. He was gentle, shy and a good listener. Anna had noticed the sparks and one fine day set up a date for these two youngsters. There was no looking back since then. Harry and Tia began to Date each other. Tiara forgot all about her secret world. She baked and cooked for harry. She would not use her magical superpowers, because she loved to do things from scratch for him, pouring all her heart and soul into it. The Guardian Angel, Kimiya got a hint of this. “You need to respect our gifts, Tiara. This is what makes you special. What are you without the superpowers?” “Aunt, I am Tia…a girl who has madly fallen in love with Harry. He loves me for being Tia, and not the one with deep emerald pair of eyes that can move anything. I shall be happy without the powers if it allows me to stay here with him, forever.” “Tiara, you can stay here forever. But he can’t. He will die one day, as all humans do. And, then you shall be left all alone. Come back, my child to your own world. You will definitely find a wizard of your match.” “I won’t be left alone. I shall have his memories to carry on.” Tiara’s eyes swelled up with tears. It was that car accident which made Harry to think about Tia as someone extraordinary. Since that day he was not coming to the bakery. He didn’t even call her. But today, Anna visited him personally and invited him for the inauguration of her shop. He couldn’t refuse. Is he scared of me? I know he definitely saw me making the car move the other day. But, what else could have I done? He was standing there. If had I have not averted it with my eyes, he could have been crushed to death. My powers must have had terrified him. He just couldn't accept me as someone from a faraway fantasy land with superpowers. Does he think I am a witch or someone to be afraid of? She withdrew herself from the crowd and walked on the soft lawn under the moonlight. A soft touch on her back and she froze there. Have they come to take her back at this instant? Slowly she turned around, only to find herself under the gaze of his sparkling blue eyes. “Why are you hiding here? You are the only reason I am here tonight.” He drew her closer. “Harry, you still like me?” “No, I don’t like you.” There was an unbearable pause. “I love you, you stupid woman.” He continued as he pressed his lips against hers. His fingers began to run into her soft curls and moved slowly on her bare shoulders, through her silky strapless short dress. The kiss was long and soothing. With his arms still wrapped around her waist, he looked deep into her emerald green eyes. “Tell me, Tia…what do you have in them? I saw the other day, very clearly. It was not the way you normally look at things. You saved my life, but you were someone different. A girl, whom I couldn’t recognize. Who are you, honey?” “I am an old soul. I belong to some other world where each one of us has some kind of special power. My eyes have the power to make things move. But the more I stay here, the more I lose this energy. I have lost more than half of my energy in the past three years. But I don’t feel like going back and recharge those powers in my world. I feel energetic looking at you. The way you smile at me gives me a sense of completion. With those powers, I could move anything, but not my own heart. This love of ours makes me smile, giggle and feel alive. For me, your love is the superpower to live.” “Oh, man! I was dating a SuperGirl, who doesn’t have her own fancy costume." Harry squeezed her tightly.” “But now, they want me to come back. I was a naughty one and to teach me a lesson I was left here by Angel Kimiya to learn a hard lesson of life. They wanted me to understand the power and responsibility of magic. But I now know, there is something more magical…and that is love and true happiness. There is a kind of happiness and satisfaction in doing things with all your honest efforts sans any privilege of superpowers. Today I was summoned by the Guard of Emerald Powers and asked to return to the World beneath immediately.” “What if I don’t let you go?” Harry held her hand tightly. “If I don’t leave by tomorrow, I shall be stuck here for another hundred years, without my superpowers. You might not accept the way I am or you might even leave me for some reason, and I will be left all alone. I was about to leave, sweetheart." "100 years, living sans superpowers. That will be a feat. But look at the brighter side; you can enjoy a lifetime with our great-grandsons, even when I am not there. There is no way I can live for another hundred years. Miss Tiara, will you be my wife for the rest of your life, till the death do us apart, knowing well that I might leave you in midway?" Looking earnestly into her eyes, Harry kneeled down, holding her hand. And she said, “Yes”. Superpower is in embracing the choices you make, well aware that someday things might be different. It is the power to hold on to the one you love, come what may. The next day she was standing in front of the huge pile of dishes in the sink. She looked at them. The plates didn’t budge. She smiled and arranged them into the dishwasher and sat on the couch by the window. “Aunt Kimiya, don’t you worry. No powers, but these humans have created miracles out of science. Life is still beautiful here. I don’t feel the need to move things when I can move the emotions of the hearts ” She thought to herself as a content smiled played on her lips. Harry and Tiara lived happily for the next fifty-one years until one day Harry left this World because of old age. Tiara is still the most beautiful Granny in the town of Dunstan with around six sons and daughters and 18 grandchildren. Her superpower to love abundantly gives them the strength to stay together as a close-knit family, full of warmth and magic.


It is an innocuous…don’t really know what to call it. It reminds me of having your soul cleaned by a professional. Your sins are pulled from you by the mere mention of the word salvation. Father Maytag and Mother Westinghouse, delve into the spirit of who you are, and spin the inevitable shedding of life’s lessons into the collection basket for easy disposal. But that is not the reason I chose lint as something to collect. My first inclination was to use it to stuff pillows with, like the new version of My Pillow, which in actuality would be closer to personal experience than some guy who appears in your medicine cabinet and suggests you’d sleep better if you were aligned. My mind of course jumped to an add suggesting I may just be out of alignment. Then, I began to obsess about paying for the service. Not having the protection of the new syndicate, “If It Can, It Will.” Of course, they assume you will become eligible for acceptance for their protection, by having a problem that will not occur until after they have changed their name, and moved on, or you have been so often dismissed by a synthetic televangelist voice you simply expect to be abused. But such is… In deciding I needed a hobby, I will call it that, as  it was suggested in this time of self-imposed isolation, and my delicate nature, I needed something to take my thoughts off the incompetence in the world around me. Incompetence seemed a natural progression of choice in the consideration of Lint. Lint has no political or social ambiance that allows bigotry and arrogance to flaunt its dismissive paranoia on the material from which it has originated. Therefore it represents the everyman nostalgia.  Just because the everyman phenomenon never became recognized as a phenomenon, should not prevent it for remaining a possibility. Lint also has its own spiritual following that was founded on the scripture, According to Dust. Or at least that is my interpretation. “Encounters Under the Bed,” a must read.  Dust is also an innocuous element, but it has a distinctive organic panache, that because of its nature radiates a color differential unrivaled by imitation, and therefore a step above lint, which is primarily varying shades of gray or brown, depending upon personal fashion choices. Gray and brown are not the most inspirational of colors, but then they are representative colors of the majority of God-fearing political analysts. It is for these reasons, as well as the fact that one has to do little to acquire the desire of your needs, makes it available to anyone who may or may not, have the funding to partake of this unique and entertaining endeavor, collecting. I have always had an unfulfilled desire to know what lint actually consisted of. Especially after the cost of clothing soared. If I have to pay an exorbitant amount of money for a shirt, because it purveys a modicum of success or social status, I anticipate it will remain a viable example of not only fashion, but necessity, for longer than it takes me to proceed home and place it lovingly on a pillowed hanger in my closet. And then there is the question of becoming involved with a business that encourages 6, 10, and 12 year olds to exploit material to produce a shirt likely to succumb to deteriorating principles, allowing the smiley face of Gump to find its way into the realm of wash pails and auto waxing. So, I began to look at lint in an entirely different light. When something can change from, lets say an iconic example of acceptable design, to an element that will make you sneeze if you are not aware of its ability to distract, I had no choice but to delve into the basics of where it came from, what it actually was, and why. I didn’t know what the exact definition of lint was, but being that it was to become my most recent chance to redeem myself from the intoxicating world of advertising and exaggerated promises, I went to Google for advice. I was shocked. The synonyms for lint are, fur, hair, fluff, and bandage? According to Wikipedia lint is the common name for visible accumulations of textile fibers, usually found, in and around, clothing. Not one word about dryer traps and the need to keep them clean if they are to remain functional.

Now, I’m confused and begin to doubt my original assumption that lint could set me free, while allowing me to maintain my ability to attract and analyze differing opinions. A marvel that can hang out, and yet become an intimate part of my existence; spirituality.  Lint becomes part of one of our most personal of all consumer goods, and it is commandeered, a speck at a time, by an invisible thief that wishes nothing less than, the emperor having to stand naked. This revelation caused me to re-examine my new found passion for all particulates, lint in particular. This entire ordeal is responsible for me remembering an ancient proverbial question of my mothers, “Where have you been, what have you been doing and what were you thinking.” The questions succinct, but to the point. Because I was covered in mud, or there was a policeman at the door, solicited her queries, and my ingrained response, “Joey did it.” Now, there was no Joey, but then I’d discovered there was no Santa Clause or Tooth Fairy either. I learned by example to believe lying was not only acceptable but encouraged. Especially if the intent was admirable, despite its lack of monetary compensation. I have always believed a tooth should been worth more than a dollar, having been to a dentist, and later receiving the bill. I began to collect lint in 2010, the 21 st century after Christ. I have, with the aid of neighbors, family members, and ex-friends, produced a lint lump weighing somewhere in the vicinity of 1500 pounds. I keep it in the laundry room next to the dryer, for efficiency reasons.

I was asked the other day by a washing machine repair man, what I planned to do with the…he didn’t really have an adequate description for my fluffy sculpture.   I assumed he meant lint, and me having at some point, to remove it from my home. I had not given it much thought; any really. The idea of course, of making a competitive pillow that a consumer created themselves from particulates they themselves encouraged, was intriguing. But after checking with the patent office, I realized pillow mania was already injected with more possibilities for undisturbed sleep, than there were insomniacs, so I laid my plan to rest. Lint also has an interpretive inference pertaining to not only objects, but people. Being referred to as lint, can have only one pejorative meaning and it suggests a sense of, “Good Riddance,” to anyone it is applied to. After having considered the advantages of collecting lint, and the disadvantages of not doing so, I have decided that perhaps used gum would be more readily adaptable to my life style. Whereas lint has limited recycling possibilities, pre-chewed gum, with the simple addition of moisture, can be used to seal leaks, wreak revenge, stress remediation, and making anyone in the process of creating a future collectible, look like a cool person from the 1950’s. But when considering my health, mental or otherwise, and after examining the potential for euphemistic existentialism, I have decided to resign from the need to self-heal and revert to a more selfish prerogative, the tabloids.  Where I am able to interpret any fact in the light of my own prejudice, and arrogance, thus eliminating my need for external distraction, altogether.


“Are you hungry?” the voice asked, soft as the Spring breeze, but unlike the springtime breezes, the voice instilled upon me nothing less than an icy dread that chilled me to my very core.

I had hoped to feign my continued slumber for a while yet, long enough to discern what truly was reality and not just the lingering fantastical afterimages of a dream I had yet to fully awaken. But I had never been an actor, and now I can be quite certain that my treacherously quickening breath had been more than enough to alert whatsoever shared my space to my wakefulness. If there had been something there to address me as I awoke, I shudder to think just how long I was not alone, the knowledge that I had almost certainly been observed in my slumber doing nothing to steady my already quickening heartrate.

With more reluctance that I fully understood on even a purely personal level, I shifted my weight slightly. The comfort of the feather-soft mattress, a world of difference from the forest floor that I had, in my exhaustion, claimed for my rest, felt almost deceptive. ‘How could anyone be in danger,’ it seemed to say,’ if they were this comfortable?’ But even through all the comfort, an odd twitching sense of wrongness made it so that I could not simply relax back into the moment. No, my accursed rationality seemed far too determined to remind me that I did not know where I was, nor how I got there, and so I was not even granted the privilege of enjoying waking up for, quite possibly, the first time in months without one joint or another aching out of bed to remedy the ailment.

I counted out on my breath three exhales, trying to keep them as steady as possible to mask, to the best of my abilities, the fear I was sure would seal my doom as whichever misfortunes lead me to my present state of comfort. On my third completed cycle of breath, I gradually opened my eyes. A wise decision on my end, as the room I had found myself in was just bright enough to be a little uncomfortable, oddly silvery sunlight streaming in through a crack in the heavy embroidered curtains to cast dancing light upon the far wall. I did not, however, have all that much time to assess the rest of the room, as my gaze settled upon the figure crouched upon his heels just by me. The man was strange, but I reasoned he was no stranger than the rest of my peculiar circumstances so I could hardly find a fault in this. To liken his skin to porcelain was less a comment on how alarmingly pale he was, but more because he seemed unnaturally smooth, as if he was a faultless carved statue of porcelain or marble. His hair, coloured as if it were fine-spun starlight, fell so long that, in the crouch he found himself in, the very tips brushed the floor. His eyes were fine amethysts, yet seemed so flat, so lifeless that anything he may or may not have felt remained a secret from the world. There was something about him that seemed almost exaggerated, like a caricature of a man rather than a man himself, too sharp, too pointy and just a little bit too much of everything.

Upon catching my gaze, the man smiled. It was the sort of smile that seemed practiced, a rehearsed smile that came from a place of obligation rather than anywhere near sincerity. His teeth bore twin eye teeth, leaving the total at eight where most carried four, each just a little too sharp for comfort as he flashed them. Now, I know I should have acted more cautiously, but a wave of panic struck me faster than rationality did, and so with none of the dignity I wish I could have shown, I scrambled as far away from the figure as I possibly could. All this achieved, however, was that it left me tumbling off the far edge of the bed and crashing onto the floor in a tangle of the silken sheets I had been draped in. My heart was thundering so loudly in my ears as I attempted to extract myself from the mess I had gotten myself into before trying to haul myself to my feet.

For all my theatrics, the man seemed entirely unfazed. This actually bothered me more than if he had reacted, but the extent of his reaction had come in the way of tilting his head just so that he could look up to me. I was all too aware that his dignity did not mirror my own in that moment and it made me resent him with such a sudden burst that I had not even realized I felt until I stood there for several moments with my arms crossed like a stubborn child.

“Or you could have just said no.” the man remarked passively. There was something just a little off about his pronunciation, as if he was speaking a language he had learned through the written word but never had the chance to practice aloud.

I chose not to dignify this with a reply. I decided he did not deserve anything from me, not even the most basic of acknowledgements.

“You needn’t scowl so,” continued he, seemingly unfazed, and as he rose smoothly to his feet I made the briefest mental note that he was, in fact, a head shorter than I was, “Your lives are far too short to waste it scowling.” “What?” asked I, immediately disregarding my resolution of no more than a cluster of heartbeats prior that I would not respond. “You’re scowling.” said he as if this was somehow the most pressing matter at hand. “Of course I’m scowling,” I shot back, “You kidnapped me.” The man, or so I chose to continue to consider him even as each passing second solidified my conclusion that he was something other than human, tilted his head, long hair briefly obscuring his features. For just a second, I worried I may have upset him, which felt like quite the opposite of what one should do when addressing the first person seen after waking up in unfamiliar locations. But he brushed the hair from his features with long, slender fingers and with it he brushed aside the look of annoyance I was left wondering if I had ever seen.

“Would you have had somebody waiting for you had you continued your journey? To mourn for you had things gone sour?” he returned far too pleasantly.

My features clearly betrayed me in this moment. I had the full intention of lying, to claim there was most certainly people out there waiting for me and would have, upon not seeing me return, already set out to try and find me. This was, unfortunately, a lie, and the unpleasantly heavy sort of lie that would make a person’s heart ache terribly if they were made to ponder it for too very long. The truth was, my unwarranted exile had left me without a single soul to wonder where I’ve been, to greet me by the fireplace with a cup of tea and a story.

“I thought so,” came the fellow’s remark, “Now, might I have your name?” “Why?” I asked, my eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Because you’ve decided to treat me as a stranger, and so are being hostile,” returned he, waving a hand, “That is what your lot do, isn’t it? Giving others your name to feel more comfortable?” “My lot?” I imperfectly echoed. “Quite.” was all I was given in reply, which was a little unfair.

I stared at him, hoping my silence would urge him to elaborate. It very much did not. The most it invoked in the man was a look of boredom, which did not really mean all that much considering he had managed to look perpetually at least a little bit bored for the entire interaction. If it had been some strange attempt to make me feel more at ease, it was very much not working. In fact, it make him seem all the more unnatural, and me feel like I was somehow the more unnatural of the two of us.

Maybe I was, after all, he seemed entirely at home in the area and I had no clue where it actually was that I had found myself. Considering him to be at home there brought with it an alarming flicker of concern at the potential literal nature of this. “Is this your house?” I hesitantly asked him. “Does it matter if it is?” came his vague reply. “Yes.” “If I answer you, will you give me your name?” Now, this set off more alarm bells than I thought was possible, and from every single part of me, including the parts of me that were notoriously known for not making the best of decisions, all screamed at me to deny this. There was just too much of an insistence, and frankly I had no obligation to give my name out to anyone at all. So, naturally with all the feeling in my chest I replied with a confident, “Yes.” I regretted my agreement just as quickly as the words slipped through the traitors that served as my lips. I did have the full intention of denying this, to play at being ornery for just a little longer, and yet proceeded to precisely, well, not that at all. The way something that I could not, nor entirely wanted to identify flashed in the otherwise dead eyes of my companion – captor? I still could not quite settle on my definition - made it all too clear that I had made the wrong decision. Actually, I wasn’t entirely sure if there was a right decision to be made at all, but if there was one, it was certainly not the one I made. “Good, and yes it is my home” he said far too pleasantly, “Now, may I have your name?”

He was too expectant, too eager and too… flat. It was verging on uncanny and it sent the fine hairs on the back of my neck to prickle uncomfortably. I regretted briefly that I had taken the time to confirm I was not dreaming, as I really would have liked to be able to try and excuse everything away as some strange and vivid dream.

“Benton,” said I, for this was the truth, though not without some small misfortune on my end. This was evidently not quite enough, however, as the other man quirked an eyebrow as if to urge me to continue, “Benton Harris.”

Peculiarly, especially considering I had only emerged from my napping a good few minutes ago – an admittedly eventful few minutes considering very little had actually happened while they passed – I found myself feeling thoroughly tired for no reason whatsoever. It was as if something had gone out of me, but I did try to rationalize that I was being ridiculous and that the cool upturn of the fellow’s lips had only come about because I had chosen to play nice and not from anywhere more nefarious. “Benton Harris? No, I don’t like that,” came the slightly baffling reply from the man, “Don’t worry, I will give you something far better. Something that flows, rather than coming off quite as,” he paused, “Sorry, your words are all so similar in meaning but not in connotation, so I find myself lost sometimes. It is blocky but that is not the meaning I mean.”

“Unwieldy?” I offered as if I was not thoroughly put off and entirely alarmed by the conversation. Truthfully, I was neither as alarmed nor put off as I think I ought to have been considering a stranger was pondering alternative names for me.

“I’m sure you know human words better than I,” he said with a shrug, confirming my prior assumption that he was not actually human at all, “But I know names better than you, so I shall find you something that suits you far better.”

I did not want another name that this man – fairy? – might think suits me better. I liked my name, it was the same one my grandfather wore and it was an honour to share this with him. In fact, I was more than a little offended that my name needed any changing whatsoever so, naturally, I replied with a perfectly telling, “Thank you.” Which was decidedly not what I meant to say at all. A softness seemed to grace the man, whose name somewhat unfairly remained unknown to me, regarding me in a way that seemed typically reserved for small, silly animals doing something particularly charming. Without warning, he reached out and clasped at my face with a grip that seemed just a little too hard for what I would have had to assume, based on my best assumptions of his expressions, was intended to be something tender. Just as uncomfortable was the chill to his touch, the feel of his skin not too dissimilar to the sensation that came from pressing my face against a window if ever I took a fever.

As soon as he had instigated this touch, his hand fell away again, leaving me with nothing but the odd tingle to my skin where his fingers had brushed. It was not quite as uncomfortable a feeling as part of me wished it had been, and so I found myself chastising myself for it. For the fact I felt uncomfortable at his touch, but also there was a part of me that wanted to remind me that I was supposed to be uncomfortable, that this was a stranger and that I really should not be out there leaning into stranger’s touches like I was doing in that moment. With the faintest ghost of a content smile still haunting his features, the man drew back and away from me, his gaze only briefly lingering upon me, just long enough to give an appraising yet noncommittal examination before turning on his heels. With his hands folded neatly behind his back, he simply left me there, passing through a doorway that lay half-hidden behind a tapestry of a moonlit field.

Left alone as I was, it would have been almost too easy to make my exit, to leave the strange place I had woken up in and carry on as if none of it had ever happened, and yet I did not. I did quite the opposite, in fact. Rather than flee, I sat down upon the bed, legs crossed to make myself as comfortable as I could be.

I don’t remember the last time I felt lonely, truly lonely that was, and yet even before I had even been given the chance to be properly lonely, I found myself near aching with the need for the company of the strange man who had so kindly welcomed me into his house.

How funny it was, mused I in those lonely moments, that I had been so very afraid of him when I had first seen him. There was nothing to be afraid of, not really. He had even been so kind as to take my – mind  – dirty old name from me, so there really was no need for me to have worried at all.


The Shady Hand  “I’ll bet all my winnings on the next hand,” announced Francis Calleja, a big time wheeler and dealer that had stolen many a poor man’s pocket of wealth. “If I lose whoever accepts the deal will win all my land but if I win then I take over their property.” Calleja was on a role this afternoon and it was too early to quit playing and go home. Sitting around the card table with Francis were another four men from prominent families around the little village. These men knew trouble was brewing but there was no stopping Calleja when he put his mind to something. His friends at the table each had a lot to lose so they were quick to throw in the towel and refuse Calleja’s bet.

  At another table close enough to Calleja’s to be within earshot a young very confident man stood up and stared at Calleja intensely. He needed an opportunity like this to be able to change his ways for good and he felt life owed him something for all crap he endured in his youth. “Today might just be that day,” he thought to himself. “I’ll take that bet Calleja” said the brave stranger. “What’s your name?” asked Francis. “My name is Ivan. So let me get this straight, if I win, I’ll get your land, right? Does that include your family residence?” Ivan wanted to make sure he understood the deal.  “A house for a house,” replied the wealthy bachelor.

 “Deal the cards then.” Shouted someone from across the room. The bar was alive with men who had just finished work and wanted a cool drink after their laborious day in the sun or office. The music echoed in the background as the young man went to sit across from Francis. “So how should we do this Calleja?” enquired Ivan. " Manuel here will write up the agreement and we both sign it before dealing out the cards” continued Francis. “That’s OK by me, does anyone have a pen?” asked Ivan. Manuel was prepared for the occasion due to him working in the local courthouse as a legal officer. After the gentlemen concluded their tedious paperwork, the documents were placed in the centre of the card table and each man waited for the cards to be delt out.  The room became silent. White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane was playing on the radio before the bar owner switched it off. No one in the room would even notice the music though because everyone was focusing on the two men who took centre stage. The room was thick with the smell of tobacco and sweat as the gentlemen looked at each other blankly, waiting for their cards.  In the background, beer and whiskey glasses could be heard clinking over tabletops as the waiters picked up empty glasses and handed refills. The bar owner loved days like these because people seemed to drink more and stay longer. Ivan began to pick up the first two cards delt. The native onlookers recognized this as a naïve move. Calleja confidently waited. No smile was to be seen on either of the men’s faces. The game had suddenly metamorphosized into a life altering decision with consequences. Calleja loved the feeling of uncertainty. He had everything he ever wanted or needed but he was only happy when he felt he could lose it all. Someone coughed in the background and the sound of a chair being pushed echoed through the silence. The men looked at their delt hand then looked at each other a couple of times. The whole afternoon had been uneventful and now, suddenly someone wasn’t going to leave this bar a happy man. Most people rooted for young Ivan.  Everyone loved a longshot. Calleja didn’t bother about the onlookers who would judge him harshly and tried to put on a show even though he knew most people didn’t like him but he was ok with that. Being successful meant there would always be those that held bitter feelings towards him, and they probably had reason to. Ivan though was not known by the more frequent customers to the bar but he was young, with a future ahead of him and this fact made Ivan rather a relatable character with his story resembling their own stories and this made him the favourite of the moment.   Ivan had recently married a girl named Maria. He believed she was the one thing in his life that made him want to be good. He tried to live an honest life at first, but times were tough and finding a job that would help him take care of his wife and future family proved more difficult than he had expected. This deal would mean a burst of hope at a time when all he had were empty pockets. Sure, Ivan had won a couple of games of cards in these last weeks prior to this moment but they weren’t enough to pay the bills or ensure a comfortable life. This game could change things. As he held those cards, he thought of how excited he would be to go home and give Mary the crazy news. A hint of pride was seen in Ivan's eyes that day, for that short time, because he was fully aware that he could be about to bring down one of the richest and stingiest men in the bar. Ivan couldn’t control his anticipation. As the cards were being delt he started to pick them up with his hands trembling. He tried to keep himself calm by holding his breath and trying to recite short words of encouragement to himself but the pressure was on. His first two cards were an ace of spades and a two of hearts. Next cards were the eight of clubs, Jack of diamonds and a nine of clubs. He traded the two of hearts and the nine of clubs receiving the eight of spades and an ace of clubs. The cards weren’t great but they were good enough to hold on to. When Calleja was ready they agreed to show their cards at the same time. As the cards were placed on the table for everyone in the room to see, it was apparent that Calleja had lost with a pair of kings which really left their audience in a stir, but that is not what impressed the onlookers who stood in silence and waited for someone to speak. Ivan thought everyone was disappointed that he had won but that is not why they were all staring at him with sombre expressions on their faces. The young man had won no doubt about that but the cards he held in his hands were called “the black hand” by native poker players. It was also known as THE HAND OF DEATH. All the witnesses around these two gambling men that day said a dark cloud passed over them. The hot sun that had been blazing down for most of the day had now disappeared and a shadow could be seen behind Ivan marking his end for the more superstitious patrons. The audience that had collected around the gamblers table walked away without saying a word but kept their heads down as if the man was already dead. Calleja who was not a superstitious man kept his thoughts to himself and started to plan with Ivan the best way to give over his property which was very impressive in comparison to Ivan’s poor living conditions. The young man had lived in a small house that he was buying slowly from a farmer he helped on the weekends.  In his mind Ivan felt relieved that he wouldn’t have to pick up anymore horse manure at six in the morning. At this point the whole sudden change of fortune was slowly shaping into a reality. At one moment he was as wild and crazy with joy as we could imagine but on the other hand he wasn’t sure if all that just happened was actually going to be realised.  Ivan walked taller that day as they made their way down the street.  Everyone became a friend to him and he loved the attention his new place in his town's society was going to be automatically placed upon him.  Now he would be in a position to help people not run away from them, he thought to himself.  He had tested the odds and won.  "Wow," he thought, "it felt good".   As Ivan left the bar with Calleja, the two men quietly started walking to Ivan’s house to tell Mary about the huge transformation that has occurred in their lives, when all of a sudden a dusty looking drunkard walked through the two men who hardly had taken notice of him and fell heavily on Ivan. This wobbling man seemed to trip and push Ivan to the ground before getting up and running off through the narrow streets just off the main road. As Ivan attempted to get up on his feet he fell back to the ground due to a great pain in his lower abdomen. When he pressed his hand to his body a wet sticky dark red patch of blood was starting to soak through his clothes. The pain he felt was overwhelming and he lay on the ground until someone brought the doctor. Calleja stayed with Ivan in those last moments before the young man exhaled his last breadth.  While Calleja kept Ivan’s body safe he eyed the signed document the two men had organised before the game of cards started and placed it in his pocket for safe keeping. When a doctor finally arrived to the scene it was too late. The onlookers stared in horror at the scene of the unfortunate young man who’s foretold death left him no chance to see his beloved wife one last time.   The funeral took place a couple of days after the historic card game. The people in the village were saddened by Ivan’s story but it was later whispered on family porches and in the bars that Ivan had visited shortly before his demise, that he had accumulated a lot of debt. Though he had been very lucky in the last month his winnings were never enough to pay the bills. There was a rumour that Ivan even manipulated the card games in his favour and the man that killed Ivan on that day was one of the poor souls that lost more than he bargained for.  Mary ended up living in a small one roomed house for the rest of her life never remarrying and never knowing that she was supposed to have had a very different life. The papers that were signed before Ivan and Calleja’s last game were never found and no one asked questions. The kids in the street called her the white lady because she let her hair go white and her ivory skin made her look ghost like. She could be seen each morning dressed in a black dress with her dark veil in hand walking quietly to the seven o’clock mass. She would always have some candy in her pockets to give to the kids in the streets and was never known to utter the slightest mean remark to anyone. As the days went by the story of her beloved Ivan became legend.  Mary's love for him would remain as fresh as the day they first met but she would never speak his name again.


Note: this story contains themes of violence, gore, substance abuse, implied sex and self harm. Please be advised before continuing. My new skin itched. I was not yet accustomed to forms like these, nor could I decide which was most frustrating: my new long hair constantly obstructing my field of vision, or the heaviness of my breasts. No, that's a lie. I had so far failed to manage putting my hair up in a way that wasn't conspicuously sloppy enough to attract unwanted attention. Frustrating, but a problem I knew would disappear with practice. The breasts on the other hand, well they certainly drew unwanted attention. Also, I was beginning to experience lower back pain. These discomforts aside, I retained my anonymity nominally well. A mousy, petite skin seemed to do the job satisfactorily. Smaller breasts next time though. Too much male gaze. Hell, coming out of Portland as I was, too much female gaze. To be honest with you, it didn't matter much. Victor wasn't going to notice me. Lizzy was the only woman I ever saw him acknowledge, so with her comfortably dead, mousy little old me could have added three bra sizes, padding in the rear, and only been noticed if I sat in his lap.

Convenient then, that I had my own seat on the Greyhound instead of opting to use him as a cushion. Just a couple seats back and across the aisle, I was conveniently placed to observe him. Even without the good look I got at his face as I boarded, it was obvious from his slump that he was exhausted. From the way he started awake every time a noise or bump alerted him to the embarrassing fact he had dozed off, you would have been forgiven for thinking he was a hunted animal, not the hunter. You would be forgiven, as you should, since you would be correct. Victor, however, thought he was doing the chasing now and I was eager to track his progress.

He had done a splendid job so far. After handing in all the necessary papers to take an extended leave of absence from his teaching position at OHSU, he had taken the month to bury Lizzy and his father, get everything in order and every other boring thing you people foist on your loved ones unless you– like Victor– need the distraction to numb the pain. Then he ran out of distractions. His friends stopped dropping by with dinner every night as they, one by one, justified being elsewhere, having paid their friend toll, and moving on with their own vapid lives. That's when I noticed the constant glow of a laptop in an unlit living room glaring from the wide window of the cozy Alberta home every night. Soon after, I observed him throw thumbtacks, string and photo paper into a basket at the hardware store. I wondered how much of that would end up tacked onto the hotel wall once we reached Seattle so he could track me down.

Jacob Morrison. Dawn Clease. Brandon and Abby Dearson. They all lived in Seattle, until they didn't. They had all been slit from ear to ear. Other than that, nothing connected them that I was aware of. The only features which led to their lucky selection was their uncanny resemblance to Victor's younger brother William, to Justine, to Harry and finally to Lizzy. I finally identified the feeling of "joy" when I found doppelgangers for Victor's late best friend and wife, and they just happened to be married. I could have thought someone was watching out for me. The news had barely marinated for two days and I had only just returned south when I saw him pack his bags and take a bus to Union Station.

An hour later, a petite young woman with light brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail had been transformed beyond her own family's ability to identify her, and shot full of so much heroin her corpse would eventually be cleared off the streets and Victor would never even see a conspiracy blog mention it. Especially considering she later boarded her bus just in time after using her ID to buy a one way ticket to Seattle. I'll admit, having sat in the skin awhile, it had started to grow on me. A couple of hours later, the bus stopped in Centralia by a McDonalds so the meatbags could relieve their tiny bladders and purchase a number five, some ready-to-order Diabetes and Coke with a side of grease. In practice, this looked like the bus emptying out, the fast food being ignored, and dozens of little clouds of smoke and steam--not least of which was the driver's own-- rising up into the cold early morning air to announce mankind's unflinching dedication to developing one cancer or another to die of instead of old age.

Victor had stopped being so jumpy about an hour prior as he acclimated to the bus's ambient clamor and bustle, settling into a fitful doze. Once the noise had moved outside, the silence seemed to shock him into awareness. Looking around him at the empty chairs and stillness, it took him an embarrassingly long moment to clear the fog and piece things together. The prick put me in a bind as he got up and put his caffeine dependent ass on a beeline to McDonalds. Should I follow and possibly get noticed, or wait on the bus and avoid detection while risking him getting left behind? I decided to try to split the difference and give womanly charms a spin.

Sauntering out of the bus, I moved past the gaggle of addicts toward the double arches. As though a thought just occurred to me, I doubled back a small way and with small steps came up to the driver. "I'll be quick, I promise. Just please," I attempted my best pouty lips and saucer eyes impression, "don't leave me behind, m’kay?" His eyebrow quirked a little, but he smiled too as he nodded, then tilted his chin toward the restaurant to urge me to hurry. Not quite the success I was hoping for, but these skills take time and practice.

Entering the human feeding pen, Victor was easy to spot. He had wasted no time getting the largest coffee he could and was off to the side loading it with a deeply concerning mountain of sugar packets. Since it was obvious he was going to make it back in time, I was about to turn around when he did first. It would have been far too conspicuous to turn on my heels at the door and leave now, so I headed toward the bathroom.

Once I left the main room, I sidled up to a urinal in case he decided to take the chance to relieve himself. Best not to be found idling near this entrance either. While I stood there, pulling down my sweats, I discovered my mistake. Time to leave.

I was just a few steps away from the door when it swung open. Not Victor, thankfully, but a scrabble faced thirty something in a hoodie reeking of just-smoked cigarettes walked in. He didn't seem to notice anything amiss at first, but I failed to sneak by him before it clicked. We stood there, eyes locked for a stretched moment. His mouth cracked open but before the brain behind his bloodshot eyes could decide what to say with it, I decided to get more practice in. Wordlessly, I winked at him, bit my lip a bit, turned around and headed for a stall.

If it hadn't been for the suburban silence confirming he hadn’t yet taken a step, I would have thought he had retreated when I didn't see him after another thin moment of anticipation on the toilet seat. I don't know why I worried though, while his brain may have been telling him this was too good to be true, his blood was busy rushing elsewhere and soon the stall door opened again and he stepped coyly in. With an encouraging smile I soon had his pants around his ankles and he seemed fully committed. His eyes locked onto mine, Scruffy was defenseless as I spun around him, allowing him to fall forward into the space I had vacated and into the toilet, where I shoved his face into the bowl. Holding him down was easy, my strength was my own regardless of the skin I wore and he failed to come up for air. His thrashing about had me worried someone might overhear and come to investigate, but the restaurant was dead as he was about to be, aside from old men staring out past their coffees toward wars long past, and nobody came to rescue my newest conquest.

He took too long to go limp enough to satisfy me and it stressed my urgency. It wouldn't do to have the bus leave without me after all; this would have to be a rush job. Thankfully, I had developed a tool for just this sort of scenario, and I took a long needle out of my pocket, quickly drew a full syringe of his blood and injected myself with it. I knew I only had a couple of minutes, so I did my best to dress the man up for the scene. Anybody with one eye and half a brain would be able to tell he had drowned, but just in case the local police were particularly stupid, I took a dirty needle I kept with me and some more heroin (a stupidly easy find on the streets of Portland) and did my best to make it look like an overdose. Thankful I was already wearing sweatpants with an elastic waist, I grabbed his hoodie, locked the stall door from the inside and slipped underneath into the next one. Just in time too, as I had to grit my teeth from calling out when my femur snapped. One by one in rapid succession came each and every joint and bone in my body and a blinding flash of white pain. Every element of my body twisted and contorted until I had morphed into the man whose lungs were filled with toilet water in the stall next to me. Taking the longest moment I could afford to breathe and collect myself, I threw the hoodie over my head and ducked out as fast as I could.

It had felt like ages to me, but the cigarette posse was just starting to load back onto the bus as I returned. Nobody batted an eye as I got on and sat down vaguely where I remembered my new skin had sat before. It was convenient, but I couldn't help but feel a little anger on my old skin's behalf as the bus driver looked toward the McDonalds, shrugged, and drove away without a second thought. I had lost my good view of Victor, but by the time the new skin's body was found I would have long faded into the crowds of Seattle. I hated what Victor had made me, but it was astoundingly well suited to exploiting humanity's hubris against themselves, and I knew I had gotten away with it again. Within a couple of hours we were in Seattle. Victor would be easy enough to find later, so I went in search of a new skin I could more discreetly acquire before he realized I had been on the bus with him.

We played like this for a few weeks, and it was the most fun I had found so far in my short existence. Several times I let him almost "get" me, but his exhaustion began to catch up with him. It was taking him longer and longer each time and it seemed the police and frantic media might get closer than he could. The skin shopping trips grew further and further apart and I relied more heavily on changing up my appearance the old fashioned way. I'll even admit to several evenings glued to old spy movies in hotel rooms paid with my conquests’ credit cards to try and catch some hints for what makes a good disguise. Seattle was just too easy for me to hide in, and I all but led his sorry ass by the hand further North into smaller towns. I could be sporting after all, and the game was still fun since he hadn’t yet given up. I couldn't let it end until the defeat in his eyes was mine for the drinking.

Months passed like this, leading him further and further along with notes left under his motel door after a perfectly timed redbull crash rendered him dead to the world, or a "Let the gentleman in the booth in the corner over there know his breakfast is covered by his friend from (whatever podunk town was next on my list)" before slipping out of the diner. Things he couldn't miss but weren't a beacon for authorities hunting "The Cascade Butcher” as the papers had taken to calling me. Quaint. I would have considered collecting clippings for a scrapbook, but Victor was already doing that for his red-string boards. That's how we found ourselves in Vancouver. The Capilano suspension bridge is really something to see. My last invitation told him to meet me on the main bridge today. I knew this man better than anybody at this point, had successfully predicted his actions time after time, so I knew he would come. I also knew that, God only knows how, he had smuggled an unregistered handgun into Canada he had bought in cash from some redneck veteran on Whidbey Island. He would threaten me with it, even mean it, but it was time to end this. He was running out of money faster than I could use my skins’ credit cards and this game wasn't going to last much longer anyway.

The bridge swayed, as I imagine it always does, as I walked toward him. Keeping one eye on him, I spared a glance for the verdant chasm below. I whistled, imagining the drop. As I suspected it would, it also caught his attention. Few had braved the bridges today in this weather and I was near enough now. He turned abruptly from watching the end he had come from (I had come early so I could approach from the opposite side. You've got to plan your entrances, at least that's what I got from all those spy movies). No point hiding, I shrugged the broad shoulders of my new skin and offered a smile as he glared daggers at me. Cold as ice, "Monster. Finally done running?"

"I suppose so, though I'm no more and no less than what you made of me. You're the monster Victor, you've just got no follow through. Oh, and the name's Bill, nice to meet you." My proffered hand was pointedly refused as his pupils tightened further and I saw his coat pocket bunch up as he gripped what I assumed was his nine millimeter in fury.

We didn't speak for a few moments after that, turning to face the view of the valley below instead of each other's faces. I gripped the rope railing, my arms tensing as I steadied myself and prepared for his inevitable snap.

"It ends here, Monster," punctuating the last he made clear he was denying not only my name but my place in the world.

There's so much more I would have asked him, but I lost my cool and my clenched teeth must have reached their pressure point, erupting in a loud snap that broke a tooth and the silence held only by the wind. That snap set off everything as he assumed I had something up my sleeve (perhaps literally), responding by pulling out his gun. While I am not fast enough to dodge a bullet, I had been counting on my ability to rush him and catch him off guard, that and the fact he was a bookish scientist who had probably never even held one of the things before. It turns out I didn't even need concern myself with my own defense. The wild movement as he pulled the handgun from his pocket on the too-narrow path swung his arm wide just as a gust of wind hit the valley, exacerbating the rocking of the bridge his swing had caused. The pistol fell to the planks, but Victor's momentum carried him too far. I surprised myself by instinctually reaching to grab him, but it turns out that dodging a bullet isn't the only superhuman feat of speed I'm incapable of. With a cry more whimper than yell, my creator, hunter and prey catapulted past my outstretched hand, over the railing and down into the valley far below Capilano suspension bridge.

I was in a state of numb shock for what felt like hours, staring at the hand that had failed to grasp him and pull him to safety. It was over. My little game was over. Had I won? Had I been cheated of winning? Did it matter?

Then the existential dread kicked in. Had any of it mattered? I felt the world around me constrict and my breathing grew rapid and painful. Had it ever mattered? I could have stopped at any point. I was virtually impossible to find if I wanted to be. I could have left him be or killed him ages ago, but I played with him instead like a cat with a mouse. Like a child in pain lashing out at a parent.

I wasn't aware how far my tall new skin was leaning over the railway, tears rushing down my face as I stared toward the unceremonious end of my father until I heard someone farther along yell "Don't do it!"

But why not, I asked myself. I had no direction now, and had grown used to chasing Victor.


Emily’s eyes quickly scanned the message in her inbox before swiftly typing out a reply. She had come across the email by chance, a series of messages containing travel photos from a person named Alex. It seemed like he was messaging a friend, sharing his exciting experiences hiking through the Grand Canyon. Emily couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement as she flipped through the images of the breathtaking canyons bathed in the warm glow of the sunrise, with Alex fearlessly posing on the edge of steep cliffs. She admired his boldness and passion for adventure. Emily tapped her fingers on the desk, pondering her next move. Should she ignore the message or let Alex know about the mistake? She hesitated, not wanting to embarrass him, but the email had piqued her curiosity and she found herself eager to keep the conversation going. “Alex, My name is Emily Thompson, and I believe your email ended up in my inbox by mistake. I hope you don’t mind, but I took a peek at your travel photos from the Grand Canyon. The landscapes look absolutely breathtaking! I would love to hear more about your adventures someday, if you’re willing to share them with a stranger.

Wishing you safe travels, Emily” Holding her breath, she hit send and wondered if she was being too forward. A part of her hoped Alex would reply, while another part worried she had crossed a line by reading his private email. She tried to focus on re-shelving books, but found herself constantly refreshing her inbox. Later that evening, a new message appeared from Alex. “Emily, so sorry about that misdirected email! I’m delighted you enjoyed the photos. - the Grand Canyon was one of the most awe-inspiring places I’ve visited...” Emily’s eyes lit up as she read Alex’s enthusiastic response. He seemed genuinely pleased to hear from her, asking questions about her life. She described the cozy library she managed in her small hometown, filled with the comforting scent of worn pages. Over the next few weeks, Alex and Emily’s correspondence became a highlight of her days. At the circulation desk, she found herself daydreaming about where Alex might be exploring next, picturing him hiking misty coastlines or strolling through European city squares. She savored every additional detail he shared - how he loved photography, his dream of visiting all the national parks, his favorite poetry.

One evening after the library closed, Emily curled up on her sofa with a warm cup of tea to read Alex’s latest email. He wrote beautifully of getting lost in the winding streets of Prague, happening upon hidden courtyards and stumbling into a tiny bookshop.

“It made me think of you, of how much you would love exploring the shelves here,” he had written. Emily’s heart fluttered at his words. She had come to care deeply for this adventurous, artistic soul she had met by chance. She found solace in his emails, a safe haven where she could open up and confide in him without worrying about being criticized. Emily excitedly shared with Alex how books had been her escape since childhood, describing how she always felt different and struggled to connect with peers who didn’t share her literary passions. She confessed her fear of not belonging and feeling destined to always be on the outside looking in. Emily hit send with trembling hands, fearing she had shared too much. But Alex responded with empathy, sharing his own struggles as a shy, artistic kid. He showed her love by accepting her for who she was. Emily blinked back tears of gratitude, longing to embrace this kindred spirit who seemed to understand her so profoundly. They shared tender messages, revealing layers of themselves that they had never shared anyone else. They exchanged favorite poems and inspiring quotes, supporting each other through tough times and celebrating victories, no matter how small. Emily discovered that she could be her most authentic self in their emails, expressing her hopes and fears without reservation. Alex’s latest email brought shocking news - he would be in her state next month for a photography conference, just a few hours away. The thought of meeting him in person made Emily’s mind race with excitement and fear. She had grown to care for him deeply, in a way she never thought possible. The prospect of finally seeing Alex face to face was both thrilling and terrifying. Emily sat back in her chair, watching the snow fall softly outside. She was eager to finally meet the person who had opened up her heart and given her the strength to be vulnerable. But the idea of turning their online connection into a real-life meeting also made her stomach churn with nerves. What if meeting in person ruined the special bond they had formed through their messages? She cared too deeply for Alex to risk losing what they had created together. Emily quickly chewed her lip as she typed out her response. She wanted to make it clear that she valued their email connection and didn’t want to rush into anything. She suggested taking things slowly and not making any hasty decisions. Emily’s cursor flickered on the empty email draft. She wrestled with finding the perfect words to capture her hopes and hesitations, typing and deleting the first line repeatedly. “I’d love to meet you someday...” she typed, before quickly highlighting and deleting the line. She knew deep in her heart that she longed to meet Alex in person, to hear his voice and look into his kind eyes that she had only imagined through their exchanges. But the thought of shattering the magical space they had built through writing also terrified her.

Emily eagerly looked over Alex’s latest email, where he had asked if he could visit her during his upcoming trip. She remembered his earnest words about treasuring their connection and wanting to spend hours talking with her. Emily touched the computer screen as she thought about how he couldn’t stop thinking about seeing her. She spent days going over his request, feeling a mix of excitement and doubt. She feared that their easy rapport through writing would become awkward and forced in person. Emily vigorously shook her head, determined to rid herself of the swirling doubts, and promptly slammed her hands back on the keyboard. This was Alex, the man who had painstakingly earned her trust and bared his soul to her, page after page. He deserved truth, not silence. With newfound resolve, she started typing, the words pouring out effortlessly. “Alex, I’ve read your last email more times than I can count. I would love nothing more than to meet you someday. But the thought also terrifies me. We’ve built something so special here, just between us. I don’t want to risk changing that...” Emily’s fingers trembled slightly as she continued typing, admitting her fear that their connection was too delicate to survive the transformation from screen to reality. She assured him she cared deeply, but didn’t know if she was ready yet to bridge their two worlds.

With a deep breath, she clicked send, feeling the familiar swoop in her stomach as her message flew through cyberspace toward Alex. Now she could only wait and hope he would understand.

Over the next few weeks, Alex responded with such tenderness and empathy that Emily found her reservations slowly melting away. He shared his own worries about not living up to Emily’s expectations, even joking about being far less handsome and charming in person than in his carefully composed emails. But he also expressed his confidence in the strength of their bond, that it could weather any storm if they faced it together.

Emily began counting down the days until Alex arrived, her anxiety gradually transforming into cautious excitement. They planned for him to visit the library where she worked, then go for a walk through the nearby gardens if all felt comfortable. Emily decided she would bring a book of poetry to break the ice if conversation stalled. Alex promised to come armed with plenty of amusing work stories to keep things light. On the morning Alex was set to arrive, Emily stood in front of her closet, feeling indecisive. She wanted to look good without putting in too much effort. After some hesitation, she decided on her favorite soft sweater and a flowing skirt that made her feel confident. She also put on the pendant necklace Alex had once complimented in a photo, taking it as her good luck charm. With a deep breath, she grabbed her poetry book and headed out the door. Emily arrived early, her stomach fluttering as she unlocked the quiet library. She busied herself tidying up, glancing anxiously out the window as the appointed time drew closer. Finally, a taxi pulled up outside. Emily smoothed down her skirt with shaking hands, watching as a tall figure stepped out holding a single red rose.

As Alex crossed the library threshold, Emily’s breath caught in her throat. He was more handsome than any picture could capture, with warm brown eyes that lit up as they landed on her. Emily’s nerves vanished as a smile spread across Alex’s face, his joy and awe at seeing her feeling as natural as a hug from an old friend.

Emily realized this was just the start. Theirs was a love story already written in the stars, destined to leap from page to reality, thriving in any form. Taking Alex’s hand, Emily led him out the door, excited to discover the next chapter together. Emily’s heart raced as she quickly led Alex down the tree-lined path behind the library. Despite having just met in person, their connection felt effortless and fated, like two kindred spirits finally coming together. She glanced over at Alex, taking in his warm brown eyes and calm smile. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” she said. “After all our letters, it feels almost surreal.” Alex gently squeezed her hand. “I know. But it also feels... right, doesn’t it?”

Emily quickly nodded, her cheeks turning rosy. She always guarded her heart, afraid of truly being understood. But with Alex, she felt comfortable enough to share her quirks and dreams without fear of judgment. As they strolled beneath the golden afternoon light, conversation flowed easily, just as it did in their letters. They paused on a wooden footbridge arching over a murmuring creek, leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Alex turned to Emily, his eyes brimming with affection.

“Emily, from that very first accidental email, I felt drawn to you. As we wrote more, I realized this was special. Emily felt her pulse race as he spoke. She had never thought someone could care for her so deeply. Despite her old doubts and insecurities lingering in the back of her mind, telling her it couldn’t last. Sensing her hesitation, Alex gently tilted her chin up. “I know this seems fast. But I want you to know that I’m ready to take a leap with you. I want to see where this journey leads, as long as we travel it together.” Emily’s doubts melted away as she gazed into his eyes. She realized that taking the risk was worth it and that some connections simply had to happen. No matter what uncertainties lay ahead, Alex was the partner she had unknowingly waited for all her life. “I want that too,” she whispered. “I’m ready to face the future with you, come what may.” Alex’s face lit up with joy and relief, and he immediately pulled Emily close, sealing their destinies together with a passionate kiss. Emily melted into his embrace, feeling grateful that she had finally found the love she had always dreamed of. When they finally drew apart, the setting sun cast a golden halo around them. Emily nestled against Alex’s shoulder as they continued along the forest path, the trees seeming to dance in celebration.

She knew the road ahead would have twists and turns. But with Alex by her side, she had found the courage to greet each one, writing the story of their love anew each day. For once, the endless pages of her own novel no longer seemed so lonely.


Since I can remember, I always played in the woods behind my grandparents’ house. We visited once a week every season from the moment I was born till now. It was a magical place. It was a land you could create stories and be princesses or knights or witches or rebels in hoods. It was an escape from the adults and the responsibilities. It was a safe place. To me anyway. It wasn’t anymore. For three years now. Standing at the edge of the property my grandparents still owned with a large beautiful country house and gardens blossoming around them in the cool early spring, I stared up at the tall silent trees. Like I was waiting for an answer. I was now seventeen, a young adult. Yet, right now, I wish I was a young naïve spirited child again who could run for hours dressed in silly costumes and imagine sticks were swords and fireflies were magic. Sadly, that was no longer a reality or a fantasy anymore. Knowing I shouldn’t step a foot further, I did anyway. It was against family wishes that none of children of the family entered the forest, not after what happened. But I missed the forest. Was it the same? Or was it different? With a full intake of pine and earthy air, and a shaking exhale of steamed breath, I took my first step into my childhood memories. My grandparents had three children. My father, and his younger brothers. My Uncle Dean had two boys and a daughter, my cousins Robby, Tatum and Chrissie. My Uncle Drew had two daughters and two stepsons, Marie and Jamie, and Steven and Joe. Then there was me…and Jared. My little brother. My best friend that stood no higher than my waist. A small boy for his age of seven, with pale skin and rose cheeks, and eyes the sparkled like the starry skies out here away from the city lights and pollution. He loved coming out here. Robin Hood was his favourite game. He liked to be the Sheriff of Nottingham, because it involved more chasing and attacking and saying to our parents he was defending them from the criminals before they came into the house to steal our mother’s nice rings and pinch coins out of dad’s wallet. He didn’t care if Robin Hood was giving it to the poor, it was still stealing. He thought that the people must be spending too much if they think they should be stealing it from other people. Too much fun those peasant people were having, he thought. It always made us laugh. It was such a wrong thought, but he was young and wilful, so we let him enjoy his fun. I can still remember his laugh. His smile. Even when I walk around the ancient trees and take in the familiar smells of early spring frost and green, I can see him running around having the best time of his life. Around this time of year, we would be playing games such as ghosts wanting to drag your soul to the afterlife, or evil witches coming to get children to have for their dinner, or monsters of the forest. Somehow, in the back of my mind now, I think that’s what happened. A ghost took him, and they both vanished. A witch came and boiled him to stew. A monster came and dragged him back to his lair. He didn’t just runaway. He didn’t just disappear. There was a real monster out here…and it took him. Three years ago, today, my seven-year-old brother Jared went missing. He was last seen tell our parents he wanted to see if the winter fairies would be doing a special dance for the spring time that would start the next day. It was a story our grandmother would tell us as we grew up, that the fairies who helped grow her garden had a special dance for the seasons. From night of the last day of the season, until the morning sun rises the next day into the new season, the fairies had a party in the forest. It seems Jared really wanted to see if that was true. He had climbed out of bed in the dark of night, the thermometer still in the negatives, slipped out the back door and rushed into the forest to see if he could find the dancing fairies. I wonder if he actually found them. Was that how he disappeared? Did he find the fairies and they took him with them? I stopped walking too far into the forest, even though I have gone much further than this. It was pushing it, mentally for me and if my mother ever saw me out here she would have an aneurism. God, I missed being out here. It was so much fun. All my cousins were currently back in the house in bed with the rest of the family since it was still so early. Years ago, as soon as we had breakfast and did our chores to help out the family, we would rush out here and play for hours and hours until it was too hot or we were hungry. No it just stood here. An open space between the mist and fog and trees. Empty of people, full of memories, and one big horrible reminder of what we were missing. The week he went missing, I was out here all the time. We all were. Police, Rescue Teams, media and volunteers. 5000 square kilometres of land, 300 people searching from the early hours of the morning until late at night in the frosty spring. We found nothing. For the first year since Jared when missing, I would sit at the back of the garden and watch between the gaps of the trees to see if I ever saw glimpses of him in the shadows. The second year, I avoided this place entirely. Now here I was, daring and wishing. For a clue. For a sign. For path. For a ghost. Anything. But all I had left of him was this place. Turning around, I decided to head back to the house. I stood here long enough, knowing my family would soon wake. Plus the voice in my head telling me that I wasn’t going to get what I wanted out here made me see logic and reason that it was not best to stand out here and wish for something that was sadly impossible. Even my home in the city there was very little of him because it was too painful of a reminder to my parents that he was gone. Right now, it was quiet and cool, with frost and dew on the ground, and dead pine covering the ground in a blanket. The trees were dark and hushed. The air still and carrying an echo of snaps from miles away, making my body jolt every time it happened. I don’t know what I will do when it comes to the summer holidays. It would be warm. The frost gone, and fresh patches of grass and shrubs and flowers breaking through the earth. There would be a breeze that carried the odd scent of apples and cinnamon, which would trick us into thinking that someone was backing in the house. It would be another year gone without Jared. Without a clue. Without a sign. Without a path. Without him.


He finally made it up the tower, and there was the princess sleeping peacefully. He leaned in to kiss her . "Whatcha doing?" my best friend Sam startled me. I was in the middle of writing my masterpieace a fantasy-romance. Sam (Samantha) is my best friend we have been friends since kindergarden. There is always one kid who dresses werid and that would be Sam. Sam looks like a fairy princess dressed in pleasant blouses and long skirts. You wouldn't believe by looking at her that she is a tomboy. Her mom is a hippie and buys all of her clothes, and has the strange notion that girls should wear skirts. Sam is a budding naturalist, sketchbook in hand documenting the local wildlife. She has steel grey eyes and honey colored hair. Right, I haven't introdouced myself yet. I'm Aimee, I am a writer. I have been writing since I first picked up a pencil. I have green eyes and brown hair. Actually really frizzy hair, I swear it has a mind of it's own.  Sam snatches my notebook, reads it. She "yawns", my friend is more into action or adventure stories. See that boy over there, the one with the glasses trying to hide from our English lit teacher, that is my other best friend Oliver. A gangly boy with black hair. English lit isn't his best subject, and is horrible at reading out loud. He is the smartest boy in the ninth grade. Of course a moment later, he is called on and tries to read a passage from Romeo and Juliet without stumbling. Our teacher Mr. Finch, announced our creative writing assignment.   The winner will be featured in the Silver Springs Chronicles Mr. Finch is a very tall man and has a collection of bow ties, a different one for each day of the week. He also dresses like an English gentleman. I am a good writer, so this assignment will be a pieace of cake. My friend Sam thinks that I will be a shoe in for this month's issue. Eleanor was also competing to be featured in Sliver Springs Chronicles. Eleanor was Aimee's rival, the two had been bitter rivals since the second grade when Aimee beat her at the science faire. Eleanor had blond hair and icey blue eyes. She believed that she could write a better story. The class had until the end of the month to finish their assignment. That night, Aimee staired at her notebook, she had a million ideas for a story but none of them seemed good. She knew that Eleanor would have a really good story and would rub in her face. She was like the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz trying to thart Dorothy. The evil witch was jealous of Princess Crystal . Aimee wrote. Eleanor was a witch. Aimee wrote that in a far away kingdom there lived a beautiful princess, and an evil witch. The witch was jealous of the princess's beauty. The next day, Oliver and Sam invited her to play baseball with them. Aimee did go, but sat on the bench furoiously typing away on her laptop. Sam was up at bat, her long tye-died skirt, and baseball cap didn't cordinate with each other. She swung hard, but missed then wack. The ball flew into the air, she went to first but only to be tagged by Oliver. It was Oliver's turn, he swung, the ball flew and almost hit Aimee. Oliver, of course caught it. "Why don't you put that down and take a break from writing". Take a break? She was just getting to the good part. "She is to interested her in her dumb story, to play baseball" Sam said. The next few days, Aimee was glued to writing, she wrote non-stop day and night, crafting the perfect story. She even wrote while she was walking. Oliver had to stop her from running into a pole.  At lunch the next day, Oliver sat by her at lunch. Aimee was to busy writing. "Yoohoo, earth to Aimee" he said, but it was no use, she wouldn't stop writing. In the hallway, she almost ran into somebody, Sam stopped her. Sam then yanked the notebook from her. "I wasen't done" Aimee said, snatching it back. "I think you should take a break" Sam said. At study hall, Oliver sat by Aimee. A girl almost sat on him, she didn't see him. She apolgized. It happened a lot, Oliver felt like he was a ghost, invisible, nobody really saw him. "See I am a ghost, invisible" hiding in his navy blue hoodie. Sam sat by them.  "Your not a ghost, I can see you" she said.  Aimee had already put Sam in her story, and now had the perfect character for Oliver in her story.  "Are you going to come out of there?" Aimee said. Oliver imitated a turtle, and poked his head out, but then retreated to his fortress of soilitude. "Actually it is quite cozy in here".  Aimee laughed. Aimee had finally finished her story, an A+ for sure. Princess Crystal and her two friends-Peony the fairy, and Albert the ghostly knight defeated the evil witch and saved the kingdom. A week later, Mr. Finch passed by their assignments back. Sam was surprised to get a "C", but with all the spelling mistakes it made sense. Oliver was happy to get a "B -" his plot was inconsistent but good enough. But where was Aimee's paper? Oh no. Mr. Finch held up two papers, "Both are excellent, but this one is amazing" he handed back Eleanor's to her. That meant, Aimee had the best story, if she won then her story would be read in front of the class. Oh no. She sunk in her chair. Then about a magical kingdom and a beautiful princess. Then the heroes got lost in the gumdrop forest, and then had to find the magical jewel of friendship. It was super enbaressing. It was finally over, not quite.  She was then interviewed on Sliver Springs Live , the school's news report. It could not get anyworse. Sam and Oliver were so excited to see there friend on t.v.  Peony and Albert where such cool characters. Peony was a spritely fairy, and Albert was a knight but then died and became a ghost. Albert was very murose and a sour puss. Sam pointed, there was Aimee. "So Aimee, everyone is raving about your story" the host said, "How did you come up with the story?". Sam munched on popcorn. "Oh well, Peony is based on my best friend Sam". Sam nearly choked on her popcorn. Peony was a ditzy fairy who randomly broke out into song. Now everyone at school, would think she was like Peony, and laugh at her. "I am sure she means another Sam" Oliver said sheepishly. No it was her. So if "Peony" was Sam, then "Albert" had to be Oliver. Aimee thought he was harsh and melancholic. The next day at school, the two friends decided to confront Aimee. Aimee was to busy signing autographs. Oliver fought his way through the crowd. "Isn't this amazing?" she said. Oliver crossed his arms, "You wrote me as a harsh, severe.." Sam fighting her way through the crowd, "Move aside, best friend comming through". She was out of breath, "And you wrote me as some ditzy fairy, do really think I am like that?". Aimee shook her head. "No, I.." Oliver snatched a copy of her story from someone. He cleared his throat. "He is the most dispicable person.. harsh.. incapable of feeling" Oliver read. Aimee nodded, Sam snatched it from him. "sing-songey, laughable". She read. Both crossed their arms. "No, really, I.." Aimee was intrupted by a fan. Sam looked at the crowd, they were giggling and pointing at her and Oliver. "Now were the laughing stock of the school". Aimee signed a paper. "No, this is great, they like my story". Sam tried to smile, but couldn't. "Yah, just peachy". The two friend started to walk away, Sam put on her large sunhat, Oliver put up his hood. Aimee stopped them. "Aimee, I am really happy for you, but everyone is laughing at us". Oliver said. Sam dragged Oliver away. "We should be going". The next day, both refused to talk to her. She tried, but both refused. "Don't ever talk to us, ever again" Sam said. She tried to sit with them at lunch they moved away. Eleanor found her. Oh great. Eleanor smiled, "You really made a mess of things huh". Aimee nodded. She saw Sam and Oliver. Sam hiding under her large sunhat, Oliver in his hoodie, a few snickering as they passed by. She didn't mean for this to happen, she wanted to write the perfect story and win. Now her best friends hated her. Aimee had to make things right. She decided that enough was enough, she confronted her friends. "Look, I am sorry, alright" Aimee said. Sam turned her back. "I am sorry, I thought I heard something, nope must be the wind". Oliver was going to say something, but Mr. Finch rushed in. He had made an error. Eleanor actually had the best paper, Aimee had an A-. Everyone flocked to Eleanor who beamed. Aimee breathed, finally not the center of attention for once. Aimee looked at her friends, Sam sighed, "Alright, we forgive you,".  Then she pulled a notebook jammed packed with sticky notes. "Oliver.. well mostly me have a few changes, minor details of course for certain characters for your  sequel" Sam smiled.