Greetings avid readers. Allow me to welcome you to another one of my unusual stories. This one is a bit different, which is why I am speaking unto you in this manner. The name was generated by their title generator. I found it quite appropriate considering my interests and the tea I stumbled onto a few days ago. This one is a mixture of fact and fiction. I have based the fact on past evidence. I will even give you a website address to do your own research at the end. Who knows that it may inspire you to become an amateur astrologist. The fiction part may or may not be fiction. It is a prediction based on the past. If it is fiction, well and good. If it is not, then the generation of our current youth will find themselves buried before 70. Oh yes, my darling confederates, if my fiction becomes your fact, the future is dire indeed. Permit me to introduce you to a wayward asteroid called Chiron. Chiron is the wounded healer. When in certain locations, either approaching Aries or in Aries, he tends to have somewhat of a plague influence on our beautiful planet. The plagues I speak of remain contained to the human species. Which, when I reflect, is odd. Astrology should affect everything. This is something for me to ponder another day. Perhaps you, my reader, will leave me a comment illuminating that subject further. Chiron isn't the only interstellar magnetic influence on our fair planet. There are the star signs which involve the interplay of magnetism of the stars on our planet. Fixed stars also affect us, less so than the signs. Countless other numerous asteroids tickle our magnetic field. The biggest influence is the planets. When it comes to global health, Chiron is the key. (I'm serious. Check out his symbol.) Enable us to bring to mind the Black Plague. Wasn't that a doozy? I've looked it up on the chart and Chiron is in Taurus in 1347 which is what we have on when it was. The year could be wrong, considering Taurus is after Aries. When I look at 1338, it makes a bit more sense. Chiron and Pluto (the planet of death) are having an interstellar tango of epic proportions. They say that 5 to 40% of the world's population died during that time. Considering the magnetic fields interacting, I'd hazard a guess at above 50%. Cast your mind back to the Spanish Influenza of the late 1910s. Chiron was not quite yet in Aries, but he was less than a year is approaching. The energy of attraction, his magnetic field influence the stars of Aries, was already in play. Boom. Here comes a nasty plague. A quick aside here. I base my goods on normal Western/Tropical Astrology. Vedic Astrology is more precise. It is something I am looking into studying for my own best interests. Moving along to the season where I was born - the 1970s. Chiron has been especially unkind to me. That feisty asteroid was retrograde near the peak of its Aries season at the time of my birth. All this is in my 6th house of health. I've had accidents, sicknesses that have made attempts on my life more than a dozen times. Yes, I've even had Covid-19. Let me give the story a quick update. I've just looked into the Spanish Influenza. Chiron was in Pisces at that time. Chiron was in Pisces in the 70's (see paragraph beneath). Chiron is in Pisces now. I tried looking on the sidereal astrology chart for the black plague, but alas, the years wouldn't go back that far. Vedic astrology uses adjustments. The fixed stars seem to move backward according to Earth's perspective. They do this at the rate of 1 degree every 72 years. It is possible that Chrion was in Pisces during the Black Plague. All this would make perfect sense, in that case. The 1970s gave us the Swine Flu at Fort Dix. It awarded us with the Russian Flu. The UK got a Smallpox outbreak. Hello, hello, Ebola! Legionnaires disease - another one I've done battle with. There was also a Sverdlovsk Anthrax incident. Let us not forget that the end of the 70s brought us the beginning of HIV/AIDS. If you ask me half of these are manufactured by the one-world government scientists that do not exist. (Do you hear the X-File theme running in the background of your mind? I do.) Moving along now, to now. Welcome Coronavirus. Isn't that a nasty puppy? I was looking at the star charts 6 months before it happened. It is something I do every so often to get a grasp on my life. I am no expert. I do see the energies right. It is translating it that is the problem. Often I do not understand in full until after the event. In one way it is nice to be right. The joy of being correct removes itself because of what I am on the ball about. 2 days ago, I was sitting in Qatar airport, doing nothing but waiting for a flight to Sydney for 12 hours. Well, maybe I wasn't doing anything. I was reading a chapter on astrology in a book. For some odd reason, I found myself inspired to look at an astrology chart. My specific goal was to suss out the next big plague that will be hitting our planet in about 50 odd years. Pulling out my phone, connected to the free Hamad wifi, I went to my go-to website for perusing interstellar and planetary energies. There I went for to the 2070s. Do the words 'Holy Crap' convey the astonishment that I felt? That's the next big nasty. Coronavirus is nothing compared to that. Once again, Pluto and Chiron will be making a deadly love on the backdrop of the cosmos. It is a dance that may take out half the world's current population. When Mars steps in for a threesome, watch out. Death and destruction. Chaos, but the order will be lost, for good. There is a lot more to what I saw than just this, but I will remain silent for now. Now comes something highly controversial which could get me killed. It doesn't matter too much for 2 reasons. Number 1, I've labeled this story as fiction. Number 2, the same people that would love to have me killed have been trying for years in a multitude of ways. As you can tell, they have been successful (and they have, but God is more powerful than them.). I'm going to speak on the vaccine. Yes, I've had my vaccine, both doses. I'm having my third tomorrow. I am well aware of the agent I am dealing with and it does not bother me as it should. If God wants me dead, I'll die. If he doesn't, I won't. The vaccine. Notice how they have made it so that even young children can have the vaccine. Pay attention to the fact that the vaccine doesn't stop the virus. Believe me, I told the virus I am vaccinated. The response was that the virus did not care. Dose after dose the population will be inured with. They started with the adults. A red herring, of course. Now they are doing the children. We must have our ineffective vaccine so that we can retain what few human rights we think we have left. Why? I'll leave that one for you to answer. If you have an answer, feel free to share it at the end of my story. I am always willing to listen to other people's thoughts. What if the depopulation agenda isn't about 2030 but a time 50 years in the future. Who will they be de-populating in the future? The people whose immune systems were compromised at a time in their life when they were still vulnerable. The children of now and the future. This business about 2030 depopulation is nothing but another red herring put out by their paid co-conspirators. It's a 2070 depopulation agenda. Even the numbers add up for their sick, twisted business. Are you following my line of thought? I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong. What if I'm right? Will I even be around at that time to say 'Hey, I told you all so.' What if they aren't just immunizing us against a virus, but deliberately compromising immune systems for the release of a future virus? Do you think they aren't like that at the top? Be honest. We all know the truth. There you go. That is my story. If you want to find where I have come up with my theories, please head to https://horoscopes.astro-seek.com/ to do your own research. Don't forget you can always google different things. I would love to hear about what you come up with, the information, and your theories. Careful, however, you don't want to find yourself on the bad side of these goons. Never The End


Trigger warning: blood, drugging

The sound of ice skidding underfoot made Serena yelp and grab onto the frost coated metal mailbox with one desperate hand, the other clutching at the cling wrap clad paper plate of goods in the other. Serena's heart beat hammered away in her chest, like a loose hummingbird in a cage as she regained her composure, cursing harsh words at the bleak slick patch of ice that had caught her feet by surprise. It was the dead of winter, the time when the snow was crusted over enough to get away with ditching the pesky cleats, which of course were left on the floor of Serena’s mildly messy blue Sedan. With ginger footsteps, she carefully climbed up the driveway, freshly scattered with chunks of salt that had melted the pavement enough for her to toe by the dainty miniature statues of garden gnomes in santa hats and the thick red and gold bows that were nailed up to the side of the house. The Wilson’s home was always well prepared for the winter festivities, with small quirky things here and there, having a home that looked like it belonged in homely holiday postcards or painted Christmas cards. Serena managed to make it up to the porch safely and knocked on the door politely, checking her box made sugar cookies for damage, the frosting on a few bells were slopily smeared, but the mistletoe cookies were still in good shape.

The sound of twinkling bells caught Serena’s attention as the door swung open. Michelle Wilson stood at the front door entrance, all pearly white in a lottery fleece sweater, her pants a dark red and green plaid and a tasteful glittery silver necklace hung low around her neck. She smiled widely at Serena, a stemless wine glass in one hand as she opened the door wider. “Serena! Oh I am so glad you made it!” Michelle exclaimed, ushering Serena into the gaping warmth of her home, “we were hoping you’d show up!” The inside of Michelle’s house always appeared as one would think it would, quilted tapestries and framed photos of family members hung up on style walls painted in warm hues. There was a candle wax burner next to the front door that smacked Serena’s nostrils with the scent of peppermint and lavender. From the living room, Serena heard a caterwauling of laughter from the other guests as she took off her shoes and hung up her coat.

“Well I couldn’t miss a Wilson Cookie Social, what would the neighbors think ?” Serena lowered her voice, not masking the sarcasm that dripped off of her words. Michelle’s blue eyes twinkled with laughter as she placed a beige manicured hand on Serena’s arm, snickering at the comment. Serena had known Michelle for a few years, when Serena’s late mother passed away at the Wilson’s and the church helped fund the funeral. As typically Christian the Wilson’s were with their stunning blue eyes and long dark tresses of brunette hair, lovely homes and all the accoutrements, they were a very open sort of people. The kind of religious that worked in kind ways that never asked for anything in return. They were not the religious type, the Adams were not the type of people that went to church, Sundays were spent working and spending the evenings watching movies. Serena used to have a distaste towards them and never understood why Gertrude, her mother, was friends with Michelle’s father; until she had gotten to know Michelle. She was very sweet and quick to be patient with Serena’s weak heart at the time and stubborn attitude about the arrangements, grief bonded them quickly. There were friends and then there was Michelle, patient and willing to deal with Serena’s grief at her lowest and she would always be grateful for it. “Oh it’s not so bad, Lora brought deviled eggs so at least you have the advantage of bragging about being on theme,” Michelle tapped her finger on the cookie plate, “come on now, let me get you something to drink, it’s a party!” Serena followed after Michelle in tow to the main hub of the gathering, in a well fitting living room where three other women chatted around the coffee table. There were an assortment of cookies and a deviled egg platter that Serena pointedly placed her cookie plate down next to. Michelle disappeared into the kitchen, and Serena was left to social with the other ladies. Most of the women in tonight's circle were aforementioned Lora Brown, a short lady that loved her copper bangles and always had her auburn hair put up in curls. Lora was the local social studies teacher at the middle school and had a tense air to her that was good for bickering with anyone she had to pick a bone with. Madeline Miller, a bank clerk and single mother of two, laughed in a bubbly manner and had large brown doe eyes that followed anyone out of a room like a beacon. Then there was Jessica Perez, petite to the point that her glasses almost swallowed her entire face, but she was at least a familiar face to Serena, they worked at the local newspaper together. Jessica rose from her seat, wobbling over to give Serena a firm hug, her rose water perfume coated Serena’s sense as she returned the friendly hug. “Oh it was so boring without you,” Jessica whispered to Serena as she pulled away. Lora smacked Jessica in the shoulder, “hey I heard you Perez, what you have something to say to me? Am I not entertaining enough for you?” “Oh Lora she didn’t mean anything by it,” Madeline defended quietly from the sidelines. “Yeah!” Jessica gestured to Madeline, “you know it is officially winter break now teach, save that kind of talk for your husband.” Lora’s jaw dropped and Serena sneaked over to Madeline, picking out a nice gingersnap front he coffee table to nibble at as Lora went at Jessica. Michelle swept back into the living room, holding an additional glass of wine as Lora began to complain to Jessica about the tortures of commanding a class of rogue thirteen year olds with hormonal issues. Serena reached out for the glass and clinked hers against Michelle’s own as the brunette draped herself on the couch next to Serena and Madeline. “A classic Brown and Perez debate, I call Perez,” Michelle’s timbre spoke to Serena and Madeline. “Yeah Jess has an edge tonight,” Madeline agreed. “Nah, I think Lora is going to tire her out, she has the rage from finishing grading finals, this is going to be a while,” Serena gave her intake as Lora’s face began to grow pink. The three of them idly chatted over cookies and wine as Jessica and Lora went off at each other over the seasonal saxophone track playing in the background. Serena swirled the deep red wine in her cup, bringing the glass up to her lips slowly as Madeline whispered about something new that came up with her eldest daughter as to not interrupt the argument going on. The merlot was rich when it touched Serena’s tongue, almost coating over it instantly as she took in a good gulp of the warm liquid, letting it slowly ooze down her throat. After the busy rush to cover new articles for the paper, meeting all the deadlines and getting all of her presents bought and wrapped, Serena finally felt like she could spend some time unwinding with the girls. Taking another generous gulp, a little bit spilled past her lips and before she could recover front he feeling of the liquid dripping onto her blouse a firm thumb brushed right under Serena’s chin. Looking up, Serena saw Michelle, now firmly draped over the backrest of the couch, her ice blue stare focused on Serena’s chin as she gently sipped the drip of wine from her skin. With a coquettish grin from Michelle’s pearly white teeth, she pulled her thumb back and stuck it into her mouth, making a point of sucking the caught drop off of her thumb.  A rush of warmth flushed to Serena’s face, she placed her glass down and excused herself to the bathroom. Once inside the perfect seashell decorated room, Serena stared herself down in the mirror. Quietly, she tried to will her heartbeat to calm down, she felt very out of place getting a little worked up over an affectionate gesture from Michelle. Truth be told, this was not the first time this had happened. Easter Brunch had Serena almost breathless when Michelle applied lipstick to Serena’s lips, on her birthday the woman had also written her such a loving note in her birthday card. Serena felt too old for crushes, she was thirty eight years old and knew which trees to bark up if she wanted another woman’s affection so badly and Michelle Wilson was not it. Fixing her raven hair, Serena slowly pulled herself back together, gently patting her face and counting the beauty marks on her face. Once she began to feel more composed, she straightened out her skirt and left the bathroom. Jessica and Lora were done arguing by the time she returned back to the livingroom and now Jessica was settled in getting Madeline to dance with her while Lora and Michelle chatted away.

“Who won?” Serena asked, pulling out a cheery smile quick to get back into the swing of things. “Lora, now come over here and spin me bitch!” Jessica cackled, quickly grabbing Serena by the arm and swinging her into the over the top swaying and jiving that Jessica was trying to get her and Madeline to do.

They laughed and swung around, moving around to the smooth tones and accompaniment of percussion that played over a rendition of Little Drummer Boy. Serena soon found herself swaying with Madeline, twisting and giggling along with the way Jessica moved in an exaggerated manner. When Jessica twirled Serena around in a circle her entire world spun and she lost her grip on Jessica’s hand, hitting the ground hard. Serena felt a dizzy spell and the room smudged over itself, she did not have that much to drink… Had she? Laughing on the ground, Serena grabbed the coffee table to try and help herself up, “I think that’s enough spinning for me! Oh shit-” Serena’s arms gave out as she got up part of the way and hit the ground again,except this time the impact did not hit her. At first she thought that maybe she had hit her head in a wrong way or maybe that the ceiling looked a little too funny, it seemed to fade into speckles of tv static. The vision was interrupted by Michelle’s face looking down at Serena, the brown ringlets of her hair pointed down at her like the tentacles of a jellyfish.

Michelle looked placid and calm as Serena spoke up in a shaky voice, “hey can I get some help?” “Madeline,” Michelle looked up, her blue eyes leaving Serena’s vision, “can you get her propped up?” Serena felt a furrow of confusion start to swirl in her head as then Madeline came into view. The quiet and well kept woman propped Serena up against the coffee table,making her sit up as Serena struggled to move a single limb. It felt like every nerve in her body had abandoned her and not a single ounce of feeling was found in them. Her breathing picked up as Madeline backed away, crowding next to Jessica, who placed her hands on her hips, looking at Serena and back to Michelle who was disappearing again into the kitchen. The sounds of drawers being opened and clattering of utensils faded into the room as Lora sauntered in next to Jessica and looked at Serena like she was a spectacle. “Wha- what’s going on?” Serena spoke slowly, her mouth felt heavy and moving her jaw took a lot more work than she expected. Serena’s chin nodded down once, she blinked and then her head snapped back up, eyes fluttering to fight the heavy feeling that nestled down into her bones. “We drugged you,” Michelle’s voice twittered back into the room as she came back in from the kitchen. The sound of her footsteps thudded against the floorboards as Serena watched her renter holding a rather small kitchen knife. Panic spiked in Serena’s heart when she saw the metal glinted as Michelle got close and crouched down in front of her. Managing to shake her head, Serena tried to move her legs. Jessica snorted, grabbing her wine glass up from the coffee table, “you’re full of the good stuff babe.” “A sedative,” Michelle said, grabbing Serena’s twitching arm and holding it up. The silver metal shined in Serena’s eye as the twist of it met the skin of her arm and she closed her eyes.

A cool hand cupped the side of Serena’s face, pulling her head in the direction of Michelle as Serena’s eyes opened up to see her up close in Serena’s space. There was a spot of red on Michelle’s mouth as she tilted Serena’s head. Her blood ran cold and nausea spiked up in her chest as she watched her arm being held up by Madeline and the sight of her letting the blood from the cut drip into Lora’s awaiting wine glass. Serena’s eyes fluttered, this had to be a sick joke, she had to be dreaming. Just a dream, a sick twisted dream, it had to be! Michelle tilted Serena’s face back to her and now Serena could smell the way Michelle’s breath smelled of copper and she shook her head in defiance. Everything was making her sick and she refused to get sick or cry as blood was being drained from her arm. “Serena, I’m going to need you to open your eyes and look at me,” Michelle spoke in a strict tone. Serena made a disgruntled noise in protest, “sweetheart if you don’t look at me this will only get worse.” Breathing became harsher and Serena felt her vision beginning to fade out, washing away like a tidal wave. Everything was fading into static and obscurity, wavering into undulating colors and vertigo that made her want to hurl. It was over, it was all over… Serena gasped for breath, inhaling so deep that it hurt and made her ribs contract too tight against her insides. The pale white sheets on her bed were cool and stark against her vision as she coughed and sputtered against her pillow. The clock on her bedside table read at eleven thirty am in the morning, she focused on that as her breathing began to even out and a warm hand rubbed between her shoulders. “Shhh shhh,” a soft sound came from the familiar form cradling up behind Serena as she regained her groundings. It was just a dream, another twisted thing that snuck up on her when she slept. Taking her time, Serena slowly turned around in her wife’s arms, tears being whipped away gently by Michelle’s fingers, soft baby blue eyes looking at her with concern and patience. This was her Michelle, not the one from her dream, the one that she’s raised her kids with and shared one too many nights being in her arms when a particular nightmare froze her in place. “Do you want to talk about it?” Michelle asked softly, cupping Serena’s face. Irrational guilt and embarrassment prickled up Serena’s spine, she could not even begin to explain the dream she had just had, even more so it was something for her therapist to hear. Serena gently kissed Michelle’s forehead and shook her head. “No,” her voice came out hoarse and strained, “just a stress dream…” “Alright… You can always talk to me,” Michelle reassured her, kissing Serena once before pulling her into a long embrace. Serena buried her head down under her wife’s chin, pressing her face into her exposed collarbones and wrapping her arms around her waist. “I know, I love you.” “I love you too,” Michelle muttered into Serena’s hair as the moment drew on, leaving them to their quiet recovery, settling things back into place for the day.


Oh, I used to love him so. The problem is that now, I can't remember why. "I love you more than my soul," he says, and I think, "Yeah, but your soul's not worth much, really, is it? I wouldn't buy a soul like yours, not even if it was cheap." Oh dear, is this what it's come to? He came all the way from America, because he said I could save him - only me - and because in Australia, we don't have crack cocaine. I'd promised always to be there, always, and so when he rang me long distance and said he'd bought tickets, I couldn't say no. But by that time, I wanted to. As soon as he got off the plane I knew it was the wrong decision. He walked like an old man - he, who'd been so magnificently arrogant in his maleness, powerful as a black leopard. He lay down on my bed, and closed his eyes. I stroked him - he used to say i had healing hands - but he just coughed, and asked for vodka. After a week, I've already had enough. Everything I say is wrong, everything he says changes as soon as I try to pin it down. "Do you want to go out?" "I don't know." "Do you want to stay in?" "I don't know." "Do you want to get off your butt and maybe go look for a job?" "I can't." In Australia, apparently, we can't do anything right. Our shopping trolleys veer in the wrong direction. Our cars drive on the wrong side. We don't have enough guns. We don't know how to handle a barbecue. What wouldn't I give to have back those thrilling three weeks in America, when he drove me around in his fast car, and told me stories of his wicked youth, and played soft guitar in his apartment at night. What wouldn't I give not to have seen him that last night, before I left to go home to Australia - when I opened the door of his room and he turned to me, hunched over a crack cigarette - don't press me for details, I don't know anything about crack, really - and gave me the most...the most ruined look I've ever seen on a man. "It's not what you think," he said, then, and I said, "How do you know what I think?" We made it up, somehow. He said he needed a woman to lean on, someone who'd sequester his money so he couldn't buy the stuff, and love him so he wouldn't need it. I kissed him, feeling torn, of course. On the one hand, I wanted to slap his face. The other part of me was thinking - even though I'm not religious - what would Jesus do? What's the right thing to do? The right thing to do was to leave, and that's what I did. But now he's back again. He's on the internet constantly, while my kids pretend he's not there at all. He says, "You know the lion kills the old lion's cubs, when he gets with the lioness." I'm not afraid for them: he's so weak from drug abuse that he couldn't hurt a fly: he'd run out of puff lifting the whisk. My son beats him on the X-Box racing games. He makes my son hold his hand behind his back, and play one-handed: still he beats him. He's only five. He says, "I had a terrible childhood," as if it makes up for it all. I used to like the idea of taming a man from 'the hood' - but now it bores me. He asks, "Can I have some more money?"  I think, how can I get rid of this man? I've invited a vampire into my house and now he won't leave, he just stays, draining me of blood and cash and all respect. He starts drinking, and I start hiding. One night he comes in late and finds me in a darkened room. "Why don't you love me like you used to?", he says, but I can't - it's not a matter of effort. I just can't love him, and I just can't respect him - can't be done. I do pity him. He's sick, and frail, and he still loves me, through all the fighting, but I just can't summon any real interest. I want him out so much it almost drives me crazy, like he used to, a year ago. He takes to looming. He's a tall, broad man - that's partly what attracted me in the first place - but that makes it all the worse now. He comes close to me and puts his hands on my neck. I'm not really afraid - I'm cold and very, very angry. "Take your hands off me," I say, quietly, "or I'll call the police." He looks frightened. he steps back straight away, backs away as if I've turned into an evil witch, and begs, "Don't do that, please. Please don't." Well, I don't. But we both know when it's over, it's over. He leaves the next day, on a plane for America, and I'm so relieved that I go out and try to get drunk, on glass after glass of rum and coke. But I find I can't get drunk, I just can't do it. Something in me is so sad, I can't lift it. That something so strong, and lovely, and passionate, should come to this: a lover leaving in the early morning, not even stopping to say goodbye. Years later I get a phone call. "Remember me?" At once, I do, but I pretend I don't, anyway. "No, who's this?" "It's Robert, don't you remember? From America?" "Ok," I say cautiously, without feeling. Well, maybe a little flutter in the pit of my stomach, a nervous, angry tension. "How are you?" We talk a little, jerkily. "You're the only woman I ever really loved," he says. Only now, after all this time, I recognise it for what it is, and was. A lie.


It all happened in slow motion and was over in a half a breath. Sayna was animatedly telling her mom about her day at Skyline High school as they drove home. She couldn’t wait until they got there to tell her about the tryouts. She was three weeks from graduation and had been accepted at four of the five different colleges she had applied to, but she had chosen USC. Probably. She had been accepted into Gallaudet, but she wanted to be an actor and USC had graduated more alumni who have gone on to win Academy and Emmy awards than any other institution and she didn’t hesitate to tell anyone who she met about that fact and her dream to be one of them. She just had to try. If Marlee Matlin could do it, she could do it. She was up for valedictorian of her Senior class, and she was both freaked out and super excited. She had tried out today to be the commencement speaker with five other students and she was praying that she had a shot although the other students included the Student Body President and the head cheerleader. Her mom, Fatima, was watching the road while watching Sayna with a glow of pride. Sayna was mid-share when the truck was just there framing her mother’s head with its wide, shiny grill. Out of nowhere. It was red and it was huge, and it had just run a stop sign and was coming up behind her mom’s window so quickly she didn’t even have time to warn her except the enlarging of her eyes. There was no sound for Sayna. Sayna’s hands were in the air mid-story, and she covered her face as shattered glass hurdled through the air toward her face. She could feel it embedded like sand in the palms of her hands, in her hair and the skin on her face. Her mom was thrown toward her with her head curling toward the impact. The seatbelt held her in midair from crossing over the center console of the car. Sayna, who was nearly sideways in her seat was thrown back against the passenger door with the handle digging into her back and her head hitting and shattering the window behind her. The car came to rest on the well-kept grass of the nearest home. The truck had twisted with the impact, was still in the street but was facing the direction opposite their car and the engine was smoking. She closed her eyes against the instantaneous pain that was radiating into her skull from the back of her head. Her mom slumped unnaturally toward the driver’s side door. The bone of her forearm was bent awkwardly and had broken the skin and blood was oozing out and down her arm. It looked to Sayna like she was still breathing but only just. Her skin was whitening with every breath.

People were beginning to surround the car. None of them were close enough for her to read their lips. She closed her eyes again for what felt like a brief moment to her but when she opened them again, the lights of the ambulances that had surrounded their car were making her nauseated as they swirled around in and outside the car. She hadn’t heard them coming. A fire truck had pulled up on the other side of the street and men were pouring out of all of the vehicles like one of those old-fashioned movies she had seen on YouTube – it was if there was no end to them. They were gathering like flies to honey huddled around the car deciding the best way to enter. She just wished they would hurry up and help her mom instead of standing around talking about it. She was lifting her hands to get their attention and they were studded with a thousand tiny cuts from the glass that, in some places, was still imbedded in her skin.

She didn’t realize they were gathering behind her too. When she turned to look at them, a man was standing on the other side of the shattered window. He looked expectantly at her as she had caught him after a question. He was an EMT, and his partner stood just behind his right shoulder. He said something again, but his mouth was obstructed by the shattered glass. His partner grabbed him by the arm. She read her lips because she was facing Sayna, “she cannot hear you, Brian.” She looked directly at Sayna and mouthed, “can you hear me?” She shook her head. She pointed frantically to her mom and signed “please help her.” She looked around her for her phone. Gratefully, it was still in her pocket. She pulled up her note app. Her hands were on fire, but she gingerly held the phone and typed. “Please help my mom!” and held it up to the windshield so the female EMT could read it.

The EMT nodded her head. “Yes.” She said looking directly at Sayna. “They” she pointed to the firemen on the other side of the car “will help her. We” she pointed from herself to her partner “will help you.” And she pointed at Sayna who could tell she was trying to look directly at her so she could read her lips. She didn’t want to hurt her mom, but she reached out to touch the arm closest to her. Her mom had not yet opened her eyes since they had been it. Her arm was still warm to the touch and that helped her. But it didn’t feel like there was much time before…. The firemen had carefully tried to pull the driver side door open, but it had not given way to them. They were going to have to cut her out. Sayna wanted to stay with her. But the door behind her opened. She turned and the female EMT was reaching out to her. She showed her a neck brace and motioned to Sayna if it was okay that she put it on her. Sayna nodded. The lights were still threatening to make her sick. The EMT lifted her hair and slipped the brace around her neck and silently attached the Velcro to sinch it tighter. She could no longer turn her head to look at her mom and she was beginning to panic. Her breath was shallow and coming faster now. This was her fault. If she hadn’t been signing to her mom while she was driving, she would have been paying more attention to the road. What if her mom was not okay? Tears were swelling in her eyes and running down her face. The female EMT took her hand. She gripped it with a fierce intensity. She didn’t know how to live in a world without her mom in it. The female EMT touched underneath Sayna’s chin to get her attention. She looked her right in the eye. “Are you hurt?” she mouthed. Sayna took an inventory. She felt like she had been tossed around like sack of laundry, but she couldn’t feel anything that felt broken. She shook her head. The EMT nodded and took Sayna’s phone from her. She typed in: “We’ve got to get you in the ambulance.” The EMT Brian had pulled the stretcher up next to the car on the passenger side. “Can you step out of the car and sit on the stretcher?” She typed. Sayna nodded. She tried to turn and look toward her mom’s side of the car. The EMT looked up to the firemen on the other side of the car. They had peeled the door from the car and were sliding the neck brace on Fatima and prepping to slide her on a back board as they pulled her from the car. The EMT looked at Sayna and took both her hands to steady her as she stepped out onto the pavement, and she turned to sit on the waiting stretcher and Brian helped her lay flat. He pushed the stretcher toward the waiting ambulance. As he prepared to pull her head-first into her ambulance, she caught a glimpse of her mother laying flat on her stretcher. Brian lifted his end, so she had a better look at her mom. Fatima’s eyes came open as they moved her nearer her ambulance on the other side of the lawn. She tried to sit up, but they had a tight hold on her as they pulled her up into the ambulance. She was desperately looking for her daughter. For just a brief second, Sayna caught Fatima’s eye. Sayna would have believed she imagined it, but her mom raised her uninjured hand toward Sayna, curling in the second and third finger on her right hand leaving her thumb, index and pinky fingers raised toward Sayna. I love you. Sayna raised her hand in the air and returned the sign to her mom. She closed her eyes as they pulled her into the ambulance. She would always be okay as long as her mom was there to break her silence.


“Come on, man” said Raiden. “You always used to accept a drinking challenge.” They were sitting at the bar of the Brass Tap. Muchacho was wearing brown slacks and a button-down shirt. Raiden was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, shorts and flip flops. “Nah, man,” said Muchacho. I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. “Taking my kid to the park.”

“Unbelievable,” said Raiden. “I thought we were both getting wasted and finding a karaoke machine somewhere. Why do you think I wore my party shirt?”

“Nah, man,” said Muchacho. “Can’t really do things like that anymore. Gotta keep my head on straight now that I’ve got a kid.”

“You’re kidding me,” said Raiden. “I was so excited when you called.” He took a long swig of the cold Guinness beer in front of him. “What’s that like, anyway? Having a kid and all?” Muchacho took a sip of his diet coke and scratched his heavy black beard. “It’s the hardest but, at the same time, most wonderful thing I’ve ever been a part of.”

“Explain.”

“I mean it’s hard to explain. It’s…” he frowned, collecting his thoughts. Raiden was eyeing a basketball game showing on a screen over the bar. “Damn! Learn to play some defense!” he said. “How about some vodka shots, my man?” said Raiden.

“No thanks,” said Muchacho. “My boy wakes me up at six every morning. I’m not looking for any hangovers.”

“Man are you a stick in the mud?” said Raiden. “Not even one shot? We used to do, like, five every night.”

“That was a long time ago, man.”

“A long time ago? That was just a couple years ago! What’s so suddenly different?”

“Have you listened to anything I’ve said? I have a kid.”

“Calm down. Calm down,” said Raiden. “I was just kidding! I know you’ve got a kid and have to be responsible. I was just playin’. Oh! Hey look! It’s Marve! Yo, Marve!”

A tall man in a flannel shirt and a beanie came over to the two men. “Hey, Raiden. What up my man and … No way! It’s Muchacho! Where have you been, my brotha?”

Muchacho stood up from his bar seat, took Marve’s hand and gave him a hug. “Just doing the whole parent thing. Got a kid now.”

“No way!” said Marve. “Mad-Man-Muchacho has a kid! On purpose?”

“Man, don’t do that to me. Of course on purpose. I’m married to Lacey now.”

“You and Lacey? Get outta here. Now how come Raiden and I weren’t invited to the wedding?”

“No wedding,” said Muchacho. “We just went to the courthouse.”

“Cause you knocked her up?” said Marve. “Man, don’t do that to me,” said Muchacho. “Nah, we were just trying to keep it personal. That’s all.”

“I know. I know,” said Marve. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Good to see you both, but I gotta poker game that I’m supposed to be at. So, peace.”

After Marve left Muchacho and Raiden alone, there was a silence pulling at an unspoken question like a strong magnet to iron.

“I gotta tell you,” said Raiden. “I was pretty hurt that you didn’t invite me to the wedding.” “Come on, man,” said Muchacho. “We just made it legal in the courthouse. There was no wedding.”

“I know, man. But you know what I mean. You didn’t even tell me. I found out from Casandra. She said you guys got hitched and were too good to hang out with us now.” “I’m not too good for anything,” said Muchacho. “Don’t do that to me. You know me. I don’t judge anyone.”

“I wasn’t saying I was being judged.”

The two men took sips of their drinks.

“Fuck it,” said Raiden. “Let’s get some shots up in here. You too. And I’m not talking no for an answer. It will be just like old times.” Raiden signaled for the bartender to come over.

“No, man. No, man,” said Muchacho. “Listen. I don’t even drink any more. I’ve been sober for two years.”

“Don’t drink? Come on.” Raiden spoke to the bartender. “Mel, get us two shots of your best vodka. And pour one for yourself. Haven’t seen Muchacho in years. We gotta celebrate.” “Mel,” said Muchacho. “Don’t pour anything for me. I told you, Raiden. I’m sober now. I don’t drink any more. I do AA meetings. The whole thing. I cleaned up.”

“Cleaned up? What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m dirty? Why’d you even ask to grab a drink with me? Do you know how it felt after you started blowing me off? Stopped returning my calls? How do you think that felt? You think it felt good?” Mel the bartender walked away. “It wasn’t personal, man,” said Muchacho. “Please. Calm down.” “I’m calm. I’m calm. Calmest person here. I’m just asking you a question. Why did you throw me to the curb?”

“I didn’t throw you…” “Didn’t… Then how come I haven’t seen or heard from you in two years?”

“I told you,” said Muchacho. “I’ve got a kid. It’s a lot of work.”

“Kid? How come I’ve never met this kid? I thought I was your best friend!” Raiden stood up. “Easy man! Easy,” said Muchacho. “Sit back down. Don’t make a scene.”

“I’ll sit back down when I get a straight answer.” said Raiden.

“I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.”

“The truth. That’s what I want.” Raiden sat back down. “Okay. The truth.”

They took more sips of their drinks. “You never listened to me,” said Muchacho.

“What?” Raiden took another swig of his beer. “Whenever I had a real problem. You would change the subject. Say your ADD was acting up.”

“That’s not fair,” said Raiden. “I do have ADD.”

“I know you do,” said Muchacho. “But it’s different. My wife has ADD. Sometimes she gets distracted. But she still listens .”

“What’re you saying? You know how many conversations we had sitting right here? Right in the very seats we’re sitting in?” “Those weren’t real conversations,” said Muchacho. “They were about sports. The news. Not real stuff. Whenever I tried to bring up something real, you started to get more interested in whatever game… You’re doing it right now!” Raiden turned back away from the basketball game on the screen. “Give me a break! It’s the fourth quarter!” “That’s my point! I need friends who think I’m more important than the fourth quarter of a basketball game!” “I don’t believe this,” said Raiden. “Mel, get me a shot, will ya?”

“There!” said Muchacho. “That’s it! Whenever things get real, you grab for alcohol.” “Oh fuck off,” said Raiden. “Just because you’re sober it doesn’t make everyone else an alcoholic.”

“Whatever man,” said Muchacho. “I came here to forgive you. You know that?” “Forgive me?” said Raiden. “What the hell did I ever do? You blew me off for two years!” “You enabled me,” said Muchacho.

“Enabled you? Is that some of your AA BS?”

“For all those years we were friends, I was in the worst place I’d ever been. Alcohol was all I had. And all you did was let me drink my problems away.” “Allow you?” said Raiden. “I don’t control you. You make your own decisions. I didn’t allow you to do anything.”

“I know. But that’s not what I mean,” said Muchacho. “You never stopped me. You knew I was miserable and never stopped me!”

“What is all this BS? I never controlled anything that you did. If you have problems with alcohol, that’s your own business. You can’t blame me for your own actions.”

“Stop. Stop. This is not what I meant to do. I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to blame you… I just…” He stood up from his bar stool and put his hands on his stomach and started taking deep breaths. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m getting anxious. This helps me calm down. I used to grab a drink. Now I try to focus on breathing.” Raiden ran a hand through his long, scraggly hair and turned his attention back to the basketball game. Muchacho sat back down.

“Listen to me for a second will ya?”

Raiden signed. “I’m all ears.”

“I wanted to meet you here, sit in our old barstools and try to connect with you without having a drink. I did it as a test, for me.”

“What? So you called me for some AA exercise?”

“Yes. But I also called you because I wanted to reconnect. I wanted to see if there was more to our friendship than just being drinking buddies.”

“I can’t believe he missed that one!” said Raiden to the basketball game. Muchacho sighed. “I gotta head out.”

“Already? But you just got here!”

“Got dinner with my in-laws tonight. Thanks for catching up with me. I’ll see you around, Raiden.”

“Come on, man! It’s going into overtime. Can’t you just wait a second.” “Sorry, man. I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now. Take care of yourself.”

The two men stood up and shook hands. Muchacho left the Brass Tap for the final time. Raiden took a shot of vodka and yelled at the television.


Ding! Ding! The scent of heaven pulls me in. I push the door completely open and take a step into CocoRiga. From the street view, the shop is practically invisible. It stands on the corner of Saints Avenue, smothered by corporate buildings, offices, and city giants. Inside the confectionary shop, an ambiance of sweet beginnings lingers, accompanied by timid, instrumental music in the background. It’s Valentine’s Day, and the number of couples I’ve seen continues to grow. Intertwined hands sway back and forth as another pair leaves the store, bouquet of roses and all. CocoRiga, owned by a lovely Anna Lyubov, is known for her simple yet surprising recipes. Small delicacies line her shelves, pink tarts and cakes are found in the front aisles. Bottles of Rosé stand lined up behind the register, their abundance of pink matching with the rich brown wood.              The only date for me today is the one I’ve planned with myself. A binge of chocolate desserts, a bubble bath in a tub of roses, champagne, some music, some reminiscence. I walk the aisles of the shop. There aren’t many, yet I can’t find the creation that calls, e at me… like it did with Alice in that book. I walk back to the register and am about to ask Anna what she would recommend, when I see him.              Positioned with his back facing me, stands my first real love. I’d recognize him anywhere. I’m motionless, my feet stop a pace away. Suddenly, the cocoa bean aroma, the reason I came in here, fades away, replaced by the familiar smell of his shampoo. Its faint--unless you knew him like I did, spent as much time with him, as I did, you wouldn’t catch it. A whiff of cedar sprinkled with some grains of sand.              And there he was. The same blonde hair that messed around his forehead. The same lean frame, the stance he always stood in. There’s no way to describe it. The stance of someone with a sense of humor. A man that’s never failed to make me laugh, to brighten up my day. The way of someone light and carefree and relaxed. A guy who doesn’t care what others say or think, who enjoys every moment of every day. A man who looks for interest in everything--there’s always been something to do, to explore, to create. His stance still holds his boyish playfulness. As if he’s just thought of something new and is fighting the restraint to do it. How do I translate his essence into words? It’s just…him.              He regards the confections displayed before us, considering the options. His eyes haven’t changed color. They’re still the same bright shade of green as I remember. They hold the color of spring grass, of emeralds sparkling by the sun. I can almost feel that summer breeze I felt the day I saw him sprawled in my backyard, his body shaking as laughter rolled through him. It was that moment when I thought, you’re perfect . The existence of him in front of me, set every atom of mine in motion. The goosebumps flared up in my skin, his laugh so energizing yet relaxing. That laugh, it urged so many things in me. To run, to play, to pick up my guitar and sing my heart out with every false note in my voice. That sound enticed me. It drew my body towards him, pulled by an invisible magnetic force. For him to be happy was for the vibrations of the universe to finally be balanced, to be right. The laugh of birdsong, the laugh of children running free, the laugh magnificent enough for me to want to sprout new roots. With him.              And yet he stands before me, and the roots that I thought spiraled through us are now dry, unwatered. Mine reach for his, as if he holds the only source of water. We stand a foot apart, and yet I see this canyon stretch between us. I wonder if he remembers. Remembers the way we spent our evenings, summers, days, and years. I know he felt something for me, there was a connection there. But it was brief. It lived in frequent bursts, a sudden flare of a bright flame, and just as quickly it’s put out. I think it’s still ablaze in me. Subconsciously I feel the need to be around him, to feel his warmth. One chilly eve, I stood in the shower and watched clear water rush down my body. I thought of what it’d feel to kiss him. With other boys, I’d worry about the circumstances. How would it happen? Where would it be? Where do I put my hands, or do I hold the neck, or cheek, or do I run my fingers in their hair or...? But when I thought of him, it was only the emotion that mattered. This homeliness I felt, the heat that comes from winter furnaces and burning wood. The warmth we only feel in cozy cottages, wrapped under blankets with a book. A love so deep it’d be enough to just be with him, be it platonic or romantic. And then, the softness of his lips to gently brush against mine.              In our old days of friendship, we were a little immature, a little foolish. What could a pair of teens know about love? A silly crush? A discreet glance or two? But no. For me, it was the waves of thrill. My heightened senses. I felt things clearer, brighter, better. I felt awake and there and living. He lit my heart, and when we went our separate ways, I began to think it was no longer flammable. For many months, no other person mattered. Not with the weight he used to hold on me.              I’ve often thought of what our paths would look like, intertwined. I longed for me to meet his family, for him to be a part of mine. I knew that beyond the playful look he carried, deep down inside was a responsible, thoughtful man. In certain moments of our days together, I’d see that inner character come out. His eyes would widen in concern, he’d sit up straighter and lean forward. There is a man inside that cares about his family. Who’d risk it all to help his friends, his loved ones. I admired it.              This tenderness, affection, turns out it never really went away. My love for him stayed settled at the bottom of my heart. It pooled together in a little puddle, and as I take him in, it grows. He’s grown himself, I mean, we’re both adults now. So much has changed and yet he’s still the same.

             He bends forward, closer to the quaint display. He chooses the heart-shaped cheesecake, topped with some cocoa flakes and truffles. As Anna packs it up for him, his long, thin fingers reach for his card. He swipes, says thank you. When turns to leave, he finally sees me. “Oh, hey!” he smiles, waves. I barely get a whisper in before I hear the doorbell chime, and then he’s gone.


YOU MUST GO! That was the annoying anthem that kept buzzing in my ear when I made the announcement that I won't be attending the luxurious party Aunty Maureen will be throwing at V.I next week Saturday.

Everyone at home wanted me to go, everyone wanted me to impress "those village people" - as we we've been calling them - that will be present there.

"They don't know who you are ,aunty. Go and show them that you just came back from Amelikah.

The whole house bursted into laughter at the pronunciation of "America" my younger sister made. Well, I wasn't co concerned about that. I was brooding over the encounter I'd be having when I get to the railway. I was worried of its underdevelopment. I was concerned about that horrible odor that will sway round when someone fart in the train. I was concerned about the suffocation, of how bubble of sweats would store round my neck for six good dying hours. I was afraid of the Good Samaritans who will help you keep your things without your knowledge. I was afraid of insults that will hover around the air if one of the passenger stepped on the other's foot unintentionally while the train nose up to Kano.

And now......... It was naturally different. The effervescent scents of Hyacinth running down through my nostrils made me want more of this trip - Like a forevermore journey to a wonderland. Oblivious of the rowdy conversations in the railway, my body was outside plucking those blooming flowers into my little pause...... And the more I took them, more the more they became so smaller as if I took nothing... so I sniffed them into my dot Like back then, days when rainfall was a respecter of none. Mama would tell us to rub balms in our palms, and then caress it round the bridge of our nose. As we journeyed towards the mighty river of Niger, I  began to fantasize a lengthy adventure to paradise; an everlasting world of a glassy sea. The river was appealing to the face. Children were swimming, and making fun, lazing around a wooden boat bulked with caught fishes.

The rivers waved left and right, splashing on each other as if they were competitive on who to visit The river goddess. I reached out for it but the waters were far away. Ashore, were fishermen so crowded like the evening Market-women in my village . Though their faces were fading in the sight, I saw joy of how well they've worked to get a hefty teem of fishes. Their hat curved with a handcrafted raffia made them look unique. It showed the agility and determined spirit of their fishing trip across the river.

Once I was a child, I told Mama that I wanted to be a sailor; that I wanted to sail round the Pacific ocean and feel the serenity outta the soil of the earth. Pride and joyfulness clung over my optimism. But....Mama worried of the "Ogbanje" that will disturb me when I sleep.

She said, "They will torture you in your nightmare, because they were one of the fallen angels Chineke shoved down to this earth. My brow formed vertical lines like the sea wave. She got my mind changed perhaps , for good. The train continued to journey to a far away distance where the world of nomads and herdsmen was a world of natural differences: cattles were so submissive to their masters; the herdsmen gibberish was a means of communication to the cattles; wheresoever the Fulani instruct them to go,even the Meadows and wild grasses were submissive as the animals match in unison.  The moooooo! of cows was so boisterous that I had to block my right here. The disturbing train couldn't even overshadow the noise along the sweet lonely road.

As we moved further, trees, tall and gallant like the Sequoias I took a picture of while I was in California. They waved left and right, that it made me picture the congregation in Church chanting the Hallelujah chorus - It was as if God wanted them to.

 sighing solemnly, I thought of The Creator's mysterious ways. I got lost into another realm where trees became human. And they looked beautiful beyond what human could phantom. Some slanted backward and some..... An infant cry intruded my imaginary world of nature. I toppled back to get my real self. The woman whose baby was whimpering, had tribal marks which denied her gorgeousness. She was obviously an epitome of beauty if at all she'd got no scarification. She cuddled her child singing MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB. In a twinkle if an eye, the little babe had slept off.

Well, it was part of nature too.

 I knew getting to Kano was no less than few hours.

I felt a throbbing in my leg. The pain was pretty much, but I wanted to feel what nature has got.

The sun peeked it head out amidst the fluffy cloud. It grinned so softly that it's penetration into the window glass was tender to the skin.

The sun's shape had no different of that one we used to draw in our Nursery school days. The one that used to spike out pieces of rays roundabout its surface and on its Head was a crown which signifies king of light.

And now, sitting tired and famished, it began to set toward west..... There, upward, flakes of clouds formed an imaginary things that got me to wonder if God was an artist.

Towards the north lies a mother cuddling her baby with an African wrapper. beneath was a formed Lion King roaring a rage of fire like a dragon and dogs were barking at the Lion King. At the Eastern shore of a dam were little children running away from a mother hen that was protecting her chickens from prey.

The last figure in the sky that made me dumbfounded before the final halt of the train to our destination was a pig whose skin was made of a sunny-gold skin. It had a wing of an at the side. It flapped it wing into the sky and soared high that I squinted my eyes to fish it out from the heavens but I couldn't get it. What formed a smoky vertical lines was that of a spaceship piercing in skyward outta the earth. I wanted to reach out for the flying pig in the sky but they began to disperse like a bread soaked into water.... There I sat, so lost, into where nature brought me to wonder....And the wonder arrived when.... "Madam,madam", a masculine hand tapped me, I looked up. "You no go come down?". Is pidgin English was clear. It was made of nature. It was diluted with authority. Though I came back to life, I was hungering for another scene made of beauty in nature.  In a rush, crowd gushed out from the train like waters from the rock. Fine linen flowed among these people of various tongues, the people of Africa. People made of nature.


TW: Substance Abuse, Implied Suicide, and Child Abuse Baby Talk.

It’s all I have heard and all I have known for the past 8 months and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The Coos and Waas eventually evolving into Dada and Mama while my son gains soft awareness behind his bright blue eyes.

My eyes.

Tubbie time is always a surprise with him because instead of tears there is absolute wonder that seems to soak into his skin as he gently touches the bubbles and plays with his bath toys.

I say “he plays,” but really; let’s be honest... It is more ME playing with the toys and keeping his baby brain occupied. His favorite tubbie toy being the S.S. DayWel; a small sailboat that belonged to my little brother, Darrell.

It was a silly name for a boat, but when asked what he wanted to name it, he simply replied with his own name. Unfortunately, the linguistic skills of a toddler seemed to fail him in his R’s, so we simply painted S.S. DayWel on the side. I often wonder if My son will struggle with his R’s like Darrell, but it is hard to imagine that my son will be anything other than this cooing child with eyes full of wonder in the bathtub while I tell stories of pirates sailing the cerulean foamy ocean. Their search of treasure only interrupted by having to fend fend off the Deep-Sea Quackens and Bubble-Bearded Baddies. His eyes always light up when the DayWel comes out and it truly is quite the sight when he sees the sails rip through waves and suds to finally come to rest on the tub-side where the treasure lies.

The same stories and games that Darrell would play.

To be frank, I forgot about the S.S. DayWel until I was forced to clear my mother’s pitifully 60’s feeling apartment a few years ago.

She passed away from what was likely a mixture of Gin and Tonic with a Lexapro chaser and while we weren’t exactly close, I didn’t have much choice in cleaning her mess since I lived the closest. I never really understood why she disliked me, but this hoarder habit must have been one final, “Fuck You,” to me knowing that I would be the one who would do the Majority .

A dumpster rented, industry grade respirator masks purchased, and disinfectant by the barrel - all on standby while I performed Hercules’ final labor of tackling the Beast of the Hoard. My battle was Legendary. Made up of Tchotchkes from shitty midwestern shops being condemned to their final resting place of a landfill as well as the Kitchiest plates; art with native stylized wolves adorning the walls of this dusty tomb. There was no world where someone wanted these artifacts.

They are the relics we pass down to our children who in turn toss them aside..

Just as we toss our parents into nursing homes subconsciously thinking thoughts of revenge for the perceived wickedness and generational trauma put forth one tree branch after another - after another – after another. A never-ending tirade of generational trash aged into oblivion. I used to wonder what she was forced to clean when Grandpa died, but once I was forced into her loving garbage heap, I knew that she never actually threw anything away.

What perceivable use did she have to keep golf clubs when she could never afford to golf? Why did she keep coffee mugs when she lived off Beefeater sipped out of plastic to-go cups from movie theaters? Her sick sense of humor shown through when I found not one, but four copies of the same book. Why in the world did she need four copies of ‘Iphigenia in Aulis’ that she probably never fucking read?

It was always because Everything held some fucking Meaning and every year held the family’s annual denying of her trying to give all of us her trash. It was as if she really thought her collection of thirty-six music boxes that she bought from thrift stores a dime a piece would one day hold value. At the end of the day when the sun finally sets, the only value that they held was based on how many fucking garbage bags I had to go through to make sure they didn’t pierce the sides and rip. A rage filled as I, like Sisyphus, tossed trash bag after trash bag into the dumpster abyss. I did try to find things that held meaning that we could save at first, but you start to black out when you find thirteen VHS tapes labeled ‘Days of Our Lives’ in a milk crate resting on top of what had to be 63 years of magazine subscriptions to everything a haggard widow could ever want.

And the fucking Smell.

The wings of Baal spread open as the apocalypse happened within your nostrils; a true calamity. Obviously, it was the supernatural side effect of filling a small enough space with so much furniture, knick knacks, and rubble that there were only 3 routes to go: Kitchen, Bathroom, Bedroom; The Depression Grand Prix. Entropy sets in as the dust gathers and cleaning dies in the hellfire of elderly alcoholism and dementia.

Mom truly was a bitch in the end.

My Backup never came and I was alone on the frontlines of a battle that I was losing. I may have made progress on fighting the trash heap, but my sanity faltered to dangerous levels of hopelessness as I used up a Costco Pallet’s worth of trash bags. Though my determination faltered, the dulcet tones of Bowie would cheer me on until the progress finally became palpable. The Hoard’s mountains transformed into heaps which transformed into piles and eventually hardwood was made free after years of darkness and forgetting its own existence. The more I unsoiled, it became apparent that if one covered their nose and splashed their eyes with acid, they could be fooled into thinking that this apartment had potential at some point.

My final labor for the woman who brought me into the world was cemented as “Worth It” only after I found the box labeled “ Darrell’s Stuff ”

An unassuming cardboard box filled with stuffed animals, baby blankets, and a photo album heavily featuring him and I together. As I dug through my little brother’s treasured memories without him there, I found the S.S. DayWel.

I ran my fingers along the hull of this shoebox- sized plastic and felt my breath catch.

39 years ago

A bathtub of sudsy water just like my own boy enjoys. Darrell’s childlike glee as he played “Pi-Wates” and laughter as the water would splash onto the various toys and obstacles the Pi-Wates would navigate. Like all 4-year-olds, bathtubs were a trove of Adventure for me. It was always the high seas calling for exploration and Bubble-Bearded Baddies. Darrell was unfortunately not big on sharing during tubbie time and his terrible 2’s came with the price of never getting along with his older brother. I may have been older, but he was like a miniature Wyrm guarding his gold. His talons were screams that would wake our angry parents when we fought.

Subterfuge or speed was required if I was to get him to part with his prize and plans had to be made to occupy him with shinier toys.

I looked through our toybox in desperation, hoping to find something to replace the S.S. DayWel, but Hot Wheels, Etch-a-sketches, and purple singing dinosaurs had never cut it before. A gloom began to shudder over my heart as the realization took hold that I would never be able to coax the sailboat away from him. Then I heard him. The splashing toddler glee as he played in the tub reinvigorated me as I was permeated with veridian envy and the urgency of my plight took hold. Creativity was a must.

Which toy was the most precious of all? The answer was obvious and I was surprised that it had taken me so long to think of it. The Orange Gun. Bright, loud, and capable of creating all sorts of legendary battles! It's cold plastic was smooth and the buttons were a veritable treasure while a rope that ran for a country mile was attached to the grip. I made my way to the bathroom and spied the gun hanging out of a drawer.

Darrell’s eyes drew on me faster than a cowboy at high noon as if he knew that mischief was afoot while he clutched the DayWel like an opera goer clutches her pearls. I needed to put on a performance worthy of a Sesame Street child actor in order to make this trade seem viable. My hands wrapped around the replacement toy as the tapestry of deception wove in my imagination. I pointed the pistol skywards and invisible aliens in their UFOs shot across the ceiling. It was up to me to save the Bathroom.

“BANGBANGBANG! TAKE THAT! BANG!” I fired my pistol and kept them at bay, but always – my heart’s true desire was the real prize of the DayWel. My little brother's eyes lost their defensive aura and began to turn a shade of emerald as he wished to play my game and I knew that I had him. I set my pistol on the porcelain bowl and held out my hand towards the boat that he clutched. His gaze darted to my hand and back to the DayWel before they finally rested on the Orange Gun. The sound effects and bright colors were far too tantalizing for him as he handed me the sailboat; the silent trade and interaction. I had my prize and began to walk away, but started to hear protest. I had forgotten to make good on my end of the wordless bargain. I made my way back to the toilet with the orange toy resting on it. I had My Prize of the boat, yet the downright evil thought that flashed across my soul was to take both for myself. My left hand wrapped around the gun and my right hand held the DayWel. I knew that both were precious, but I also knew the tears and the screams from an angry toddler would cause far too much commotion. I looked at the tub and the suds had almost completely dissipated and Darrell’s adventures on the high seas would be done soon. The glee of an imaginative tubbie time would drain.. So I decided to do the right thing and give him the gun rather than keep both toys for myself.

I was the older brother and it fell to me to make sure that he was happy.

I tossed the hair dryer into the tub.


1 The hotel pool room was pure Picasso. The wall paper was a rose and cream decal. The carpet was red, as was the felt on the four pool tables. There was a juke box in the corner, Bob Seger was singing I Feel Like a Number. I was with some mates, drinking, chatting, playing pool. It was my shout. On the way to the bar I passed her. She was wearing blue jeans and black ankle-high boots. Her blue eyes sat in a round face. Her hair was cut to a number four.  She wore a black leather biker’s jacket over a grey t-shirt and smiled as we passed. I returned with the round and there she was standing near my table. We talked as The Steve Miller Band sang The Joker.

We played pool together and won. Two grey suited detectives walked into the room and started asking questions, recording the replies in their flip top note books.

Suddenly there was a fracas. A guy wearing an Eastern Suburbs rugby league jersey came running into the room, screaming loudly. He leapt on to one of the pool tables, stomped around the top of the table, his vocal chords strained as he leaned forward and screamed obscenities at everyone in the room.   Deep Purple, Space Truckin’, blasted from the duke box. Suddenly the doors to the main bar burst open. A dozen people fell through the doors and into the pool room. An all in brawl had erupted. The detectives reacted quickly, jamming their notebooks into their inside coat pockets and moving urgently to the nearest exit. The guy shouting from the pool table leapt to the floor, landing nimbly on the red carpet, running into the melee in the front bar, disappearing into the ruckus. She took me by the hand and we ran from the pool room together, her leading the way. I had no idea why or where we were running, yet I followed. Hand in hand we ran up the hill from the pub, stopping in the darkness of the doorway of a shop, gasping for breath, sirens sounding in the distance. It sounded like police cars were in every street. We huddled close together in the door way of the shop. I put my hand on her cheek and felt the warmth of her face in my palm. We kissed as the noise of the sirens washed over us. She took my hand and, as the sirens faded into the distance, we ran up the hill. Soon we came to her apartment. It was above a shop. There was a double bed, a kitchenette and a disused fireplace with a brick and tile mantelpiece all in one room.  A radio sat on the mantelpiece. We removed our jackets and she turned on the radio. She took two glasses from a cupboard in the kitchenette and poured two rums. She offered me one of the rums, sat on the bed and removed her boots. She rose to her feet, walked towards me. We embraced and kissed. We fell into her bed and when I entered her I felt the meaning of connection for the first time.  Warm Ride played on the radio.

I slept like I’d never slept before.

When I woke, I was bathing in the warmth of the light that poured through the windows of her flat. We were lying in her bed, her head in the crook of my right arm. I watched her eyes flutter as she woke. She looked at me, put her arm around my neck and pulled me close. We kissed. “I’m headin’ up the coast, wanna come?” she asked. “When?” I replied. “Now,” she said, pushing me away and getting out of bed. I watched her bare arse as she walked into the bathroom. While she was showering I made scrambled eggs on toast. We ate and I did the washing-up while she gathered her stuff together. I had nothing but the clothes on my back as I followed her onto a bus to Central.

From Central we caught a train to Hornsby, where we started hitching north. 2 We caught a ride with some hippies in a blue Kombi. She and I lay on a mattress in the back. The hippies passed around a joint. She took a tote and then placed the joint in my mouth. I took a deep draw.  She handed the joint back to the hippies and we kissed. We expelled each other’s smoke into each other’s mouths, breathing each other’s breath. She pinned my arms to the floor of the van.  Her face leaned down and we kissed. I closed my eyes and when I opened them I looked into hers and smiled. She smiled back.

Every now and again, as the van travelled up the coast, people would leave and people would join the clan. Cuddled together in the back of the van we enjoyed each other’s company. After a few days the van stopped at a deserted beach. She and I decided it was time to wave the hippies goodbye. We disembarked, walking to the beach as the van pulled away. She and I held hands as we ran onto the deserted sands. We stripped each other naked and ran hand in hand to the surf, embracing skin to skin.

We stayed on the beach all day, making love and diving in the waves.

Mid-afternoon we took a walk along the beach, coming upon a fisherman. We talked and after a while the fisherman opened his Esky and offered us a cold beer. We accepted the fisherman’s offer and talked to him for hours while he fished. It was getting dark when the fisherman said, “Fish are about to run,” and he put a cork reel in my hand. He pointed up the beach and said, “Find a fishing spot.” She and I walked up the beach until we could no longer see the fisherman. When we stopped I unravelled several metres of line from the cork reel, swung it like a lasso and let it go. That first throw found the water at the back of the waves.  Hook, line and sinker were swallowed straight away. It felt like a big fish the way it grabbed the line and ran. Yet I knew I had its measure. By the time I reeled in the fish my hands were sore and bleeding. I could hardly move my fingers. She put her arms around my neck and we kissed. We took the fish to the fisherman. He smiled. “Trevally,” he said. “Nice catch.” We spent that night on the beach with the fisherman. We built a small fire in the sand and cooked and ate the Trevally. We slept in the sand a few metres from the fire. When we woke, wrapped around each other, the fire was dead. The fisherman was gone.

3 The sky was overcast and dark, looking like it was going to open at any moment. We ran, hand in hand from the beach to the road and started hitching, hoping to beat the storm. We hit the highway and a few minutes later we were in luck. A truck pulled over, the cab door opened and we climbed in. We were met by a broad white smile in a black face.

Lightning struck as we got into the cab and thunder burst overhead. The rain came down hard, quickly turning to hail, bouncing off the bonnet of the truck.  “Where’re you guys headed?” asked the driver. “North,” she said. “You chose the right side of the road,” said the driver, laughing. Steppenwolf, Magic Carpet Ride, played on the radio as the truck accelerated on to the road. We drove non-stop for hours, through heavy rain, into a cloudless, star-filled sky. The sound of the truck’s motor out did the tinny radio. She and I fell asleep to the constant throb of the engine. Suddenly the motor stopped and we woke, parked on the side of the road.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” said the driver.  He reached across me, opened the glove box and took out a plastic bag.  He tossed the plastic bag to me. “It’ll be a while before the others catch up.”

I caught the plastic bag and opened it. From it I rolled the biggest joint I’d ever rolled. It was six papers big! It was a masterpiece. The cab filled with smoke as the three of us toked on that huge joint.   We wound down the windows to let in the fresh air and were met by all sorts of night noises. In the distance I could hear a voice, whispering, “Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade….” The voice slowly got louder, “Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade….” It became a shout, “Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade!!!” I woke suddenly, as a train passed close beside us. Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade, rattled the train’s wheels over the tracks. As the sun rose there was a barrage of horns tooting and suddenly everyone was awake. Two trucks pulled up next to us. Several people got out of the trucks and approached us. They were carnies, part of the same mob. She and I looked at each other. “We’re heading off,” she said to the driver.

She put her arm around me. “It’s time to say goodbye,” she said. We got out of the truck and walked hand in hand for hours along sugarcane lined-roads. 4 The day was hot and it grew hotter as we walked. Around midday, sore, dirty and tired, we walked into a ramshackle roadhouse, a wooden building, with a bar, a pool table, a coke fridge and a juke box. We each opened a coke and guzzled it.

“I’ve got beer, if you want one,” said the guy behind the counter.

“We’ll have two of those,” she said, putting her arm around my neck. We kissed, JJ Cale, After Midnight, played on the duke box. “You guys need a room,” said the barman.  “We’ve got a caravan out back, you can have it,” he said, throwing the key our way. She caught the key and we took our beers to the van. Once inside the van we embraced and fell upon the bunk. The bunk was narrow and uncomfortable, but we made do. I pealed her top away as she stripped me of my jeans. I felt her hot breath on my skin.

We left the van at sunrise the next day. We walked for hours, hitching as we went.  A purple, vintage, convertible pulled up and we hopped aboard. The walk had been hot and draining, but sitting in back of the purple convertible, sailing down the highway, was fresh and cool. Gerry Rafferty, Baker Street, played on the radio. The driver was affable and talkative.  He was European and smelled wealthy.  He and I conversed while she slept, her head on my shoulder. Kilometre after kilometre passed and we stopped for fuel. We bought a coke while the driver paid for the petrol. I lost count of the hours after we hit the road again. She and I lay in the back seat of the car, talking and sleeping. It was dark when the convertible stopped outside a bar. The driver got out of the car and we followed him inside. The bar was upmarket from our usual digs. People were dancing in the dim light, Gloria Gaynor, I Will Survive, pumping from the speakers.

I went to the bar and bought a round while she led him to a table.  She appeared alongside me at the bar, her hand on my shoulder. “I thought I’d give you a heads up,” she said. “He and I are heading west. You’re welcome if you want to come.” “I think we’ve come as far as we needed to come,” I said. I smiled and kissed her on the cheek.

She put her arms around my neck and we kissed. \ I never saw her again and I’ve missed her ever since.


“Honey! Something is seriously wrong with me! I think I’m losing my mind!” shrieked Daniel over the phone to his wife. His heart was pounding so fast that he felt as though it would just fall of his chest. He was shivering and sweating profusely. His hand was trembling while holding his mobile phone. “Calm down Danny. What’s wrong?” Jessica asked. “I don’t know Jessy. Something is wrong with my eyes. Or something could be wrong with my brain” Daniel’s panic was apparent in his voice. “Baby, please pull yourself together and tell me what is going on!” Jessica begged. “I don’t know if it was something I ate last night. I think I am hallucinating” “Danny, you are making me worried! Are you alright?” Jessica was starting to panic. * * * Daniel and Jessica are happily married for five years now and they have a beautiful three-year-old daughter, Stephanie. The memory of their first meeting is still fresh in Daniel’s mind. What was supposed to be a regular night’s out with friends turned out to be the most important moment in Daniel’s life. It was like a breath of fresh air when Daniel laid his eyes on Jessica in that house party. She was cruising around the party with her red dress and her free-falling brown hair flowing like a river. The breeze that accompanied her stride, the shadow that struggled to keep up with her vibrancy is still the topic of discussion that Daniel never fails to bring up during their annual anniversary celebration. Their relationship was a classical fairy-tale that usually earned the jealousy of their close circle. Daniel has never left Jessica’s side throughout their marriage. Jessica’s morning wake-up kiss, her unparalleled morning tea were all part of Daniel’s must-have morning routines and it has been for the past five years of their beautiful marriage. This is the first time Daniel has been separated from his wife for more than a week. As a newly promoted marketing executive, it became a part of Daniel’s job to entertain customers from all parts of the world. His first assignment is in Hungary and he had to leave his wife for the first time in five years. The goodbye was long and hard and Daniel had no heart to leave his wife and daughter. The thought of quitting his job and even volunteering to get demoted to avoid travelling a lot crossed his mind. Somehow, he convinced himself that it was just for two weeks and after that he will be reunited with his wife again. Danial took a photograph with his wife on his polaroid camera right before leaving and kept it in his wallet to bring it with him to Hungary. That photograph was his only company throughout his journey to Hungary. The first few days in Hungary were hard to get used to but daily video calls and the exchange of heart-warming messages kept the day going for Daniel. Every night ended with Daniel closing his eyes while looking at the photograph he took with Jessica right before leaving. It was almost a week since their separation when things started to go wrong. The night before, Daniel had a meeting with his client in a bar and he went unusually heavy on his drinks to impress his client. They shared such a good rapport and the deal concluded smoothly. But the quantity of drinks that Daniel had was way beyond his threshold. It was a surprise to him that he went back to his hotel room in one piece that night. That night he didn’t manage to look at his photograph before sleeping as his eyelids were too heavy. The next morning started with a bit of a hangover. He tried to brush off the headache and looked for his photograph. There was some other lady posing with him instead of his wife in the photograph! He brushed his eyes harder and looked at the photograph again without squinting. He could not believe his eyes! It wasn’t Jessica in the picture! Its definitely the same photograph; he could even see his daughter running towards them in the background as she tried to squeeze in with them for the photograph. But the lady in the picture beside him definitely wasn’t Jessica. He immediately picked up his phone and dialled Jessica. * * * “Honey, please tell me what is going on! I am freaking out here.” Jessica yelled. “The photograph that we took has changed. You are not there anymore!” Daniel revealed. “What are you blabbering Danny?” “I swear it was alright until yesterday. But today something is wrong. Some other lady is there instead of you! I know I must be sounding like a mad man now!” “Baby, what did you have last night? You said you might have had something?” “I just had a couple of drinks with a client. I may have gone overboard with the drinks but I thought I could sleep it off. I never thought I could go mad!” “Danny, I am worried. Can you please just come back? Like right now!” Jessica’s worry came out like an order. That sounded like the exact thing Daniel should be doing right now. He put down the phone and booked the next available flight back home. Throughout his journey back, Daniel kept staring at the photograph hoping that he could gain his sanity back. But he realized the strange women looked even older as time pass by. It was almost sunrise when Daniel arrived home. He rushed in through the front door to fall in the arms of his wife who he assumed would be waiting for his arrival and hoping to wake up from this nightmare. Unfortunately, Jessica was in the bathroom taking a shower. “Honey, I am home!” Daniel announced. “Baby! You are back! Give me a minute, I will be out. I have made your favourite morning tea. It’s on the table. Have a sip and I will join you in a jiffy” said Jessica from the bathroom. Daniel’s favourite tea was waiting for him on the table. He felt like he was home when he took the first sip. He missed it so much. He missed her so much. Daniel’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Jessica walking towards him to welcome him; the same way he felt five years ago when he first saw her. His love for her has not fade one bit. There she was, looking exactly the same way as she always did; as vibrant as usual. He rushed and hugged her tightly. “Baby, I was worried about you. Is everything alright?” Jessica whispered in Daniel’s ears. “Look at this honey” Daniel immediately took out his wallet and showed Jessica the photograph. “I don’t see anything wrong baby” Jessica looked puzzled. Daniel was shocked to realize that Jessica was posing beside him, exactly how it was when the photograph was taken. The strange lady was gone. “I swear honey! An old lady was there in your place! I swear!” Daniel could not believe his eyes. He has definitely gone crazy. “Its ok baby. Maybe you were just too tired and missed me so much” Jessica gave Daniel a comforting hug. Daniel was extremely mystified while Jessica looked at their reflection in the mirror nearby and let out a sinister smile. She has been doing it successfully for the past five years. A two-week business trip is not going to meddle with her master plan. “Do you want to finish your tea before going to bed baby? You must be tired” Jessica handed Daniel her ‘special’ tea.


It was almost two years ago,

March 28th, when I found myself onboarding the Z216 overnight train. Xian -

the ancient capital of China, a pearl on the Silk Road, was awaiting. It's been 7 months since I've been here, and yet, China was nowhere to be found. Where were the

crimson temples on holy mountains, merging with the dragons of gold? Where were the gardens of balance and faith? Why music no longer felt like the wind, floating underneath you, taking you towards your true self? The elhu did not belong in the cities, it's voice was overtaken by the sound of destruction. Glass and steel giants devoured everything along their way. The temples, the gardens, the homes of their ancestors. There was no rest for their greatest conquest. Theirs was not the sound of creation, but the world crying for help, in loss of its heritage, of it's identity, of its wealth. On another loud and crowded train I found myself, chasing freedom, chasing peace, yet unable to break free from the grips of chaos, of destruction. We are told that peace can be found everywhere, for me, it was impossible to find it on that train. I was sitting near the window, trying to press myself as close as I could towards it. With every inch trying to disappear into its cold existence. Nonetheless, it was hard to ignore the disgust I was feeling from looking out, towards what my dreams had turned into. Gray, repetitive, competing with the mountains and stomping on humanity. Yet, peace could be found even in times of restlessness, or so I chose to believe. With every gentle breath, I distanced myself from the window, observing the people around me. Emerging myself into the sound of music was challenging, for the sounds of conversation and burst of emotion, overpowered technology. Pickled chicken legs, with a questionable scent, continuously being spat out into the ever growing plastic waste. The incredible warmness and curiosity of people, accompanied by persistent glazes, often made boundaries more challenging to create. Yet all was miniscule, compared to the announcements which did not seem to stop, for they with great enthusiasm, overtook all sound. Chaos was inside me and chaos was outside. I grew to believe that one's relationship with their surroundings is influenced by their state of mind. Indeed, my surroundings created a restlessness within, yet was the restlessness one of refusing defeat? I could not surrender to China becoming another memorial of cultural identity loss. I refused to believe that the steel giants will spread across all lands, until the mountains are nowhere to be seen. Until all is cold. My desire to dwell into misery was overtaken by hunger. As I enjoyed my dinner, I found myself sharing meals and conversations. Conversations with words neither side could understand, yet pleasant memories were made, and family pictures were taken. At midnight the dark sky covered up the atrocities made in disguise, miles after miles, there stood the giants, with no life.

Early Friday morning I arrived. A city like no other, for it was with modernity which honoured it's past. The elhu sang in the gardens of the Giant Goose Pagoda. Fountains, statues, shops and houses spread across narrow roads. One after the other - non overshadowing the Great Wall. That is - in parts of the city, yet it was more than I had seen.

Comforted I felt within its ancient walls, no longer an ant, finding its way home, feeling lost. A human again I was, my surroundings reflected my nature. I could see the gray roofs of the brick houses, and only a few steps would take to cross a street. At night, I could look into people's lit homes, and comfort would warmly take me in.

A great adventure was ahead of me, the ancient paintings are what I wanted to see. It was 5am, on a Monday, when I took an empty train. To a land, far outside the city, a land the metal giants haven't yet claimed. A small village I arrived at, watched over by one of the holy five - Hua Shan - the Western Mountain. Mount Hua, my eyes tear when I think of your beauty, your magesticity, your gentle embrace. For I will never forget my first climb, alone on my path, I witnessed wonders of human faith.  A climb like no other, for Hua was no mountain, but a true giant of steep rock, standing high, protecting all. As I reached her peak , the sun was growing weak. A crowd was on every step, with no peace surrounding the temple of crimson red. Patience and time was what I needed, yet the last bus was soon leaving. Sitting I found myself, on a stone, reaching towards it's edge, witnessing what life can create. Children with parents as their guide, friends standing side by side, loved ones hand in hand, honoring their ancestral land. Trees emerging out of the rocks, reaching further towards their Gods. The small red cloths, a prayer flag they are called; inscribed with hope, were gems on the crown Hua wore.

The sun had merged with the mountains, the sky was light, yet heavy at first sight. I was there, alone, all the paths were empty, all I had was a moment for a single song. As I stood there, on the edge of the cliff, with ancient temples on each side, decorated in red light, I was in a dream-like state of mind. I saw the paintings, they were in front of my eyes, a dream they were no longer. The elhu was singing with joy, with desire to live, to survive, to surpass time and human greed. Hua Shan, I looked at you for the last time, my heart full of fear, my eyes full of tears. I took a deep breath. I wanted to remember forever your wealth.

A forest of green mountains far beyond what I could see. Together, they formed waves, and held you in their warm embrace. Peace was not found on your mountain top, for peace was not yet within me. Yet faith was, strength was, admiration of your existence was. When I took my last glance, a gentle smile appeared on my face, as my eyes reflected the mountains

last light of the day. I was alone, a woman, a stranger, standing with a purpose, to fight for my true home.