I can’t even lie; my first thought when I saw him was that he was extremely cute, unlike a lot of the guys in my dumpy hometown. I knew he had a girlfriend at the time, so I forced that train of thought to shut down. But unfortunately, that’s not how life works out, especially not for me.            We met at a mutual friend’s house when I had decided to try my hand at Dungeons and Dragons. Ezekiel had walked in, and I had to crane my neck back to actually look at him. After an extremely short conversation, I knew that he was intelligent, funny, and an extreme procrastinator. As he started the session with almost an hour of prologue, I saw just how much effort he placed into his passion projects. I had to leave early that day, but we had exchanged contact information so that if I had any questions, I could ask.            He had been on online school during the preceding year, but he rejoined public school. Ezekiel texted me to ask about our school’s dress code, and we had a very awkward conversation. When school started, we found that we had a few classes together. Looking back, I realize what a nightmare we must have been for teachers; once the ice had broken, we talked constantly, both in person and online. When his schedule had gotten reformed after a few mishaps with credit transfers, we had even more classes together.            And then his long-distance girlfriend dumped him. Ezekiel was understandably upset, so me and my soft heart tried to cheer him up. He bounced back after a little while, and one day in study hall, he informed me of his afterschool plans; Ezekiel was going to ask out my best friend, Sadie.            Thus, began the aching slow descent.            My first thought was that Sadie would turn him down. She liked someone else, only saw Ezekiel as a friend, and was still messed up from her failed relationship just months ago. I tried to imagine it anyway, and my stomach churned a bit. But I didn’t tell him that; I simply wished him luck, and then went back to writing my essay before the teacher could yell at us.            Sadie turned him down, and I ended up having to explain why I had called it. Midterms leapt upon us, and amidst all the frantic cramming, Ezekiel and I planned for a whole group of our friends to hang out when we were all free.            Out in the woods, we had a small bonfire, and Ezekiel and I ended up having to work hard to get that stupid fire going. The matches he always carried around were simply garbage, and we wasted half an hour trying to get those horrible things to light. In the end, a friend had to bring a lighter up. Ezekiel and I gathered the wood and kept the fire going since we both knew how to actually keep the flames alive. When the end of the school day came around, I had to leave to catch the bus, and to my surprise, Ezekiel volunteered to walk with the group that was heading back. He lived in town and could just walk, but I just put it down as the cold that was sending him.            Our group ended up arriving about twenty minutes early, so we hung around the back of the school. Disclaimer: we are not thugs, that’s simply where the buses parked. Ezekiel seemed like he was dealing with some deep internal thoughts, so I chatted with some other friends. He walked up and asked to speak with me alone, hands nervously twitching as he did. Curious as to what he wanted, I agreed. We stepped away from the group, but when he started talking, someone walked over, and he clammed up. His attention slid to them, and although subtle, his movements became increasingly aggravated. I kept trying to reclaim his attention, but he clearly didn’t want to speak to me with an audience.            After a few minutes, everyone more or less drifted away. Ezekiel finally responded to my prompting and asked me out. I was a tad shell shocked, but I said yes.            We were an oddly perfect match. Our intelligence and creativity spurred the other person’s on, and we laughed easily. We pushed each other to be better and leapt onto the opportunity to help whenever the workload was a bit much. We played off our differences nicely, and our similarities made us all the closer. Our relationship was occasionally a tad spicy, but overall, we were very sweet, if a bit excessive on public displays of affection. Where our dates were far and few between, our conversations were certainly not.            But after two and a half months, Ezekiel lost interest. He lied for an additional two weeks, keeping up the appearance of a loving boyfriend so that my first real relationship would be at least three months. The day after our three-month anniversary, he broke up with me.            I was crushed. I had loved this boy with my entire heart, and I was so sure he felt the same. I struggled to seem normal around him for the next few days of school. Luckily for me, Easter break was that weekend.            Then again, I couldn’t seem to move past all his lies. It was one thing that he had lost interest, I told myself, but another thing entirely that he had lied. I wrote out note after note, telling him that I couldn’t decide if I hated him or not, but honestly, I knew that I was simply struggling to move on.            But these kinds of stories are a dime a dozen, aren’t they? A shy, quiet girl falls for the popular hot guy, and they go out for a bit before he ditches her. Hallmark, at least, redeems the guy, and the couple gets back together in the end.            It never feels like a dime a dozen story when it’s your turn to play the fool though.            I silently watched, two weeks post break up, as Ezekiel was thrust into a situation where two girls he had no particular interest in were planning to ask him out. I said nothing as he tossed an apologetic glance toward me before admitting that there was technically nothing holding him back. I quietly ate my lunch as he had a lengthy discussion with the friend who had warned him about which of the two girls he was going to pick.            The classes we had together became a curse, and he was on my mind even when we were apart. I hated myself for it, and my self-esteem reached an all-time new low. But I was too stubborn to tell him that I was hurting, preferring to internalize all the pain I was in.            I watched as he started going out with Maria. Although he swore to not do anything with her around me, much of our study halls were spent with me studiously ignoring the new couple as they spent the entire time flirting. Despite myself, I ended up talking to them both and even became good friends with Maria. I rearranged my finals schedule so that I would only have one test with Ezekiel and conveniently could not hang out.            Summer began, and I was still stuck in a perpetual loop of missing him and violently trying to push him away. I tossed myself into my summer job, enjoying my time with a friend that I had not seen since the previous year.            I watched as she texted him on my phone, drunk and flirting, and how he just played games with her. I saw when he broke up with Maria and started dating Kate before the week was over. Several of my friends texted me once they heard, pointing out how ridiculously fast he had gotten a new girlfriend. I felt like I was dangling over a pit with only a few threads to hold onto, but I didn’t say a word to Ezekiel.            The few times I saw him over the summer were horrible. He was very obviously trying very hard not to cause me any more pain, but everyone else would ask him about his lady friend. Because of course I couldn’t live without any reminders.            But I never said a word.            After about two months, Ezekiel and Kate broke up. Within a week, he was dating Ella. He swore up and down that Ella was actually his soul mate, that their relationship was perfect, and a thousand other glowing reviews of her.            I found it funny, as I explained to Sadie, that he had said so many of the same things about me when we had been dating.            School started again, and mercifully, Ezekiel and I only had a few classes together. I found it was slowly getting easier to talk to him, but there were still way too many times that I felt my stomach trying to consume my soul when I was around him.            Ezekiel learned from some of his coworkers that his first girlfriend had been cheating on him and was doing drugs and smoking. He told me that he was glad we were still on speaking terms.            Life calmed down slightly as we all struggled under the weight of schoolwork. My time was consumed by drama club, his by his job and newest girlfriend.            So naturally, everything began to crumble. Because that’s just how life works, I guess.            Ezekiel was fired and threatened with a lawsuit so that he couldn’t rally the workers together to protest the working conditions. His girlfriend slammed into a depressive episode at the same time, and Ezekiel was clearly hopeless.            History repeats itself unless we are smart enough to learn from our mistakes.            I clearly am quite stupid. I took pity on my ex, hanging out with him and texting him whenever I could to try to cheer him up, but all he wanted was attention from his girlfriend. Under the weight of his lawsuit, her absence, a few family issues, and schoolwork, he began to crack and fall apart. Me and my soft heart hastily attempted to apply funny duct tape to each crack, but it did very little to help.            I was falling apart too, but where a few people tried to patch up Ezekiel, no one tried to help me. I was struggling to lighten my ex’s mood, help a friend with her physics work, help another friend with girl problems, help yet another friend with guy problems, keep up with my own schoolwork and the drama club, as well still trying to get over Ezekiel. But I prioritized everyone else, telling myself to suck it up and deal with this pain. Normalize it so that I can keep going.            Unsurprisingly, that didn’t actually work.            Ella dumped Ezekiel. I helped him pick up the pieces of his heart and listened patiently as he swore to stop dating people.            His first girlfriend started texting him again. Ezekiel was extremely wary, but he consented to talking to her. It’s only polite, he claimed, adding that he may finally get the closure that he never had.            Well, I couldn’t argue with that. Boy, do I wish I had.            Because next thing I know, he’s telling me that he is going to the winter formal with her, and they are going to start officially dating again. But he finally seemed happy.            I made a joke about Maria to Ezekiel. Far from being amused, he asked if I knew if she was dating Eric. Completely sidetracked, I asked both Eric and Maria if it was true. They said yes, and I reported the news to Ezekiel. He wasn’t happy for them; on the contrary, he was angry. He claimed that Eric had ended up talking Maria into breaking up with him. I immediately told Ezekiel to not say anything to Eric; they were friends, and it would only start more unnecessary drama when we were all so close to graduating. He fell asleep during my scolding, and my anxiety got the better of me.            I snapped, cursing him out and telling him to just do whatever he pleased, because he clearly didn’t care for anything that I said. It was a rather impressive rant, if I do say so myself.            When he finally read it, there was no response. So of course, like the noble and brave soul I am, I avoided him the next day until it was impossible to do so. We had a lengthy discussion about why I had said all that, and he apologized for worrying me.            Relative peace was restored. The drama club put forth a fantastic play. I felt like I could finally talk to Ezekiel like I would any other guy friend.            Naturally, there was one more wrench that fate threw at my head.            I noticed that whenever I sent him funny stories and jokes, he would have an underwhelming response. And even those lackluster responses faded, until he stopped replying entirely at times. It was extremely out of character for Ezekiel; he was very attached to his phone and answered almost immediately. The only times he didn’t were when he was asleep, working, or answering someone else first. But I didn’t question it; I just assumed he was getting tired of me. Which did not make sense because he talked to me the same way he always had whenever we were in person.            One day in study hall, his girlfriend texted him while we were talking. His eyes widened slightly, and he announced that she didn’t like me because of how often I texted him. That she thought I was still “attached” to him.            I gave her words serious thought and wrote yet another note to Ezekiel. On it, I explained that I was still attached, but I had finally realized that it was not romantic anymore. And it was so liberating to finally come to that conclusion that I have actually been able to talk to my ex like a normal person. It only took the better part of an entire year, but hey, better late than never.            When I mentioned this to my other friends, amused, they offered a plethora of explanations. That because she was a cheater, she was looking for any signs that he was cheating on her, that she felt threatened by our friendship, or even that she felt I was just useless. I typically would have said something to Ezekiel, but I find myself unable to. If she is what makes him happy, why should I make him decide if he wants to cut me out of his life entirely for her sake? Besides, I know what kind of reaction I would get from her. I would be that ex that is trying to get him back or that is slandering the current girlfriend because I disapprove. And it is just not worth all that extra drama in my life. So, long story short, I dated a hot guy, and it only led to more pain than it was worth. Oh, how much easier it would have been if I had never loved him! But that is not how the heart works. So here I remain in this moronic dance of suppressing my opinions and minimizing communication with Ezekiel to reduce unnecessary drama. Will I escape? Probably not. Unless we completely stop talking after graduation or until he breaks up with his girlfriend, there’s no ladder I can climb to haul myself out of this ridiculous pit that is somehow my life. Which means, lucky me, I have two more months of semi forced conversation with who I once thought was the love of my life.


"Tell me about the case you got yesterday", Milin asked as he raised his cigar to give a smoke,while leaning his back against the chair.Milin and the detective both were sitting at the balcony of the detective wearing heavy woollen clothes as it was too cold that morning,and Christmas was arriving."Very simple yet too suspicious",the detective said with a deep breath,as he took a sip of his whisky.The sunny,wintry holiday morning has the best ever ambience to listen to any gripping story,so tell me about the case story Milin chuckled and said". "Yes, indeed, already the festival feeling is here,streets were started to get decorated with lights and decorative items",detective said.If you,are,so interested let me tell you the story. "Two people came to meet me yesterday in the police station one was the victim,John and another was the friend,Steve.When I first noticed them, both of them was sitting on a wooden bench in the Police Station almost sticking together,on yesterday's winter morning when temperature was relatively lower compared to other days.After getting the permission to meet me both of them almost hurriedly entered my room and started to say,"Sir we are in a grave probl.....","Relax,relax sit down both of you and let me know what's your problem",I said.Their whole body was covered with fluffy woollen clothes and gloves,still it could not prevent John from shivering.Though I knew his shivering was more because of his trouble rather than the chilling temperature.They sat down,but I could see the trace of the misfortune or trouble that John got into,in his pale-faced look,tears rolled down his cheeks to get dried up leaving marks of their trail,and leaving his lifeless eyes a bit moist."Now say",I said.My words seemed to be like injected life into John's veins again."I am looted sir ! My locker is empty !",even before he finished the sentence his voice changed as he weeped. "Stop crying",I said as I patted his back,as a sign of showing him support,he raised his head and finally started to say his story as he rubbed his gloomy,red and lifeless eyes to clear his vision. "I returned home late yesterday and straightaway went to sleep,as I was very tired.I skipped dinner and changed clothes and fell asleep.But today morning I opened my eyes with great difficulty,and found a hankercheif fallen on the ground,which ofcouse was not mine,I,picked it up with half-sleepy eyes and smelled it to realize I was anaesthesized yesterday,the realization taken my sleep away totally,because no one was their in my room yesterday.The thief must have broken into my house during the silent night when,it was dark everywhere including the house's inside".Now his friend Steve started to say suddenly,"The thief was careful and clever enough to convert the situation to his benefit,maybe because he knew that John stays alone.He slowly grabbed the key from under John's pillow,and progressed to open the almirah.The thief tried to make the least possible sound he could,to open the handle of the almirah with a jerk". "After that?",Milin asked the detective."I already started to grow suspicion over Steve".After thinking about 2 minutes,I asked Steve"how did you know that Mr.John keeps his keyset below his pillow while sleeping?".I thought my question would rattle him,but he very confidently answered my question by saying,"I stayed in his house many times,I saw him doing that"."His eyes didn't blink while he said,his head was very still,he had a smile on his face while he was answering,I knew the confidence he was showing was very fake.He certainly knows something,yet I diverted my attention to John to ask about the objects that were in his almirah.There were few clothes but the locker had €100000.It's huge amount isn't it?"."Yes it is!",Milin said.I asked John,"Did he/she steal all the cash?",I asked.John sadly replied,"Yes,all".I asked again,"So you mean,your almirah was full of clothes,but his attention went to the locker down,and without any hesitation he opened it,and as he expected,the locker had enough cash to satisfy him...........Was the main door open? by the way,or was the lock broken?",I asked."This time John didn't say anything he just looked at Steve,and Steve replied,"No it was locked!"I gazed at him,with my eyebrow wrinkles on my forehead,"How do you know that !!"."I have a duplicate key,and John himself gave it to me,today morning I entered his room as I was having the duplicate key,to find his almirah wide open,all his wealth looted and he was sleeping,later we both realized that John was anaesthesized.",Steve said. "But his answers were not satisfying,may be because of preconceived notion,but I felt Steve was the real culprit and was behind everything,But my next question was that how the thief got inside then,the answer I got from them was balcony.The thief used rope to climb up to break into his house"."Didn't you ask them about any clues?",Milin asked."Ofcourse,I did.A strange clue got into my hand.They handed over me a longcoat,that we usually wear in winter months.I guess the thief was feeling uncomfortable inside John's room with the coat on.So,he kept it hanging on a chair's side,but in hurry and tensed mood he forgot to take it away with him.But there was a problem,Steve has a strong alibi.I cannot blame him directly".The detective after longtime took another sip of whisky to relax,and rested his back on the chair,and stretched his legs to take a deep breathe."I see,you are involved in a very strange case then",Milin said."Yes true,€100000 is no joke!"."By the way I can give you a suggestion ,ask Steve to wear the coat, just check if it fits on him",Milin said."That's the problem,man,that's the problem.I told you he has a strong alibi,he told me he could have easily removed the coat(clue),that morning when he entered John's room,as John was unconscious".After thinking about 2 minutes Milin suggested,"Still try to check whether he fits in that blue,long coat",and added,"I should leave now,it's high time now,need to get back to work",and left the detective's house.The detective was lying in his chair for almost 1 hour,to figure out the dimensions of the case.Suddenly with a jerk,the detective stood up and dropped the glass of whisky from his hand,which got shattered on the floor.He recalled all the conversation with his friend,that happened few minutes ago,before he left.He clearly remember,he spoke about the "longcoat" as the clue,but his friend did mention "blue,long coat"........the coat was indeed blue.Now the question arises in his mind,is that,without watching the coat how did he know it was blue? !


I danced alone, gliding about the floor with swift steps. Lost in the life of the music. The birth of its melodies, its rise and crescendo, its lulling decline. With a collective sashay, the mass upon the floor began to spin, each body on the floor moving as one larger organism. I felt at one with them, soaking in the glorious and too-fleeting moments of life I was able to enjoy. I danced alone, scouring the inside of Le Club de Sablier from the vantage of its central dance floor. Heavy was the haze of cigarette smoke, embers alighting at their ends like dozens of fireflies stippling their glow across the room. Ornate crystal chandeliers, low and dim, warmed the skin of the occupants in shades of yellow and orange. Still, I danced. My company reserved for only one. I searched for my quarry through swinging limbs and laughing faces. They blurred into rhythms and steps, all driven by the tempo of the night. A card, dressed in a black envelope, jostled in my jacket’s inner pocket. Within, the mistresses' features were outlined in great detail. To dance with the wrong woman would be a disservice. A tragedy. A mistake.

As I flitted to and fro, surrendering myself to the humanity of music, I spotted her. Small and well-lived, sitting at a table on her own. She sipped and watched, her eyes wide with longing. Past her natural prime by far and beautiful still. A house that had watched families grow and prosper, standing tired yet resilient in the face of time. The band lulled and I made my way to her. Stepping softly through the crowd toward her table. Her eyes pulled to me. I met them with a smile. “May I?” I asked, opening my hand toward the seat opposite her at the small circular table. She ran her eyes the entirety of my body before returning her gaze to mine with a placid smile. “If you see no better place, be my guest,” she responded, voice thick with a slavic accent. Her body was turned sideways in her chair, its back tucked underneath her arm as she positioned herself to continue watching the dancers. “Thank you, darling,” I mused, pulling out the chair with a light touch. I adjusted myself to face the dance floor as well, resting only my elbow on the table between us. “Now, who do I have the absolute pleasure of joining?” A skeptical smile tilted the corner of her mouth, her head leaning toward me with a singular brow raised. “My name is Yeva,” she said, her voice warm and raspy. “And who are you, strange boy? Do you always sit with old crows in French clubs?” “Not crows,” I responded plainly. “Swans. At least until they decide to hiss and peck me.” Yeva exhaled a silent laugh, her smile widening. “A swan, hmm?” On stage, the band readied to begin again. Yeva’s focus drifted back to the dance floor, her eyes filling again with wanting. “Do you dance?” I asked, following her gaze. “I used to. Long ago.” A tired fondness flickered behind her eyes. “Were you any good?” “Very,” she huffed, prideful and blunt. I believed her. My shoes tapped delicately on the floor as I stood and extended a hand out to the older woman. “Perhaps you could show me a thing or two?” “Oh, no. I don’t dance anymore. Too old.” “Come now. Just one more before you hang up your shoes.” I beckoned for her to stand and join me. A sigh rattled through her but she reluctantly stood. “Fine, but just one dance.” Her hand, decorated with all the markings of age, floated into mine. We strode to the dance floor in slow steps. We fell into formation as the band introduced the next song, readying their instruments with precursory plucks and adjustments. “Tell me about you,” I said, straightening my back and placing my free hand on her back with a light touch. “Tell me the story of how you ended up in France.” “While we dance?” She asked, hesitant. “While we dance.” She grimaced, and then nodded as the band began to play.

“I was born in a small town outside Kyiv in 1920,” she began, her steps fluid and precise despite her age. “My mother was a dance teacher and my father was in the government.” “It seems your mother taught you well,” I said, as I led her into the next series of steps, her dress swishing gently as we moved. She scoffed. The pianist hit a dissonant chord.  “My mother was a tyrant. Her lessons were in the breaking of toes and cracking of sticks. At 12, I joined a boarding school for ballet to get away. There, I sweat and bled and cried.” “I’m sorry, that must've been difficult.” “Life is difficult,” she shrugged. “But ballet made the struggle beautiful.” “So did you graduate? Join a consortium?” I asked, spinning her in tight, slow circles. “Yes, I joined a consortium during my fourth year. I danced in the background while the older girls got the main parts. I would stay late with one of the other students, a choreographer. He would practice with me and give me notes.” Her cheeks flushed, as we broke apart with a twirl, rejoining with both hands clasped in one anothers. “Oh? Has a lover-to-be appeared?” I teased. “A lover, indeed. The lover. My lover,” Yeva clarified. “His name was Alexei. A wonderful choreographer and composer. He wrote me a ballet. I was an ocean princess trapped by a cruel and wrathful queen until I usurped her with a great trident. It was a strong and provocative piece.” A low, uneven rhythm began in the music, a tension rising out from the delicate melody. “We performed it for our graduation,” she continued. “The consortium loved it so much they asked us to perform a full production at the National Ballet. It was my shining moment as a dancer, the people loved it…” The music hushed as if in response to the pause. “All except one.” “Who?” I asked with bated breath, immersed in the intensity of dance, the vividness of Yeva’s life. “A Soviet general was in attendance that night. He felt that the piece was a political statement against the Bolsheviks, and that it encouraged Ukrainian revolution. Alexei disappeared two weeks later.” As the dance brought us back together, her chest pressed against stomach, I could feel her heartbeat quickening. The music built. Its harmonies, yearnful and dissonant, stacked atop one another. “I waited for a few years. Hoping he’d come back to me. I continued to dance at the National Ballet. All sorts of beautiful pieces. But nothing gripped my heart like it did with him.” “Did you ever find him?” The question was ugly. So many opportunities for tragedy in the answer, but it was part of life. It was part of her. Her expression grew grim. Our steps quickened, fast and chaotic, tapping a staccato rhythm. “Yes,” she answered with a sigh. “But, he was not the same. One night, the bombs and blasts came. I and some of the others from the consortium fled the German invasion and stumbled across a group of soldiers. Alexei was among them. He had convinced the Soviets that he would serve in the army to prove his loyalty. To counter any suggestions that his ballet may have made.” The drummer rolled his snare drum, a momentary procession of soldiers. “Did he go with you?” I asked the question, but in her expression I could already read her answer. “He said they would kill him if he ran. He said he would find me after the war. They went on to fight and we made our way out. I traveled for a long time, I would dance for the refugees to keep spirits high in between horrible nights. Eventually, after seeing me dance, a group of Romany invited me to join them. Those days were better. Warmer. We would travel and dance and earn a little money and then do it all over again.” The piano lilted, quick, pleasant melodies that mirrored the stepping of our feet as we made wide swinging arcs across the dance floor. “When the war was over, I returned to Kyiv. But there was nothing to return to. My small town had been mortared and Kyiv had been sacrificed. After seeing the remains, I knew that Alexei had died there.” “I’m so sorry, Yeva.” “It is alright. It was simply the end of the first act, as they say. I mourned and life began anew. I started teaching. I traveled and filled my life with dance. I avoided it for a long time, but as I grew older, I wanted a family. I married a Frenchman.” She chuckled a breathy laugh as she twirled under my arm. “Would you say you’ve lived a good life?” Yeva nodded. “It’s been long and it’s been hard. My husband has passed and my children are grown. But yes. It has been a good life,” Yeva admitted. “Do you have any regrets?” I asked.

“Not dancing with Alexei one last time, maybe,” she sighed. Her eyes glazed with tears and memories. “And if I could give that to you?” Yeva’s eyes snapped to me as I lifted her lightly into the air, spinning slowly to not hurt the woman. Behind her eyes, realization bloomed. Peace settled in her heart. The music built into one last crescendo. She wiped the tears from her eyes and nodded. As we danced, I was Alexei. In her eyes, I was a lost lover, one who never returned from war. Not a reaper in black. Not the stranger that shepherds you on.

Even though every day I am Death, today I was a dancer. And if you dance with me, that dance will be your last. But it will be warm. And it will be beautiful.


All adults do is file taxes, complain that eating hot chip upsets their stomachs, and lie. Take today for example. Mom and Dad told me we were going to have fun today as we got into the car. They lied . So I stayed in the car, tightly gripping onto my seatbelt because for once it was actually useful—it kept Mom and Dad from forcefully scooping me up and taking me into Great Aunt Margaret’s mansion. Yeah, that Great Aunt Margaret. The one I was named after. The one that’s like a hundred years old. P.S., that’s why we’re at her mansion, for her hundredth birthday party. “Come on, Maggie,” Mom coaxed. “All your relatives are inside and they’re just dying to meet you.” My mouth dropped. “They’re dying ? Ohmygod, dead bodies are gross .” “Not literally dying, sweetie,” Dad said. I crossed my arms. “I don’t wanna go. There’s no one my age in there. Everyone’s either fossils or on their way to becoming fossils.” “Come now, there’s your cousin Denis. He’s around your age.” “He graduated college last year. I’m eleven .” “Maggie, you need to come inside.” “No.” “ Maggie! ” Mom said, using her I’m-serious voice. But it wasn’t gonna work this time, Mom. I won’t crack. I’m not going inside for that lame family birthday party. *** I ended up going inside. It was totally my choice though, not because my parents made me. Not that it mattered. My parents ditched me as soon as my aunts and uncles greeted them. They sent me off to ‘play with the other kids’ with a wave of their hand. But there were no other ‘kids’. Like I said before, the closest person my age in my family was Denis, but he was still twelve years older than me. That means the person I have the smallest age gap with will be my cousin Ginny’s baby once she pops it out. From the look of it, that maybe any minute now. But still, I got yet another ‘go play with the other kids’ from my parents so I scurried off to the living room where Denis had set up shop with his Xbox. My other technically-young (still in their twenties) cousins, Victor and Tiffany, sat beside him. They only had three controllers so I just sat behind them. “Oh, hey, Mags,” Victor said, not taking his eyes off the screen. He probably saw my reflection off it. “We don’t have any more controllers.” “That’s fine,” I lied. “I’ll just watch.” Anything is better than being with the adults. I was wrong . After two minutes, my mind started drifting into daydream land—my favorite place! But, every five seconds I’d hear another loud bang or boom or you suck at this and snap out of it. “Can you turn down the volume, please ,” I asked. “Sure.” They turned it down from fifty-five to fifty-three. So not only were they being stingy about the volume, they made the number off by not having it be even or a multiple of five. That’s just evil. My eye twitched. Then, I hit my first stroke of luck since coming to this place—a board game. Yeah, that’s right. A board game. Oh how far the mighty had fallen… I unwedged it from under the table it was holding up. “Hey, let’s play this.” One causal over the shoulder glance was all it took to be denied. “Ew, no, Maggie,” Tiffany said, “ The Greatest General ? That was a board game when my dad was a kid. He used to love it and make me play it all the time—but it’s totally sexist. All the women characters are total bimbos. Hard pass.” “I’m on a kill strike, Mags,” Victor said. Another boom from the screen. “Sorry, Maggie,” Denis said. “Maybe later.” Which really meant never. My gaze fell to the floor. Denis must have noticed because he quickly said, “Hey, maybe you can get the others downstairs to play with you.” You mean the ones who already tried to pass me off to you? Fat chance. Although … There are some relatives that haven’t built up immunity to my puppy dog eyes yet… I was saving that for better Christmas presents this year but desperate times call for desperate measures. And I was about to die from boredom. *** “Who wants to play this board game with me?” I cracked open The Greatest General on the coffee table in the middle of the second living room.

No one turned a head at me and kept going with their nonsensical conversations. “Did you get that promotion, Stephanie?” “You should get a restraining order on him. You know, my dog walker’s cousin’s landlord’s old tenant is a law student. He could probably help you out.” “No, I don’t think that mole is normal. And for Christ’s sake, Lavern, pull your pant leg down! No one wants to see that.” I cleared my throat and tried again. When I got no response the second time, I made direct eye contact with Uncle Jeffrey—Tiffany’s father—and gave him my puppy eyes. “ Please, Uncle Jeffrey.” “Awe, sure, sweetheart,” he said. “Hey, Robert, Linda. You remember this game? Maggie wants us to play.” An echo of ‘oh, sure’s followed. Everyone selected their pieces and I rolled the dice. After making my move, I stared at Uncle Robert to make his, but he had already forgotten and started up his old conversation again. “Well, Linda, you deserve that promotion. At the very least a raise. If you don’t get a raise every year, with inflation, you’re taking a pay cut.” I cleared my throat and pointed at the game. “Why don’t you just roll for me, Maggie,” Uncle Robert said. So, I did. Because what other choice did I have? “Aunt Linda, it’s your turn.” But of course, she was still talking to Uncle Robert. I played for her too. My last hope was Uncle Jeffrey, but… “I said pull the pant leg down, Lavern. So help me or you're getting skinny jeans for Christmas this year. Good luck rolling those all the way up to mid-thigh.” “Can someone just play with me?” I finally asked and swiveled my head around for my parents. They’ll take my side. They have to. Luckily, Mom moseyed on over and took a seat next to Aunt Linda. “Maggie, dear, why don’t you join us in the conversation instead. Rebecca, have you tried switching out your locks yet? You know, whatever hair-brained schemes that soon-to-be-ex-husband of yours plays, we’ll always be here to support you.” “What lawyer did you get for the prenup again? You can use him for the restraining order.” “Or at the very least the divorce.” “Yeah. Don’t let that rat bastard take any of Great Great Uncle Jimbo’s fortune. That’s for family only.” I half expected for something to say ‘watch your language around Maggie’ but they’ve already forgotten about me. “Forget this. I don’t even exist to you,” I muttered then got up to leave. “Oh, honey. Don’t say that. No one’s trying to ostracize you, Maggie,” Mom said. Ostrich—What? I know my teacher told them she’d teach us a new word every day during back to school night, but in reality she only cries about whatever scummy ex-boyfriend dumped her that week.

I don’t even wanna be an ostrich. I just want someone to realize I’m here and matter. “I’m gonna go back to Denis and the others.” “Have fun.” And then whoop sucked right back into the conversations. *** When I finally reached the gaming trio, I gave them one glance, then kept walking. Not repeating that mistake. I didn’t really have anywhere to go, but I just kept lapping the mansion. I picked up this habit when skipping class. If you don’t want to get caught, just look busy and keep moving. If someone motions in your direction, pick up the pace. This was going well for about half an hour when I tripped over some uneven wood flooring and fell. I winced and slowly picked myself up. While rubbing my stubbed toe, I glanced back over at what made me trip. After my foot hit it, the wood panel had become more than uneven flooring—it was completely out of place. I pulled it away from the floor, revealing a brick tunnel instead of a cement foundation. Dang, are all mansions made like this? With secret passages? It was like straight out of one of my mystery books. I removed the surrounding floorboards to fully reveal the child-sized tunnel. It was a good thing I was child-sized. So I climbed in. The tunnel let out into a huge room—far bigger than any of the living rooms above. Automatic lights flickered on as I walked in. I gasped. The hidden room was like a mix of modern and ancient. The lights and electricity were all modern, but the walls, ceilings, and floors all looked ancient—like they came straight from one of Mom’s historical dramas that she always cries when watching. I never understood that. It's in the past. Everyone’s already dead. Why are you surprised when someone is killed off? You knew it had to happen… I can’t believe I got distracted from the mystery room under my Great Aunt Margaret’s mansion. On the back wall of the room a was a message carved into stone. It read: It’s always the one who strays from the herd and their path that discovers new land (and become rich off oil haha!). It was signed from Jimbo. I have no idea who this man is but he left a bunch of old toys underneath the message so thanks, I guess? There were stackable rings, bags of marbles, an unbelievable amount of stuffed animals, and more. In the center of it all was a large box stuffed with crummy hand-written notes that look like they had been written by five-year-olds. And as it turns out, some were. I unfolded a few and read them. I’m Jenny, and I’m five today. The adults forgot about me so maybe you won’t when you read my note. My name’s Tyler. I’m ten and the youngest in my family like everyone else here . I’m Margaret. I’m nine. Please take good care of Mr. Hoppers while you’re down here. He’s always taken good care of me. Etc, etc… They were all just a bunch of letters from the previous youngest of generation. Finally, I got to the bottom note—but again it was carved into the bottom of the box. It was from Jimbo again. It said: Write who you are now before you grow out of it. Age tries to sell our innocence but no more than those older who try to force it out of us. Some of the notes mentioned the toys left behind. They kept referring to them as my or mine , so I guess they must have left their favorite toys here on purpose. I picked up a dusty stuffed bunny. For the next forgotten child. Ope. That’s me. “Is someone down there?” An old voice called out to me. Shoot. Guess my time’s up in the mystery room. I scurried back up through the tunnel, popped out of the hole, and saw Great Aunt Margaret standing next to it. She gave me a wrinkled smile. “Oh, Maggie, there you are.” Her eyes fell to the stuffed bunny in my hand. “And Mr. Hoppers, there you are.” I froze. Mr. Hoppers? So then… “You wrote down that note? You left him in the secret room. You were the previous youngest?” Great Aunt Margaret smiled. “Why do you think I’m the only one still alive? My old siblings and cousins all kicked the bucket long again. That’s where your twenty-year age gap gets you. Alone yet again.” “What was the deal with that room, Great Aunt Margaret?”

“It’s a safe haven for every child that feels outcast by their family. It’s been cultivated and modified by every youngest since Great Great Uncle Jimbo created it.” “You mean the guy who wrote the stone message?” “Yes, he was the youngest of his family generation too. Out of place with his family, he strayed from the old family business of shoemaking and became an oil tycoon. He specially designed that room when he built this mansion.” “Cool,” I breathed. Great Aunt Margaret handed Mr. Hoppers back to me. She placed a finger to her lips and said, “Now Maggie, you must promise me to not to tell anyone about that room.” She winked. “It’s an old family secret, alright?” “Alright.” With a smile, she said, “Now then, why don’t you and I go play with Mr. Hoppers while the others are off arguing about politics.” “I don’t want to play with a stuffed animal though.” I pouted. “I’m too old for that.” “But I’m not.”


A long time ago, when the hills were green with fruit trees and nothing covered the earth but flowering shrubs and soft grass, two doves,

T’apat and Magiliw, fell in love. Their courtship was long and arduous, especially for T’apat, who had to best several suitors for the fair Magiliw. And since doves mated for life, Magiliw took her time in selecting a husband.

But she did choose the devoted T’apat in the end. Unfortunately, after five monsoons, the pair was still childless. The nest that T’apat carefully prepared every year, remained empty of eggs. And while the other breeding pairs’ dens were noisy with the chatter of chicks, Magiliw and T’apat’s remained silent. They gazed sadly at the hatchlings in the other nests, their tiny beaks wide open as they were fed by their parents.

A sixth monsoon passed and Magiliw was inconsolable; she had laid two tiny eggs at the start of the breeding season, but although she had taken such great care of them, the brittle shells had cracked after only two days – to reveal the spoiled yolks inside.

Her sorrow was so great that it filled her completely.

T’apat tried his best to cheer her up. He journeyed farther and farther from their nest to find the most delectable fruit for her to eat. He traveled past the hills that surrounded their forest home and found a great river whose banks were filled with strange and tasty insects which he caught and brought back for her to feast on. But Magiliw refused to eat; her once plump body began to waste away, her wings began to shrink.

She became so weak that she could barely lift her head; her magnificent plumage lost its sheen as the purple feathers turned dull and started to fall off. T’apat was afraid that he would lose her, so he flew to the middle of the forest where the goddess and earth mother,

Mariang

Makiling , lived. “Please help me,

Apong

Maria,” he pleaded, “my mate, Magiliw, has fallen into a strange and terrible sadness; she has stopped eating and has grown so weak that I fear she may die, but I do not know what to do.” The goddess looked at him with love and sadness. “Magiliw has lost more than just the will to live, T’apat, she has lost her heart.” “If that is so, Apong Maria, then tell me how to get her a new one.” “That will not be so easy, my son,” she replied, “it will mean great danger… for you.” “I am not afraid, Apong Maria, I will do anything to get her a new heart – anything at all.” “Will you be willing to give up your life for her, T’apat?” “In an instant,” he replied.

Mariang Makiling thought for a long time.

“The creatures in the forest are forbidden to harm each other, so you must fly past the great river and on to the valley where the mortals reside, only they can kill without remorse. Wait by the acacia trees outside their village. Once the moon comes out, the mortals will begin the hunt. Offer your naked breast to the arrow of the great hunter,

Lakan Palaso  – for he alone has not forgotten the ancient ways and so will remove your heart from your chest and offer it to me. I shall accept your heart and place it in Magiliw’s breast, where it will beat anew.” The brave little dove nodded and was about to fly off when he stopped and turned back. “Please tell Magiliw to begin a new life again, Apong Maria, and thank you.” T’apat flew across the forest, past the great river and into the valley where the mortals lived. He waited in one of the acacia trees until sunset.

One by one, the stars began to appear in the night sky; soon, there were too many to count. He knew that it would not be long before the moon – and the hunters – came out.

No sooner had he thought it, when he saw a small group of men coming towards him. It was easy to make out Lakan Palaso , he was the only one who wore the ancient amulets around his neck and wrists.  T’apat flew straight down toward the great hunter and called out: Strike me, brave warrior, for your aim is true Upon your arrow, salvation lies Cast away this worthless body but save my heart and Offer it to the goddess to give my love another life. Lakan Palaso heard the cry and the rustling of wings. He looked up and saw T’apat flying toward him. The hunter lifted his bow and took careful aim; he let loose his arrow – it flew straight and true – the brave little dove fell at his feet!

Later that night, when the other hunters had gone home, Lakan Palaso prepared T’apat’s body for the ritual sacrifice.

He started a small fire where he would burn the dove’s body, but first he had to cut out its heart and offer it to the goddess, Mariang Makiling , for she was the keeper of all life and to her, the heart of the first kill was always offered.

He took out his sharp blade and was about to slice into the bird’s chest, when he saw something strange – through the wound his arrow had made, he could see that the dove’s heart was still beating!  He ran his fingers gently over its body – it was still quite warm. Then he heard a soft voice behind him. "Give him to me, Lakan Palaso ." Turning around, he saw a woman whose beauty far outshone the moonlight that gilded the forest; her eyes and long hair were darker than midnight, her lips the color of rose and her gown was as white as starlight.

It was Mariang Makiling!

The warrior knelt and held up T’apat’s body. “I cannot offer you his heart, Apong Maria, the dove is still alive,” the hunter said. “I know, but there is someone who needs this dove’s heart far more than I,” the goddess answered as she gently took T’apat from him. “Do not fear, Lakan Palaso , for I will not hold your lack of offering tonight against you,” Apong Maria said, “I needed to find out how true this dove’s courage and love really were. Your arrow was straight, brave warrior, but it was no match against T’apat’s heart. Go back to the valley and your village and beg your people to never forget the ancient ways.” The goddess brought the brave little dove back to the nest where his mate, Magiliw, lay asleep. She placed him beside her. Then she bent over Magiliw and blew into her chest – a small wound appeared.

Apong Maria blew into it again – the wound grew deeper . She tenderly opened T’apat’s breast and took out his heart. She ran her fingers over it, breaking it in two. She placed one half back into T’apat and the other into Magiliw. Almost immediately, the two halves of the broken heart began to beat as one.

Then she blew into the wounds on the birds’ breasts, the wounds began to heal.

And to remind Magiliw of T’apat’s courage and love, Mariang Makiling left the marks of the wounds on their chests. That is why, to this day, whenever we behold the Luzon Bleeding Heart’s blood red breast, we are reminded of the little dove’s willingness to give up his heart so that his beloved could live.


Whether she breathed in the water or not- it wouldn't matter. She only knew that she had to reach the firm land. A mountain called her. Radiating a power she wanted to touch. That was all. The being, beautiful to all, rose from the embrace of the waters.

Water droplets ran down her naked sides. Magnificent. -------- She was beautiful. She knew that. Aphrodite, they call her. All of them hung on her every word, holding their breath and waiting for her to shine her smile upon them. The fools.

She was older. She was made the moment a piece of heaven landed in the tremulous sea- quite literally. Uranus, the former god in charge was killed by his son (his blood and dismembered body hitting the sea)...it was almost romantic. The way destiny repeats itself.

Over and over and over. She was made of seafoam and new beginnings, she was the oldest. Oldest and godliest among Zeus and his brothers...so why? Why is it that she was still there? Goddess of Sexual Love and Beauty. They think that giving her a title would keep her quiet?

They were right. She was content watching others take charge of the serious aspects...but eventually being beautiful and loved lost its luster. There were times, now being one of them, where she was furious. With the world. Herself. Others. Everyone loved her because she's beautiful. But the mortal respected and revered Zeus because he was mighty.

Some even loved him too. Aphrodite watched, envy burning in her eyes, as Zeus and Hera stood. Godly and burning with heavenly light. Just like them but mightier. She wanted to be respected.

But no matter what...love was too infamous. Too messy to be anything short of disastrous or glorious.

And even the love Aphrodite receives was never truly certain, For mortals sometimes glow brightly, brighter than gods even, before disappearing. A shooting star.

And there were plenty of those. Myrrah- oh how Aphrodite loved when Hera shot her the disgusted look. And when others shrunk from her striding figure.

Akhilleus- oh, Poseidon shot her a wide-eyed look before disappearing into the sea. It was such power, instilling fear within others. Knowing that others were wary of you. And...the most infamous of her acts- the one that would have been legendary if it wasn't spoiled so… Psyche. Oh, how they marveled that mortal beauty. It was fair...but it's hardly competitive. None of them were. But they, even if briefly, loved another. Others dared to think themselves worthy to be her match. Oh! The horror in their faces when they saw just how magnificent she was.

Oh my, how they revered her power. How mortal groveled to get in her good graces. How even with fear in their faces they admired her.

Psyche would have been the same.

But Aphrodite let Eros do it for her… Aphrodite wanted to put the same fear in a god’s eyes. She let Eros do it, sure that stirring fear in a mortal was beneath her... And he ruined it. Instead, there were whispers of people outwitting her. Of Psyche becoming immortal. Which was terribly true. How she raged...the petals of intoxicating roses shook with her anger. And the gods steered clear of her… the mortals wrote more poems. To soothe anger they didn't know she had. Still… They loved her. Oh, yes they did. It infuriated her. Why won’t they fear her? Why is it that Zeus was feared more than her? Did she really have to be a brute like Artemis? Wasn’t her games enough? Instead of more acts of wrath, Aphrodite flaunted her power. Seducing many. Wrapping many around her perfectly slim finger. But of course, that display was to be reproached. Hera, who couldn’t stand to see others happier and freer than herself. (Aphrodite pitied the queen almost as much as she envied her. Almost.) Zeus sent Aphrodite, the most gorgeous and greatest, to be married to the recluse Hephaestus. She reared with anger. Hephaestus was not who she loved. He was plain and meek. She wanted the power and blood and salt of loving another. The passion of loving Ares. Why shouldn't it be Ares? Her arguments were dismissed easily- the way only a king could dismiss her. A godly king with power. Oh, how, she wanted that power. And Ares gave it to her. No- he fought her for it. Hepahsutus treated her with gloves but Ares treated her with force. Kissing her so hard her lips broke and his did too. So, that they may taste the ichor of each other's existence. Ares looked at her like she was sin personified. With reverence and fear. Unsure of what she’d do next. It was a drug. Her drug. In all her years, more than even Zues or Hades or Poseidon. No one has ever watched her with fear. No one that mattered anyway. No Olympian that inspired fear ever feared her. But he did. She longed for it. So much. But just as soon as she grew more dependent on the taste of their ichor, sweat, and words combined she was shamed for it.

Closing her eyes she remembered the day, Hephaestus looked at her. She searched his expression, it was cold yet fiery still. He nodded at her, his gaze on the door, “I will be gone. Do not expect me to be back until overmorrow.” Excitement sparked in her veins. “Very well. Enjoy your trip.” The god, who so very rarely smiled, smiled then. It was cold and not the least bit lovely. Hardly any of his smiles were. But this one was dark and hungry.

“Oh, I will.” Aphrodite sat there, staring at her own reflection. Not quite sure what to do. Should she call another? Ares? Should she visit the mortal realm?

Interfere once more…? It was curious. How the mortals had such limited time. Always something they wanted to accomplish before they burned out. Before their string of life was shorn. Here, with all the time in the world and he hasn't done anything. A knock sounded. The door opened.

She lifted her head from its perch on her hands. Was it Hephaestus? Did he forget something? And they say he's intelligent- oh, Aphrodite felt her smile grow, “Ares. To what do I owe this pleasure?” “More pleasure, of course.” Ares strode forward, crushing her soft body to his. Aphrodite leaned into the touch, razor-sharp and coated with danger. He pulled her into the bedroom. Already accustomed to where and how she likes their love. Their consumption. Their intimacy.

Stumbling they didn’t notice the glint of gold on the covers. Until they were both in the sheets. Aphrodite untying her garments while helping him out of his. Until a sudden ring sounded and the corners pulled up. Drawing them together, half nude, and trapped. Then came the gods. Hera and Zues. (Hera had a bitter expression on her face and Zues looked offended- before they both laughed. Taking delight in their embarrassment.) Hephaestus (who wasn’t quite happy and not quite sad, his thundery expression still allowing proud laughter). Apollo and Artemis (hands intertwined as they leaned on each other, bonding over the amusement of seeing the god of war and goddess of love struggle in their binds). Smaller lesser gods. She cannot remember their faces- but how she wished she focused on them. Aphrodite couldn’t get valuable revenge on the Olympians but she could on the lesser ones. She could regain her respect that way. Alas... Zeus made it rule that she and Ares were to separate. But it was too late. She was addicted to the taste of danger and war. Of blood and ichor. The feel of blades and anger. And from their love came a god. Eros. The god of romantic love. Her sweet little god.

Hera admonished Aphrodite. Telling her off for hurting Hephaestus. The same son the goddess that threw him off a cliff for being lame and deformed. Aphrodite didn’t mention this. After all, Hera was a queen and Aphrodite was not. But as she shared a bed with her husband who could no longer look at her with any mellowness she wondered… Did Hephaestus really love her?

Mortals expected Aphrodite to understand love. She did not. She was the goddess of sexual love. She understands the brief awe of loving a mortal. And the exquisite power of loving danger. But she did not understand or know love. Not the way others seemed to. Was love the way Persephone ran to the dark? The way Zues always returned to Hera? Was love really that good and terrible? What about the way she loved the beautiful Nerites? Who refused her company? The same sea-god she turned to shellfish.

Tilting her head back she studied the stars. Still clear and bright.

She found the constellations she is looking for; Big bear, little bear. An affair- lives ruined by Zues… turned to monsters. Killed terribly. Haunted by loss before being immortalized across the sky. She probably knew about the incident. The Queen was probably looking at the stars herself, reminded that the husband who always returned to her never stayed. She was fine like this. She was thriving like this. She did not need love. Nor to know it or understand it. But, how she would have loved the power. Of being a Queen. Of being feared. Of having mortals wince with fear every time the slightest slander reached their ears. Power couldn't be negated.

She watched as a shooting star streaked across the sky. If she were Queen- she’d have power.

Power.


The sun timidly peeked through the curtains as Mira prepared for another day at the office. While sipping from her favorite coffee mug, she glanced at her computer screen, checking for new emails from her manager. After closing her mail application, when she was about to shut down her laptop and head to her car, an unusual file appeared on her computer's screen with the name "open if you dare." Noticing this, Mira started to shiver, indecisive about whether to open the file or leave it be. A few minutes later, curiosity had got the best of Mira, and she decided to open the file, eager to discover its origin and contents. With a hesitant click, Mira opened the file. A short prompt appeared: "Type 'continue' to start a journey beyond the known world." With her heart racing, Mira typed as prompted and watched the screen change colors before her eyes. Scared yet intrigued, she waited to see what would happen next. When the screen turned yellow and remained for a few seconds, a new message popped up: "Please, note that once the journey has started, you will not have the option to give up. Click 'cancel' to give up now, or click 'accept' to start the journey to the unknown world." Excitedly, Mira sent a text message to her manager, Mr. Regis, letting him know that she would be running late due to an urgent matter that required her attention. As soon as the message showed a blue double-tick, indicating it was read, Mira clicked 'accept' on her laptop. Suddenly, she found herself in a room filled with all kinds of flowers emitting charming scents, her laptop still with her. She began to smell each flower, starting with lavenders, her favorites. After a few minutes of exploration, a new message appeared: "This is your safe zone in the Unknown. Your journey continues outside. Draw the curtains and see what lies beyond." Outside, the sky was a sickly shade of gray, and the roads were dusty. Mira saw children carrying 15-liter containers of water, evidently fetching it from kilometers away. In her world, children would have been in school at that time, and every household had access to water; she had never experienced water shortage in her life. Mira was surprised to see the children smiling at her when she waved at them. How could children living in such conditions smile, she wondered. Feeling a mix of disbelief and curiosity, Mira stepped outside to further explore. She could hear babies crying and feel the scorching sun that made them cry. With a heavy heart, she wished to return home, but then she remembered she had committed to completing the journey. She proceeded to the next station, where she encountered sick women lying on woven grass mats, sweating and shivering concurrently. Their families sat nearby, preparing herbal remedies to help them recover. Mira realized that these women did not have access to the modern healthcare she was accustomed to. Approaching the women, Mira wished them a quick recovery before engaging in conversation. One woman, Maria, was kind enough to answer all the silly questions Mira was asking. -Mira: Do you know what year it is? -Maria: I know we're in the long dry season. Isn't that enough? -Mira: What herbs are you mixing for the sick women? Are you sure they're not toxic? In high school, I learned that people can be allergic to certain herbs. I think it would be better if you had access to a nearby hospital. I'm afraid the disease may be contagious. -Maria: You don't need to worry, young lady. We're used to this disease and have been using the same herbal remedy passed down from our ancestors for over a century. We've never experienced toxicity or allergic reactions. Look, this is sage, our ancestors have been using it to treat different infections, I will mix it with rosemary. The seeds you see over there are called coriander, and they are meant to trigger the immune system. With this mixture, the ladies will be strong enough to work in the yard within 3 days. As for hospital, that's a luxury we don't have. We rely on what we know works for us. Mira was amazed by Maria's words. She kept on asking her more about the herbs, with a willingness to know all their health benefits. She had never encountered such a way of life before. She realized that she had been living in a bubble where everything seemed perfect, never considering that there might be a different reality somewhere else on the Earth. Realizing the vastness of the world and its myriad forms of life, Mira didn't know where to begin. She was aware that there was still a lot to be explored, so she decided that she would travel to some parts of the world during the upcoming Christmas holidays. As Mira waited with the women, expecting to be teleported to the next station of the journey, she eventually decided to return to the safe zone room after two hours of no response. She bid farewell to Maria, the woman who had touched her heart, and walked to the room, anticipating to find some new commands on the laptop screen. Upon entering the room, Mira found that her laptop was still there, with a message displayed: "Congratulations, you have reached the end of the journey. You may type 'leave' to return to your world. The aim of this journey was to reveal to you a reality you had never seen, the known unknown to you. Now that you have decided to travel the world and explore more on your own, I would like to free you". Tears filled Mira's eyes as she read the final message. She was now aware of a different facet of the world and had learned from the women that even in the darkest times, there was still hope for life. She typed in 'leave' and was immediately teleported back to her house, her laptop returning to normal without the strange file.


INSIDE THE SQUARE CIRCLE Walking up front street past the Esso garage in North Shields, three miles past Newcastle upon Tyne the smoke from the coal fires rose up through chimney's on the houses of the notorious Ridges Estate climbed high into the sky. The houses had been built to house the fishermen and shipyard workers in the town in 1948 after the outbreak of Tuberculosis and other diseases caused by poor living conditions forced the council to build a new housing estate. The smell caught the back Terry’s throat as he crossed the road onto Scorer Street. His legs ached as he looked left and right as his mother had taught him. He coughed then took the strap from his haversack he was carrying and readjusted it. It had his plimsolls, vest, and a pair of football shorts that were way too big for him inside. Slinging it back over his shoulder, he hurried along towards the North Shields Boys Club on Scorer Street where he'd been a member for just over a year. passing the park he looked inside through the wooden railings to see if he could see anyone he knew. There was swings being used by some older boys who stood on the wooden seats and worked the swings higher and higher. There was a shuggy boat and a slide that no one was using because it was soaking wet from the rain that had came down in torrents that afternoon. The tennis courts at the back of the park had large puddles as well, no one could play when the ground was wet. However, it did not deter the boys playing football near the toilets at the bottom end of the park. Terry walked on he had to be at the boys club for six o'clock to meet Joe Myers his boxing coach. Joe Myers was a black ex-professional boxer had come over to England from Jamaica like a lot of Jamaicans and Africans on the Emperor Windrush during the early 1940's. Joe had fought on boxing shows in South Shields and Newcastle's St James Hall. It was a hard way to make a living but that’s what he did to feed his family. When he retired he took up various labouring jobs. Then someone approached him and asked if he would teach boxing at the Boys Club, Joe agreed and three times each week he would turn up in his free time to teach kids how to box. That all changed when Terry started. Joe then turned up every night for two years to train him. For over six months he sweated and strained to do exercises specially designed to strengthen his legs. Every night he did the same set of leg exercises until his thighs burned with the effort. Fifteen years Joe ended up coaching boys at the club, it had had passed by so quickly. Joe was now in his early fifties, he was was still enthusiastic and he had a fine boxing team. Terry remembered the very first time he met the man who was to change his life forever. Terry walked through the double doors leading into the North Shields boys club where he was met by a broad shouldered man wearing a brown tweed coat. His hair was neatly combed and he wore a walrus moustache. He ushered Terry into his office where he explained the rules of the club. Looking down at the young boy Harry Martin realised that this young boy was limited to what he could do. Going into a drawer on his large wooden desk he pulled out a set of darts and handed them to the boy. “Come with me son said the club leader and Terry followed. Harry led the boy through another door into an empty room. The first thing to hit Terry’s nose was the smell of stale sweat and lineament. It was the same stuff his father used on his bad leg. Harry showed him the dart board then walked away and left him to it. Terry stood awkwardly in his calliper boots trying to hit a dartboard that resembled the back of a camels arse. It was old and all the stuffing was coming out of it. The lime green coloured wall where the dartboard was fixed onto had many tiny dots on it where people thrown darts that had missed and hit the wall. There was also small pinholes on the red lino flooring that covered the floor where the darts had bounced out of the board. Four yellow painted doors surrounded the room. One led into another room where there hung several punching bags. the red painted floor had some hard rubber mats that they used for doing floor exercises. in the left hand corner of the room there was a speed ball and a platform that the boxers used to stand on to reach it. Further on there was an old bike on rollers. If sat on wrongly it would spring up and you would fall off. There was a long mirror on the opposite wall used for shadow boxing. Another door led to the changing rooms and a shower. This was something of a luxury to Terry who had never used a shower before because he only got bathed once a week in his house and that was on a Sunday. He usually went in with his younger brother to save on the hot water. The rest of the time he had to wash himself using the stone sink in the scullery. There was another door in the changing room that led to the upstairs gym where football, judo and gymnastics took place. A head popped around the door later that evening and the boy saw a large black man wearing a trilby hat, a white shirt, and jacket. His big brown eyes widened as he looked at the boy and said "Has you seen ma' boxers.' "No Sir, I'm the only one here Terry replied timidly.' He stood looking at the boy then said in a softly spoken voice "Do you wanna' be a boxer? "Me box? I cant, I have to wear this thing on my leg.' looking down the man saw that the boy was wearing a pair calliper Boots which had a metal brace strapped around the lower part of his knee. "How long you been wearing that thing on your leg sonny? "Since I was three I think, mam says I had to wear special shoes when I began to walk, but I kept on falling down so they operated on me then gave me these boots to wear.' "Well I can help to strengthen that leg of yours if you let me.’ "Will you, really? “Yes, come with me sonny.' The Terry’s boots reverberated off the lino flooring as he followed the big man. The man walked smoothly like a giant panther to the cupboard and reaching inside it he picked up what looked like a leather football. "Now see this here ball? I want you to lie on the mat there and place this ball between you legs and try and lift it. Can you do that for me?' "Yes sir, The boy got down onto the floor area onto one of the mat's. It was cold against the skin of his thighs because he was wearing short pants. He tried to hide the hole in the back that had been patched, it was coming away and there was a small hole that showed his bum. Forgetting that, he tried as hard as he could to lift the ball. He could only get it only a few inches off the floor. Joe began to set out the equipment but kept watching. "Now sonny,' you keep doing that until I come back. take a rest if you gets tired you hear.' "Yes, said the Terry panting.' Some five minutes had elapsed which had seemed like a lifetime when the man returned. "Okay you can rest now.' "Can you get up on your own?' Terry got up shakily then looked at the black man who was carrying a large pair of boxing gloves. They were brown in colour and made from leather and stuffed with horse hair. "Come here sonny, and put on these here gloves.' Walking nervously towards the man the boy stuck out a skinny little arm the man pulled on the glove that came right up to the elbow. Once the man had tied it Terry gave him his other arm. When he was done. the man asked" Is you Orthodox or southpaw? "None of those said Terry enthusiastically, I come from North Shields.' The man threw back his head and began to laugh. "What's so funny?' "Look,' if you had to fight someone how would you hold your hands?’ "I don't fight, cannot fight, I get bullied at school.’ "Well, once I teach you how to box those bullies are going to regret ever picking on you. Now show me how you hold your hands up.' Watching the dark skinned man said" you is orthodox, that means that you will lead with your left hand like this. The boy watched in amazement as the man threw jabs at lightning speed. "Now you try' The boy stuck out his left over and over. "Hey,’ you is good, you is going to make a good boxer. "Really?' "Yesum you is.' Now see this here hand? I want you to punch it.' Holding out the huge paw the boy then proceeded to punch it as hard as he could. "How many times did you hit that boy? "Three times.' "Good,' now I am going to move my hand and I want you to hit it again okay? "Yes sir,' Moving his hands quickly in all directions the boy tried to hit the target but failed. "See that, now if the hand was your head and you kept it still you would get hit every time but if it is moving you will hardly ever get hit and that is the art of boxing. You Hit the other guy without being hit back. Do you understand? "Yes,'I see.' "Now see this here, it’s called a spring ball, now after I adjust it I want you to use your jab, now its going to move so keep your eyes on it and then try to punch it. The boy holding his gloves up in the orthodox stance hit the ball as it moved. "Now erm, what's your name anyway?' "Terry.' Right then Terry, move around the ball like this and jab like me.' Copying the actions of the black man Terry moved around the ball sticking out the jab. "You is a natural born boxer.' Just then the door opened and in walked a young man with a neatly trimmed beard. he was wearing a flat cap on his head. "Is this your new student then Joe? "Yesum, this boy is going to be a champion.' "Him a boxer, he'll never make a boxer as long as he has a hole in his arse.’ "We will see.’ said Joe Confidently. This man here Terry is Eric Clarke, he is my second. Terry looked at the man and nodded then added “What’s your name then? “You can call me Joe.’ All that evening Joe showed Terry different punches on the heavy bag and Terry copied his every move. Terry, can you skip? "What like a girl? "No like a boxer, look Joe took off his jacket rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt and began to skip using some leather ropes. They whizzed around and his feet moved rhythmically as he danced over the rope. "Now you try.' Terry picked up the rope and tried over and over but could not get it to do what Joe had done. His left leg just couldn't get off the red lino on the floor. It hit his leg over and over and then stopped. "Okay Terry listen, I want you to come tomorrow at the same time bring some shorts a vest and some sand shoes if you have any.' I'm going to give you a set of exercises to do and you must do them every night. This will strengthen your legs okay "Yes,’I'll be here,' Terry said enthusiastically. Joe and Eric began pulling out ropes from the cupboard and Terry offered to help. The two men fixed what looked like block and tackle into the four corners of the room then fixed metal hooks into the eyes and began to tighten them up until it formed a boxing ring. Some young men who Terry figured were boxers came in from doing a run, they were sweating profusely. The sweat dripped onto the lino as they began to put on head guards and then stuck what looked like chewing gum into there mouths. "What's that thing that they have in their gob? the boy asked inquisitively? That is what's called a gumshield, stops you from getting your teeth knocked out said Eric Clarke with a wry grin, the man who had said earlier that he would never make a boxer. Terry thought to himself that he would prove him wrong. Eric Clarke had been one of Joe’s boxers, now retired he was now helping out in the gym. The ring made of rope was secured to the wall was now tightened up and Eric leaned back against it to test it out. Each of the other fighters leaned back on the ropes too test them as if it were some kind of ritual. When they were all gloved up sparring commenced. Terry watched as they moved as graceful as ballet dancers, shuffling and sliding, slipping punches the way Joe had shown him earlier. The sound that emitted from their mouths was like a hissing snake, then a grunt would sound when a punch connected. Joe was shouting instructions to both men from outside the ring as the other boxers who had been running looked on encouraging each boxer. "Time shouted Eric and both men then walked around the room sucking up air. After one minute they were at it again. On it went for six more gruelling rounds. Steam rose from the backs of each man as their gloves were untied and the next pair of gladiators got into the ring. Terry was fascinated, he so wanted to be like them. He was even more determined to prove Eric wrong. Later that evening Terry walked out of the door he had entered He walked slowly home with with the black ex-boxer, who got some strange looks off people as they passed. Terry didn’t understand about colour prejudice even though he lived amongst many black families on the Ridges estate. Terry began to ask Joe lots of questions about boxing. Joe calmly answered them all. I guess he'd answered those same questions to umpteen young boys who had come into his gym to learn the noble art over the years. Joe left Terry at the corner of Laburnum Avenue. That was the beginning of Terry's boxing career, a journey that would last some twenty two years.


Day 1 ‘Start a gratitude journal’ they said, Well, here it is, started. It’s purposely not credited with any dates, because I don’t expect to be making consecutive entries. But the fact that it is started should qualify as gratitude on some count. Gratitude on their part that I’ve agreed to do it, for a start. I mean, what good is it supposed to do? I’ve certainly not got anything to be grateful for with this burden lobbed on me Day 2 Today started off well. I knocked a saucepan of boiling milk over. It was the last of the milk in the fridge so guess who had no breakfast? The fact that it didn’t go all over me is a saving grace, I suppose, but it tipped over the other way and was nowhere near me. And I had to clean up, which meant I was late for work. The lyrics from that old Blues song by Albert King says it all really: ‘if it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have any luck at all.’ Born under a Bad Sign: thanks Albert! Does that count? Day 3 That was a week ago now, and nothing much has happened since. Unless, of course, you count my having checked my lottery ticket to see that I had apparently won 10 grand - only to later discover that I'd checked last week's ticket? And I'd accidentally chucked this week's out with the trash anyway so I couldn't have claimed anything if I had won. Still, I expect it would have stopped my knobhead mates bumming off me, so there is that. Day 4 Here’s one to pass by the psychotherapist. There’s this cafe. It's a new place up in the weirdo quarter where everyone goes barefoot, wears rope bracelets, leaves the smell of questionable substances behind, and eats vegetation that even rabbits would wrinkle their noses at. But they do a decent coffee, and the cakes are out of this world. I suspect that some of them would actually send you out of this world, temporarily at least. But I was only there for coffee, so I flolloped up to the counter. It’s the sort of place where you automatically flollop rather than walk. The atmosphere is so laid back it’s almost comatose.

Anyway, up I flolloped up the counter to order and stood marvelling at the array of cakes laid out behind the glass topped counter whilst I waited for the drink to be conjured up. The server brought it and I handed over the cash to pay. But my hand was so laid back as to be comatose itself - as was the server’s - and the cash, deciding to have nothing to do with either of these witless appendages, immediately flew into the air, to land with a series of ‘plops’ right in the middle of the dreamiest looking cream cake laid out behind the counter. Where it slowly sank, as we both watched dumbfounded.

Throwing me a tight little smile, the server whisked the cake away for a practised shave and lathering of another layer and brought it back, resplendent. This time, rather than risk the same thing happening, she put the cash in a glass dish on the counter top … well, you can guess the rest. This time the same cake exploded, spreading cream everywhere. The server - and me - gasped simultaneously, and throwing me an even tighter little smile, she stormed off into the kitchen to retrieve the money and left the cake in there. It must have been a major scaffolding job. When I did actually get my change, I put it in the Famine Relief Box.. I thought it best.

Well, I didn’t get thrown out - or charged for the cake either. So there is that. Day 5 These psycho-babble people are all the same. The clue is in the ‘psycho’. I mean, you can be ‘grateful’ that you’re not dead or that someone else has got this awful disease and not you - but that’s just life. Or death. It’s nothing you can change. It just happens. It does tend to happen more to some people than others, though, And the psychotherapist can wrap his notepad around this one. I was late for work today for an important set-up meeting because (a) the alarm hadn’t gone off and (b) because I was late, I’d decided to drag the bike out of retirement to make up for lost time (traffic at this time of day is ludicrous so the car was bound to get stuck - a bike would make better sense). The bike hadn’t been used for some time, so I don’t know what I was expecting. The tyres were flat, and after I had eventually found the pump, wheeling it down the lawn the chain fell off. Mechanic I am not. It’s one of these complicated gear sprockets with the chain going all ways but which. Anyway, I finally got it threaded and set off freewheeling downhill. Then I put it into gear … and everything stopped - except the rider, who absorbed all the considerable momentum of the bike via the handlebars crushing the nether regions. With everything locked, the bike - and me - fell over and were obviously going nowhere. So, I threw it on my shoulder and limped back up the hill to throw it back in the shed. Halfway up the steps the bike snagged on a clematis plant, which got uprooted and the bike fell off my shoulder. Bending to pick it up, the seat of my trousers ripped. Trudging up the lawn with the bike, my feet slipped in the mud - I forgot to say it had been raining solidly for the past three days - and I sat down heaviy on the lawn, in the mud, with my backside hanging out. When I threw the bike in the shed, I also threw a savage punch at the saddlebag. And was rewarded by the merry tinkle of breaking glass as my lunchtime thermos shattered. Now, psycho, where’s the gratitude in that? Day 6 I’ve been reading all this stuff back over the past few days and, you know what? I’ve actually found myself appreciating it. Who knew that I had a talent for depicting real events? Despite the aggravation at the time, viewed in retrospect, how things turned out were quite amusing. I mean, no-one would believe them, but isn’t that what writing is supposed to challenge? I reckon I might do a bit more of this. Day … God knows when I stopped writing this journal ages ago, for a very good reason. As my last entry suggested, I had a bit of an epiphany so I started exploring an otherwise unsuspected talent. And, you know what? I pulled together all the crazy things that have happened to me over the years, put them in an article and the local regional magazine has only just gone and published it! One hundred and fifty smackeroonies right into the inky fingers of this rookie writer! Thank you psycho. There - you got it!


Rich people always seem to think the best kind of couches are the leather ones with those knobby tufts, or the ones with electric recliners in every seat and cupholders and cell phone chargers in between; the ones with the contoured seats that make you feel like you’re getting ready to launch into space or something. But they’re wrong. I can tell you right now, the best kind of couch is one with a deep seat and two long cushions, none of that three cushion business. Two long cushions, at least 80 inches total, and a high back. Nothing ruins a couch like a low back, or you know those back cushions that stay attached? Those are the worst. You’ll never find a harder couch to put a fitted sheet on. And believe me, I know a thing or two about putting a fitted sheet on a couch. Most people who meet me might describe me as a nomad and I guess I can live with that term if I have to, but it’s always made it sound more like this is a choice when… I’m not really sure it is. Sure, I choose where I go next, I choose to up and move when things get rough, but… doesn’t everybody? Maybe not. Maybe this life is not as typical as I feel like it is. Maybe it’s not normal to have to list twelve different addresses in the last seven years when you’re filling out paperwork for a background check, and those didn’t include the basement or the farm or the single month stays. Maybe it’s not normal to have a place you lived at for two months as the address on your driver’s license. Maybe it’s not normal to you, but it’s normal to me. At least… I thought it was. I thought I had gotten used to this. I thought I understood what it was to constantly be surrounded by change; to constantly be on the lookout for cheaper rent, for distant relations with spare rooms, for friends with 80 inch, two-cushion, deep-seat couches. I thought… I thought this was freedom. I have nothing to tie me down. I work the jobs that get me through; the jobs that teach you good and well what type of person you want to be, and it’s whatever those customers are not. I’ve got a car with about 75k miles more on it than normal and a tow hitch I installed myself. I never grow roots deeper than friends with couches. I move enough that I don’t even have to ask for boxes anymore; everything I own is in plastic bins. Now let me tell you something about plastic bins. Everybody seems to think those big, heavy-duty ones are the way to go, but I’m here to say that if all you are getting are the big, heavy-duty ones, you’re going to hit a lot more trouble when you have to TETRIS those things into the back of your car and the smallest U-HAUL trailer available. Besides, you don’t want a giant bin of books to lug around; do you know how heavy books are? They’re right about the heavy duty, though. Don’t skimp out on your plastic or it’ll skimp out on you. Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I always say. Not to anybody in particular, mostly just to myself. It’s the type of thing I would say in a podcast if I ever did one of those. I’ve thought about it, definitely, and I’ve even had friends tell me we should start one together, but… well, the thing about couch-deep roots is that they hardly ever last long enough for a podcast. That’s another thing about couches. Everybody has one. Everybody needs someplace to sit; everybody has a couch. And when the couch breaks or wears out, you get a new one. You take off the legs to get it through the door and, even though it’s probably a bit uncomfortable and it takes a bit of doing, you get it out eventually and a new one goes in. And the old one is taken to the curb. Not in a resentful sort of way, necessarily; not with malice. Most people will flop down one final time, pat the couch on the back, thank it for its work, and then go back in to enjoy the new one. Every once in a while, they’ll think of the old couch and how it had that one spring sticking out that would catch your pants if you shifted the middle cushion just wrong, or the three missing tufted buttons, or the busted arm that sort of hung off a bit wonky. But once it’s gone, it’s gone. Who knows where it went after it disappeared from the curb? We think about it sometimes, but it’s not like anybody is going out of their way to track it down, even if they see its posts on Facebook and have its phone number. Well, that’s couch-deep roots for you. It’s alright though, everybody loves a new couch, and once you show up somewhere else, it’s like you were never on the curb to begin with. And it repeats. And I thought that was freedom… but the longer it goes, the more I catch myself wondering… if I’ve only trapped myself in some cyclical sequence. Because no matter where I go; no matter who I meet or how easy it is to get the fitted sheet to fit the couch, I end my days restless and wanting. I tell myself I want to travel; I want to leave again; I want to disappear. But is that the whole truth? Is there more to this wanting? Maybe what I want is something more than couch-deep roots. Maybe if I just stayed in one place for a while… learned last names, met a neighbor, chose a dentist… maybe then, I wouldn’t want to leave. Maybe loneliness sometimes wears a mask that looks like freedom. But maybe someday, I’ll be the one with the couch. 80 inches at least , no more than two cushions, deep seat, of course. Maybe then, the loneliness will subside; maybe then the restlessness will ease. Maybe then I’ll wake up one day on an actual bed with a fitted sheet and maybe then I will earnestly say… I’m free.


She didn’t ever think she’d see the floor in this room again.

But, low and behold, there it is.

Rebecca DuMaul had forgotten what color it was.

Blue speckled. It’s taken her months to dig her way to the bottom.

Months.

Cal was never organized.

She fought some to try to change that.

Some.

But that was a no-win battle.

It’s not like Becky was ever organized.

How could she ever expect him to be any different.

So much clutter remains in piles and boxes and tubs.

Sticks.

Foam swords.

Legos, legos, and more legos.

Lego creations Becky doesn’t have the heart to take apart.

Battleships with tiny accessories in every section of the room.

Not with the ship.

Will she ever get the room as empty as her heart feels?

Just like Cyndi said, there’s a hole in her heart that goes all the way to China.

Cyndi sang the truth of it.

She’s falling inside of the hole. Rebecca can’t bear the thought of getting rid of these memories.

So much crap, really.

She doesn’t know what to do with it all.

Oh, sure.

She knows she should just be pitching the stuff.

Unfortunately, she’s emotionally attached to the objects.

As if keeping them would transport her somehow back in time.

Becky sprawls on the floor, crying.

She did that last week, too.

She wonders if that’s ever going to go away. And Cal is off in his own life now.

She’s not part of it.

Which is how it should be.

He’s not dependent on her.

He seems to have a good handle on life.

Holding down a job, paying his bills, has his own place.

A great girl who adores him.

He’s treating her right, as far as Becky can tell.

She wouldn’t want it any other way.

Hell, when’s the last time she called her own parents?

Or visited them?

Yep, this is what she’s wanted for years now.

Her freedom.

The chance to cut and run.

Rebuild a life somewhere new.

Somewhere with opportunities and prospects.

Lucrative prospects.

So, why does it hurt so badly?

Rebecca thinks she ought to be elated.

On top of the world.

Ready to run! Becky has nothing to show for the last few years, though.

Nothing substantial at all.

Oh, she’s written.

Written plenty.

Most of it’s sprawled in several notebooks.

But nothing that means anything.

Nothing published.

No projects completed and sent out into the world.

No public relations experience since 2012.

She has no substantial or even relevant blurbs to line her resume with.

She’s just been making the bills.

Working jobs that pay the bills.

Wherever she can get work is where she’s been working, regardless of what it does or doesn’t do for her career.

Career.

Ha!

As if.

She doesn’t have a career.

She has daydreams of a career.

Nightmares of nurses aid call lights going off incessantly. And now, nothing but emptiness and this horrible pain inside her gut.

She can’t make that go away.

She can’t sleep it away.

Can’t drink it away.

Can’t smoke it away, because she tried that too. What is she supposed to do for a career now, anyway?

Her original plan was public relations.

It doesn’t fit anymore.

Not her.

Not the her she is now, twenty years later.

Would anybody actually hire her into an entry level PR position?

Why would they?

She’s out of date and out of touch.

Lordt, Becky’s not even sure what she would know how to do now.

Once, maybe even five years ago, she might have been able to run a decent PR campaign.

But now?

The thought makes her exhausted.

She didn’t expect this.

The pain.

She didn’t expect how deep it would hurt.

How empty she would feel. She’s an independent person.

She likes being alone, for God’s sake.

Why is she feeling...like this? What the hell is she supposed to do now?

Where do people go from here? She’s like a cliche. Empty nesting.

An out of work writer, who’s been drinking way too much.

A single female with way too many cats.

A damned cliche.

Lifting up off the carpet, she sniffles.

She wipes the damp from her cheeks with her hands. She considers everything in the room, piece by piece.

Mount Everest of recollections looming.

Always looming. “Well,” she tells the empty room, “I can cart those two boxes and the basket out today.

Cal can use ‘em.” A cat reow’s in reply.

She strokes the tuxedo’s fur, and another comes darting up to push his head into her hand.

She reaches out her other hand to pet both.

They don’t make this easy, even though they’re both insistent.

She scritches them as best as she can when they are always keeping just out of reach. Like her life goals.

Always just out of reach... “Sorry, guys.

I gotta get in the shower now.

No more time for the pity party.” They jump away indignantly as Rebecca shoves up to stand. “Uuugg…” she makes that old people sound as her bones fight moving after being on the floor.

“Getting too old to be crawling around on the floor I guess,” she snorts, and the tears well up in her eyes again.

Just a bit.

Becky shakes it off. What is she gonna do with all this damn stuff?

She could do something useful with the room if she could get this crap out of here.

Rent it.

Use it for crafts.

Or an office.

Hell, she could even have one of those foriegn exchange students stay here next year.

She’d have some company then.

And, it’d be interesting. But...the place is a wreck.

The sink in the bathroom isn’t working, the roof is leaking, and the shower head needs to be fixed.

It’s a long list.

She’d never get approved.

She’s not going to have the money to fix anything up anytime real soon.

And then there’s the cats.

Too many cats.

Maybe she could find a home for some?

Yeah, right.

Everybody just keeps trying to give her more, not take them in. Oh, well.

Maybe she’ll figure it out tomorrow.

She’s got a job to get to and bills to pay.

“Bye guys.

I’m off to work.

Behave!” she tells the collection of cats as she shuts the door behind her. Lauper blares as she turns the engine over in her minivan.

“You gotta fill it up with love before I fall inside oof….” How in tarnation that cassette tape has survived without warping or getting lost over the last three decades, she’ll never know

Three decades.

Maybe today she’ll just leave the radio off on her drive to work.