By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Piles of burning leaves lined the streets, sitting in front of each house. I was standing alone in the middle of the road, the only one seemingly curious about these fires. What time was it? Was it too late for anyone else to notice? I looked for the time, but it was nowhere to be found.

I heard a soft beep that came from behind me as if someone needed to change the batteries on the fire alarm, but not the actual alarm signalling the fires. It was strange how quiet the street felt with this chaos. My fear was telling me to run, though my brain ignored the signals altogether. Suck in the middle of the road, my eyes stuck on this pile of scorching leaves. For a moment, I felt completely outside of myself as if I were a spirit observing the present day.

There was a slight tapping coming from the window of our house. My beautiful wife and youthful daughter were standing next to each other staring at me from the window. The expression on their faces felt soulless.

My daughter began moving her hand up slowly, placing it on the window. They didn’t move from the window, or instead, they couldn’t move from the window.

I opened my mouth to call out to them, yet I heard no voice. I felt the hot air escape from my mouth, though there was absolutely no sound that followed. My screams merely trapped in my own mind and for no one else to hear. I tried to make any movement towards the door, but only my eyes made it. My front door appeared to be nailed shut with wooden planks. The wooden planks began to shake on the door like a zombie trying to break in.

Still, my daughter held her hand on the window as my wife stood beside her. As I stared at them, though they were right there, I was somehow missing them. They felt so unreachable, and yet this was my house – our house. My heart was empty, while my mind was full of restlessness.

There was that beeping again. What was it coming from? It certainly wasn’t coming from inside, it sounded as if it echoed from a speaker hidden in the skies.

My neck finally loosened up as if it were unscrewing itself. I turned to see where the sound was coming from. Standing a few houses away, stood in the middle of the street, a dark stretched out shadow in the form of a person. The shadow seemed transparent and then concrete, like a flickering light. It stood utterly grounded, yet it’s apparitional feet nearly touched the ground. For a moment, it was still, as if it analyzing and questioning my presence. Soon it began to take its first step towards me.

Something within me told me to fear it, and I did what I was told. It started taking more giant steps and moved faster towards me now. Then, it began charging at me. Without awareness, I was running. With every stride, the ground beneath me appeared as if I was moving with distance.

When I looked straight ahead, there were rows of houses, each with a pile of burning leaves on their yard. Different persons each household appeared at the window as I ran by—each neighbour with the same expression on their face – soulless and hopeless, as one person from their family reached their hand up and pressed it against the window.

I called out to them, but no one responded. My voice still confined way in the depths of my mind, feeling so distant. My breath grew heavier with each passing minute.

The untouched leaves from the burning piles began to escape by the wind. As the leaves fell into my path, I heard crunching of the dry leaves with each step. Soon the whole road beneath me glowed of bright red leaves.

I didn’t look back, I refused every ounce of my muscles not to look around. I have no clue why my body was doing the complete opposite of everything I wanted as if it were controlling itself on its own fate.

My legs came to a complete halt, and I turned ever so slowly to face the darkness behind me. The shadow had its own dark glow, a glow darker than night. The air between me and the shadow felt warmer. As it grew closer, it became more sociable and harder to breathe. I felt suffocated in a sauna of sweltering panic. Instead, I was locked inside of a wooden chest and thrown into a hot tub to drown, with the chest nearly full of water taking my last chance at inhaling as much air as I could.

Simultaneous to sucking what was left of breathable air, the shadow standing in front of me dissolved into my last breath. Its ice-cold essence slipped into my mouth, gliding my tongue and into the back of my throat like chugging ice-cold water. It stopped in the middle of my throat as if I were choking on an ice cube with sharp edges, scratching my throat as it forced itself further.

I felt this piercing ice cube of darkness slipped further past my throat, melting into my lungs. However, somehow there was more water filling my lungs. Once again, I gasped for air. Only this time, I couldn’t exhale. A bright light began to evade my sight, and my senses were entirely cut off. Then, there was that beeping again—that irritating beeping. While still, holding my breath against my own will, a rubber hand appeared out of thin air gripped my arm that kept me in place. A single brightest red leaf floated gracefully above. I watched it slowly sway back and forth, dancing with the rhythm of the air around me. Another rubber glove grasped my chin, securely moving the back of my head to meet the end of my neck. The bright red leaf was soon floating downward right above me, landing delicately over my mouth.

Immediately, the dark shadow choking me was liberated and flew out from my mouth. I took the chance at once, and with all my energy, I freed my breath with a vast cough and my eyes shot opened wide.

….. “You were quite shaken up, how are you feeling now, Stanley?” the doctor asked as she reached her rubber hand on my arm to comfort me.

“I’m alright.” “Well, that’s good to hear. We had to assist your breathing while you were asleep. It seemed as if you were having a tough time. I’m glad to hear you’re doing alright now. Call if you need anything, Stanley.”

The doctor walked away and moved on to check in on the next patient. The intensive care unit seemed to have grown by the hundreds. The nurse behind her approached my bed quietly.

“Hi sir, your wife and daughter came in again earlier today. Your daughter wanted me to give you this, she said she wanted to bring the outdoors to you. They say they miss you and hope you’ll be able to come home soon. She also said she knows that Fall is your favourite season, and felt like this might make you feel better.” The nurse reached for her pocket and placed in front of me,… the single brightest red leaf.


FACEBOOK MARKETPLACE ROOMBA 600i Details: Condition -Used like new Description: Slightly used, comes with all accessories and two chargers. Price negotiable. Need gone ASAP. **** Christine kicked off her heels as soon as she walked through the door. The French baguette peeking out of the brown paper bag in her hands wobbled precariously as Sir Lancelot wove his way beneath her feet while she attempted to place the groceries on the bench. Lancelot was a Persian crossed with a rag-doll, and the combination equated to hair—lots of it. Christine scanned her critical eye over the apartment, clumps of fur wafted everywhere. She loved little Lancie immensely, but she didn’t love his hair. She sighed as she opened the hall cupboard to get out her cumbersome Hoover, a relic that had belonged to her mother, and had been passed down to her. It was time for its second workout of the day, and she just hoped the ancient beast was up for the task. The high-pitched groan was ominous, as was the smell of electrical burning that began moments after she had switched the machine on. Christine immediately disconnected the power and resigned herself to her fate. It was time to purchase a new vacuum. Unfortunately, her finances were still limited and so she opened her phone to browse Facebook marketplace. Surely she would find a deal there. It wasn’t as if she was fussy. Anything that would work would be better than trying to sweep up the unsweepable. The price caught her eye first, then the picture. A Roomba, a robot vacuum. Imagine coming home each day to a house that was freshly cleaned, no cat hair, no dust. The more she thought about it, the more Christine became convinced that she could not possibly live one more day without the services of her own personal Roomba robot. A quick series of messages back and forth, and soon Christine found herself the proud new owner of a secondhand robot vacuum. “Be careful with the settings, it’s a bit of a beast, if you’re not keeping an eye on it,” the previous owner had advised her. She’d smiled and nodded, figuring that the internet would have all the instruction manuals and safety precautions listed somewhere. Once she plugged in the charging dock, Christine googled the instructions and set the operating time to run twice a day while she was at work. With a happy sigh, she fed Lancie his dinner, reheated leftovers for herself and went to bed. *** She was jolted awake at four in the morning by a soft mechanical whirring, and solid, repeated thumps that shook her bed. Lancie, startled awake from his sleeping position at the foot of her bed, hissed violently as he landed on her chest, claws extended. It took her a bleary moment to connect the dots, but she finally realised she’d set the timer incorrectly, setting the machine to work at 4am instead of 4pm. It seemed to be stuck trying to vacuum under her bed, catching itself repeatedly on the leg and unable to navigate its way out of the situation. The bright lights, like little eyes, glinted with frustration, which echoed her own emotional state. It really was way too early for her to remember the settings, so she stumbled out of bed as she tried to whack the off button on the machine. It finally powered down with a petulant wheeze, the lights blinking off sadly. Placating Lancie took much longer, as his fur was literally on end, but after much stroking and coaxing, the cat settled back at the foot of the bed, curled up in a cat ball and purred himself to sleep. The following morning, after feeding Lancie his breakfast, Christine studied the online manual closely as she absently munched on toast and sipped her coffee. Carefully following the instructions, she set the timer, double checking the AM/PM setting. From his sunny position on the windowsill, Lancie hissed and arched his back. A familiar whirring caught her attention and a soft bumping nudged her toes. When she looked beneath the table, the Roomba was carefully vacuuming the crumbs she had spilled. “Odd,” she muttered. “I haven’t turned you on yet. Must be a saved setting from the previous owner.” She didn’t have time to look for the ‘clear all settings’ section of the manual, but resolved to look into it after work. *** Once again Christine was rudely awoken at 4am by the repeated thumping of the machine and the yowling hiss of the cat as Lancie landed claws first on her chest. “For the love of…!” she muttered, tossing her blanket aside to deal with the rogue machine. This time, the off button seemed to stick, and she was unable to power it down. “Well, if you won’t switch off, you may as well do your job out here!” Christine shoved the machine into the living room and firmly closed her bedroom door. Lancie would be alright for a couple of hours. She’d let him out for a kitty litter break as soon as the sun was up. The morning brought chaos. Christine’s living room was spotlessly clean, immaculate even, but she couldn’t find her shoes. She usually kicked them off by the front door, but they were nowhere to be seen. She rummaged under the sofa and coffee tables, just in case she had kicked them off in the living room, and then crawled into the dust bunnies under her bed, on the off chance they were there, but to no avail. Finally, she had to do a quick change of outfit so that she could wear the more casual loafers in the back of her wardrobe and rushed out of the door, late for work. When she came home, Christine kicked off her shoes near the door as she juggled the bags of groceries she’d purchased after work. The light on the Roomba’s dock was flashing, indicating that the dust bin needed emptying, so she dumped the heavier bags on the floor to attend to the task. When she lifted the lid, a mystery was solved. There, in shreds, were her lovely leather, high-healed shoes. They’d obviously been caught by the Roomba over night and had become a casualty of the cleaning machine. “At least there’s a reasonable explanation,” she sighed as she took the small dustbin to empty into the outside bin, happy that she wasn’t losing her mind, but not happy about the cost of replacing her favourite shoes. When she returned, she cried out in alarm. The Roomba was stuck on the paper shopping bag and its whirring brushes had opened a hole in the washing powder box. Fine white ponder was flying everywhere. “Oh, for the love of…!” she cried in exasperation as she extracted the paper bag from the maw of the machine. She set it to clean up the white laundry powder while she packed the rest of the groceries away. When she turned from the pantry after putting the last item on the shelf, she nearly tripped over the Roomba that had silently moved its cleaning path right behind her, its lights blinking up at her like two besotted eyes. With a gasp, she stopped herself from falling just in time by grabbing the fridge door with one hand and banging her other forearm hard on the kitchen bench. She cried out in pain, and she wrenched the freezer open to get an ice pack. Pressing the ice to her smarting injury, she trudged into the living room to rest and assess the damage. Hopefully, she hadn’t broken anything. The skin was still intact, but she’d have a huge bruise tomorrow, no doubt. Lancie curled up next to her and purred as she scratched his head with one hand. She’d just relaxed enough for the shock and pain to wear off when the cat hissed and leapt from the couch. A soft whirring approached, and the Roomba trundled in, bumping gently into Christine’s feet. “Goodness, you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” she told the machine as she stood up to make herself some dinner and pour Lancie some Kitty kibble into his food bowl. Christine shut her bedroom door that evening, determined to get a full night sleep and not be woken by a marauding machine at an ungodly hour. She had to lock Lancie out, much to his disgust, as she didn’t want him to lose access to his litter tray and have an accident in her bedroom. Her sleep was undisturbed, and she woke refreshed and ready to begin the day. In the kitchen, she noticed that Lancie had not finished his dinner last night. The bowl was still full of kibble. “Lancie, here Kitty, Kitty,” she called as she opened a can of cat food. He was not around, sulking, most likely because she didn’t let him sleep on her bed. “I’ll leave it here for you, then.” She emptied the old kibble and replaced it with some tuna. As Christine ate her toast, she felt the whirring of little brushes bumping into her toes, so she lifted her feet to allow the Roomba to pass under the table on its morning cleanup rotation. She’d long since given up the idea of setting the machine to work when she was not home. It seemed to have a mind of its own and cleaned at all sorts of random times during the day. She didn’t think much of the little trail of red on her foot when she put her loafers on, just brushed the smudge away. “Bye Lancie,” she called as she left for work. The cat was still sulking. Perhaps he’d be more cuddly when she got home. When she returned, her apartment smelt like rotting fish and she gagged as she opened the door. The cat food was still sitting in the bowl uneaten and flies were buzzing around the dish, along with a trail of ants. Quickly, Christine disposed of the food. “Lancie?” she crooned gently and then again, more urgently. Perhaps the cat was unwell. The Roomba’s light indicated a full dust bin and Christine noticed the trail of ants marching up the side. She opened the lid and screamed. Blood and fur and pulverised viscera filled the bin. She ran to the bathroom and heaved, retching up the contents of her stomach as tears ran down her face. From behind her there was a whirring sound, and the Roomba looked at her with its bright lights unblinking. **** FACEBOOK MARKETPLACE ROOMBA 600i Details: Condition -Used like new Description: Slightly used, comes with all accessories and two chargers. Price negotiable. Need gone ASAP.


I stared at the lottery ticket all morning, it had gotten ashy from the dust it gathered during the week, untouched. In the bin sat several scrunched up pieces of paper, each of them containing a few different number combinations, none of which I felt confident enough to use. I wondered why I got it in the first place. At first, I thought it’d be a lucky week, my lucky week, which turned into a lucky Friday with every piece of paper that landed in the trash. It was 8 o’clock. I knew that because the alarm had rung exactly 12 times since I woke up. I looked at the lottery ticket once more but gave up halfway. I figured I could just think about it during the day, perhaps a lucky charm would give me some insight into the secret behind the lottery and I’d feel it, right before the draw took place. So, I put it in my jacket’s inner pocket and left for work. The street was livelier than usual, perhaps it was the sun we hadn’t seen in a couple of days, announcing itself as the lucky break I wished for, although I was convinced it was because it was a Friday, everyone loves Fridays. Just in front of me, a mime pretended to be stuck on a box, pretty convincingly too. I wondered how you discover you have such a talent. At the end of the block, a crowd formed around a young girl singing. I couldn’t quite make out what she was singing because of the crowd’s roar but the melody somewhat resembled The Turtles’ classic Happy Together . The first customers started to flood the stores along the streets, half of which had big red leaflets advertising their “50% off” deals. *** The sun shone on the building’s marble façade, almost quintessentially so, drying away the layer of rain that had laid there the previous night. People in suits funnelled into the building. You could always tell apart the staff from the customers by the smile on their faces, for staff had that hopefully-I-can-leave-an-hour-early smile that brought them to work early on a Friday morning, whereas customers showed no emotion, sometimes letting off little tics of annoyance and hastiness. A funny observation, I thou—. “Hey, Jacob!” A cheerful voice interrupted my train of thought. I turned around. “Oh, hey, Charlotte.” She was wearing her burgundy tight-cut dress that morning, I like that dress. “Early too, huh ?” “Can’t help it, it’s a Friday.” I laughed, she giggled back. We walked through the broad hallway, greeting everyone with a slight nod as we moved past them. I thought that might increase my chances, in hopes that if the balance of good and evil was perfectly even, luck would befall me that day. “You going up too?” Charlotte asked. “Yeah, 20th floor.” “I guess we’re saving the elevator a round trip today then.” “Meetings straight away, is it?” “That obvious, huh ?” She laughed. Charlotte squirmed in place, twisting the tip of her hairs around her fingers into curls as the platform rose from the ground floor — nervousness for her meetings, I assumed. The elevator radio had finally started working again, blasting away with the best elevator music one could ask for, occasionally stopping to run the important announcements of the day—mostly company propaganda reminding us of how lucky we were to spend our days at the office. And just like that, on a beautiful, sunny Friday, everything just works again, all I needed now was those dammed numbers. The doors opened at the apex of some jazz song, likely by Louis Armstrong or Ray Charles, I should probably know the difference, maybe I’ll get around to it, with a piñacolada on my left hand by a beach in the Bahamas once I win that lottery, sipping from one of those swirly straws as the waves crash in tune with the song—. An arm appeared from behind as we left the elevator, forcing me out of my own thoughts. I didn’t even need to turn my head to know who it was. “Hey, Chris,” I said as I struggled to unwrap the deathtrap around my neck. “Jacob, my man!” He yelled, louder than he should’ve. He looked over my shoulder, “Charlotte! Beautiful as ever in that red dress,” he said just as loud. “It’s burgundy,” I pointed out but was blissfully ignored. “Alright Charlie-boo, I’m gonna take this one now,” He locked me under his cologne-full armpit and pulled me away, “come on, man, when are you gonna hit that?” “Hit wha—” “Charlotte, man, if she was anymore over you, she’d be sitting on your lap.” “Shut up.” He spun me around and we faced Charlotte, probably dislocating some of my neck vertebrae. “Just look at her.” He whispered. She was still standing by the elevator, looking around before she spotted us. She probably thought we looked like creeps and I can’t blame her. She looked cute, but I’d already established that so I didn’t really know what he wanted me to be seeing. He stared at my confused face before finally speaking. “Alright, see the way she plays around with her hair? Or the way she smiles at you like you’re some kind of unicorn? Or maybe how she laughs at every dumb thing your say or do? Those are all signs, man.” I smiled back at her and gave one of those I-will-probably-see-you-around-the-office waves. “I think I’d see it if there were any signs,” I told Chris. “Whatever, man, just tryna help you score here.” “How about you help me score something else?” I proposed. His eyes lit up, clearly waiting for something else, “I like where you’re going with this.” I took the lottery ticket out of my jacket pocket, now clearly worn out, with its corners slightly bent, probably a sign I should use it as soon as possible. “What numbers will get me to win this?” “You’re no fun,” he sighed. “Whatever. So?” “So what?” He asked, clearly oblivious of what I’d asked him. “The numbers, which ones?” “I must’ve forgotten to take my fortune cookie costume out, dammit!” He teased. “Whatever, I’ll just win without you.” “You do you, man. Just don’t forget me when you’re rich, eh?” He laughed, “gotta go now, give Charlotte a smooch for me, will ya?” “Yeah, yeah, see you around.” We walked together for a short second before parting ways. Chris had an office, a synonym of when people work for you, which basically meant that he’d probably be able to leave just in time to enjoy his Friday, no doubt teasing me for staying late in the process. I walked exactly 32 steps to get to my cubicle, a relevant detail considering it was 1 less than the usual, probably a result of a lucky day like this one. The desk was just as boring, though, same old Victorian computer, mouse, keyboard, plastic plant, a mountain of papers (no doubt gently laid down by my generous boss) and several sticky notes hanging from the monitor. I let out an exasperated sigh and started flipping through the papers, hoping one of them would contain the secret key to riches. *** The crimson afternoon sun decorated the cubicle in warm tones, its splendour only slightly dimmed by the bright office lights. I glanced resentfully at the flurry of emails on the computer screen, one of those things that can either take a few minutes or a few millennia, wondering how sick I’d need to look if I wanted to get out earlier. A soft knock bounced around the thin walls of the cubicle, startling me. Charlotte’s head popped up on the side. “Sorry,” she said, in a voice even softer, “didn’t mean to.” “That’s fine, I was looking for an excuse not to think about it anyway. You done for the day, are you?” “Yeah, just finished, you?” “Yeah.” “Okay then.” At the far end of the office, Chris flailed his arms around, trying to get my attention. Once he got it, he started kissing his hand, passionately, awkwardly even and then pointed at Charlotte before resuming the make-out session with his hand. Charlotte turned around to leave and the light started flickering above me. Once I looked back, Chris was already gone. I glanced at the computer screen once again, then at the flickering light in the ceiling, it was doing so 2 times, maybe 3, yes, 3 times a second, I wondered if it meant something, maybe some weird kind of morse code. I looked one last time at the email inbox before it became clear that I couldn’t work like that, it was clearly fate for it to flicker like that, or maybe I just didn’t want to. “Tell you what,” I told her just before she left, “wanna grab something to eat? What time is it anyway?” Flustered, she looked at her right hand looking for a watch, before falling back to her left once she realized, “6-6 o’clock.” “Exactly, about time we grab a bite, what do you say?” “Y-yeah, of course.” The sun had set even further when we left the building but the streets were no less lively than when we got in. We barely walked before going into the convenience store on the other side of the street. I walked alongside Charlotte, a double-bacon sandwich on my left hand and barbecue-flavoured chips on my right, as she patrolled the aisles looking for something to eat. “What are your plans for tonight?” She asked, the uncertainty in her voice made it seem as though she’d been thinking about that question for a while. “Shi-sorry-crap, I completely forgot about it!” I took the lottery ticket out once again, it was now folded in half, its corners white. She laughed. “What’s the time?” She exaggerated her motion, making sure I saw she’d taken the right arm this time around, “6:40,” she said. “Dammit. I’ll meet you at the till.” I said before storming off. I could hear her laughing behind me, masked in between the sound of chips bags being crushed. It didn’t take long to get to the till, I’m sure it didn’t, although it certainly felt as though the tore had gotten bigger since we got in. I put the worn ticket on the counter, “Could you give me a pen, please? I’d like to fill this in.” The cashier looked at the clock above the door, it marked 6.42 p.m, then looked at me as if I were a madman. She was a brash-looking woman in her forties, maybe fifties, I couldn’t tell, Margaret was her name according to the name tag on her uniform, clearly too tired to have any sense of urgency. She began scrambling behind the desk for a pen, slowly, very slowly. A few seconds went by, maybe minutes, at that point it felt just the same. A hand approached my field of vision, Charlotte’s hand, holding a blue pen with a daisy on top stuck together by a small spring. “Any ideas?” I asked Charlotte. She raised her shoulders, “I don’t know, just put the first numbers that pop up in your head.” I looked at the clock one last time, there were but a few seconds left. I began scribbling on the ticket, numbers that if anyone asked me, I wouldn’t be able to say where they came from, but they did. I took one last glance at it before handing it to the cashier, it read 8-12-50-20-32-3-6 . Margaret, I hope she wouldn’t mind for me to address her that way, put the ticket onto the machine and began tapping on a computer screen much better than the one in my cubicle. I looked at the clock, unwillingly tapping my finger against the counter, it was past 6:45 p.m, just by a few seconds, the limit to enter the draw, but Margaret didn’t look too phased. “Don’t worry, it’s ahead by a minute.” She said in a single, uninterested, tone. I grabbed Charlotte’s left hand. Her watch showed just past 6:44 p.m. That’s it, if any signs had shown me how and when to deposit the ticket, that was the one that proved to me I’d just entered the draw with the lucky numbers. I could feel the smile widen on my face, I’m sure I looked like an idiot, soon-to-be a rich idiot. The till beeped and a receipt came out, it was official. We walked along with the energetic crowd before turning onto a quieter alley. We sat down to enjoy our food, for me, the last piece of food that wasn’t caviar. “So,” she said before taking her first bite, “any plans?” “I’ll probably spend the night writing my resignation letter and picking a new limousine.” She laughed, “And what is it gonna look like, the limousine?” “Black, obviously, everyone has a black one. Maybe I should get a white one too, I’ll add it to the list.” “Got space for one more in that limousine of yours?” I nodded up and down as I chewed my bacon-filled sandwich. She kept looking at me, inquisitively. I wondered if she was expecting me to add something more, or maybe an entirely different answer. The all-encompassing ringtone of the church bell, albeit muddied by the sound of street chatter, started to announce the time once we got up from the small bench we’d installed ourselves on. As we resumed our walk through the busy streets, the sun now completely gone from the skyline, the theme song of the lottery caught our attention. It came from a small tech store displaying a few TV screens, all of which had the same program on. “So,” Charlotte started, softly, “do you want to celebrate your win somewhere afterwards?” I didn’t answer even though I heard every word for my eyes were glued to the TV screen. The draw lady, whatever her name was, wore a blue dress with white vertical stripes, one I hadn’t seen before. I wondered if someone like her could just get a new dress every time, and whether or not I’d be able to do so as well. Small numbered balls bumped against each other as the lady turned the transparent wheel. A broad smile escaped my poker face as the number 32 ball fell from the wheel, I could already see the black and white limousines parked by my new mansion. But then, one by one, as the balls fell onto the display plate, the smile on my face diminished until it was no more. In the end, the 32 ball was the only one that corresponded to what I’d predicted. “Next time, eh?” Charlotte said, cheerfully. I wondered if I’d misread any of the signs given to me, or if there were no signs at all in the first place. I wondered if the perfect conditions I’d encountered that day would replicate themselves at some point and if I’d be bold enough to try again once they did— Charlotte got closer, “Oh you…” She said before glueing her lips against mine. It took a few seconds for me to realize what had happened, and a few seconds longer to understand how we’d gotten there— and even then I wouldn’t be able to say how. My stomach flourished, I hadn’t felt that in a long while. She took a step back. Her face looked brighter than usual, prettier than usual. I glanced behind there, at the TV screens, the result of the draw still lingered on them. I wondered why, even though I’d lost, despite what I thought were obvious signs, I still felt like I’d won. “Tell you what, how about that celebration?” I said.


Rachel looked at herself in the mirror. Why the hell was she so nervous? It was only coffee. But after so long. He’d contacted her on Facebook out of the blue. ‘Hey. Remember me? Fancy meeting up?  Coffee?  Talk through old times?’ Of course she remembered him. They’d been an item back in the day. He was young and good looking, she was young, drawn to those blue eyes, that ready smile. Yes, and she supposed she’d been attractive back then. Then she’d gone to college, uni, and well, he hadn’t. Gone into business with his dad, a builder, so no further education needed. They’d drifted apart, gone their separate ways. It happens. She looked at her reflection. The bags under the eyes, the lines round her mouth that turned it down, the chins, how many were there these days? She lifted her chin, pulled down the flesh on her neck, smiled. At least her teeth are still quite good, though the effort of smiling put more creases round her eyes, her mouth. Ah well. She looked at her hair. It had always been on the wild side, but now looking at it, she wondered if she should lay off the blond highlights, get a good cut. Too late now for retouching the roots. Then there was the body. She’d been a skinny thing when he’d known her; now she looked at her body with fresh eyes. She stood up straight, pulled her shoulders back. Her breasts were still good, bigger than they had been when they’d first known each other, but now in her mid-forties, gravity was starting to get the upper hand. And as for the jelly belly. Need to put on a looser top, she thought, something that hides those folds of flesh that never fully went away after the birth of Jess and Maddie. Need to get fit, said another voice, the one that thought every spare moment should be put to good use. But work, single motherhood and apathy had always got in the way. And now? Yes, she still had work, but first Jess and now Maddy had gone to university, leaving evenings and weekends free to do what she wanted, at least during term time. Get on top of the housework, she’d told herself. But that had been a failure. She’d always been okay at cooking, always managed to keep on top of laundry, but cleaning was for some reason beyond her capabilities. She marvelled at those women that seemed to have loads of time yet kept an immaculate house. Besides, she’d couldn’t bring herself to disturb the girls rooms, and when she’d tackled the bathroom, she’d found a nest of spiders and realised that no matter how many she caught, there’d still be more. Even now the strongest four had taken up their positions in the corners of the bathroom, the lesser spiders finding what territories they could. She sighed. Don’t worry about the spiders – you’re not inviting him back here.

She looked at herself with a different, looser top on. Was she too casual in this? Don’t be stupid, it’s just a coffee with an old friend. It’s not a date. You’ll meet, chat, go your separate ways. Then why did she feel so nervous? She wished she’d not created that damned Facebook account now, but her daughters had insisted on it. “You can see what we’re up to mum,” they’d said. So she’d let her daughters create an account, let them upload a photo, an old photo, and let them put her down as status: Divorced. And now Julian had found her and wanted to meet up. She’d looked at his profile. Status: Widowed. Children two, boy and girl. Works as a builder. If nothing else, she told herself, you could talk to him about coming round here to redo the kitchen. Not that she’d got the money for that, but it would be a talking point, getting advice on how to do it on the cheap. She examined his picture. It was of him with his two children, both younger than her daughters. It looked like the girl – what was her name? – had taken a selfie of the three of them together. Julian was laughing as was the girl. The boy, who was the image of the man in his youth as she remembered him, looked pained and unwilling, as only pubescent boys can. She looked closer at the man. The smile was there in the mouth, in the eyes, but his hair was thinning, he needed a shave. He had not aged well. We’ve got something in common then, she thought. She wondered at the irony that sometimes, those that began adult life as handsome, rakish, went downhill, while those that were considered ordinary or boring sometimes matured into something more pleasing. Watchit kiddo, she said to the boy in the picture. That’s what you’ll look like someday. Maybe he knew. Maybe that’s why he was scowling. She wondered again at why he might want to meet up. Her job in IT meant that she was reasonably well paid, could look forward to a half decent pension at some point in the dim and distant future. But still there was always too much month left at the end of the money. There was still the mortgage to pay, and the rest, to say nothing of the cost of putting her girls through uni. Tom, her ex, had always paid maintenance for the girls, but there was still never enough. Are you after my money, she thought. Are you thinking because I’m a homeowner, got a job in IT, lonely, that I’m an easy touch? After all, he was a manual labourer, self-employed. Which means he didn’t have things like a guaranteed pension. And surely with that sort of work there was only so long that you could keep doing it. Wasn’t there? So then what do you do? Look for a lonely woman you can tap for a few quid? She didn’t like that thought, made her feel ill. She looked at herself in the mirror again. Her clothes at any rate didn’t sing out money. The exact opposite, they were shabby with only a small amount of chic. It had been so long since she’d bought new clothes, been out on a date. Don’t be silly, it’s not a date. It’s just coffee. You don’t have to commit to anything more. And forget about mentioning the state of the kitchen. At least for now. They’d arranged to meet in a garden centre. It meant she could get there early, wander round the plants, hide behind a display of herbaceous perennials to give him the once over. That had been the plan at any rate, but roadworks delayed her, leaving her just enough time to park at the far end of the busy car park. She was walking towards the garden centre when… “Get stuck in the roadworks?” He was there. No backing out now. She looked him up and down. He’d had a shave – thankfully – and a buzz-cut had improved the hair line. He was dressed in jeans and a checked short-sleeved shirt. “Err, yes.” Why the hell was she feeling so nervous? “Me too.” And she noticed that he wasn’t looking directly at her. Was he nervous too? They stood there for a moment or two, having run out of things to say. “So, coffee?” He took the lead and led the way to the café. She walked beside him, a step behind. There was no closeness, no brushing up against one another as if they were friends, would-be lovers. Well, this is going well, she thought, but at least with a coffee they could sit and sip if they couldn’t think of anything to say. What do you say to a man who you knew everything about at age 16, but know nothing about now? He took charge at the café, wouldn’t take no for an answer. He insisted they had cake, no he shouldn’t really either, but why not? Once in a while? It’ll give us something else to do when we can’t think of anything to say, she thought, eat cake. She watched him as he ordered, paid. He’d been skinny when she’d known him before. Now he’d filled out. But not too much, she noticed. No beer gut at least. His short-sleeved shirt showed the ends of tattoos, and his arms looked strong, used as they were to labour, his hands calloused from his work. She quietly breathed him in as she stood behind him in the queue. He smelled nice. He’d always smelled nice, she remembered. They sat, they sipped. It was still awkward, until she took a bite of the éclair, ending up with cream on her nose. He laughed, the ice was broken, and it was suddenly easy to talk.

They talked about the old days, went through the routine of ‘do you remember’, talking about the friends they’d liked, the teachers they’d hated.  He asked about her divorce, a mutual separation eight years ago, she asked about his wife, cancer, five years ago. He asked about her work, and she asked about his. He was his own boss, he said, a small building company, five men relying on him for work. Turns out he’d had more education than she’d given him credit for with all the regulations he had to follow. He liked being his own boss, wouldn’t have it any other way. She said she wouldn’t either. Preferred the security of the 9-5, an annual wage, a secure pension. He smiled. He’d be okay. He was buying up properties, doing them up, renting them out. He’d currently got six properties, intended to add more until he retired. Then he’d live on the rent. So, not after your money then, she thought. Only a coffee after all. No hidden agenda. Suddenly he looked awkward again. “Look, I’ve got a confession. I didn’t contact you. I’d seen your profile and Kelly had seen me looking. She sent the message from my phone while I was out of the room.” “So you didn’t want to be here today?” “No, I did. It’s just that I wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask you myself. She knew you’d been my girlfriend at school, thought it was about time I was out there again.” “She sounds like my daughters. That’s what they keep telling me. What business is it of theirs anyway?” They both laughed, suddenly easy in each other’s company once more. The coffee, the cake, was finished. “Do you fancy looking round the plant section? I’ve got to get something for mum.” It seemed he wanted to extend the date. “Okay. I need a couple of perennials to fill a gap.” They moved easily into the plant section, wandering around all parts, discussing what they liked and disliked in an unhurried fashion and as they browsed, they moved closer. It was the end of the season and perennials were three for two, so she chose three, gave him one for his mother. She’d always liked his mum. Plants paid for – she refused to take any money from him, she was giving him the free plant after all – they moved to the car park. She put her plants into the boot and turned to say goodbye.

“Look, Rachel,” he said nervously, “I’ve enjoyed today. I wonder if you’d like to meet up next weekend? Just for coffee and a chat.” She smiled. Yes, she would. He wasn’t the handsome youth she remembered, but hey, time had caught up with both of them, and at her age she didn’t think she should be too picky. Besides, they were only two old friends meeting for a coffee. He leaned in, held each of her arms and kissed her gently on her cheek. She was surprised at the electricity, the sudden attraction she felt for him and judging from the confusion on his face as he pulled back, she wondered if he’d felt the same. “Till next week then.” And as he walked away, she put her hand to her cheek as if the feel of his lips was too precious to let go.


Peering out my window after shutting off my alarm, I can tell that there is at least three more inches of snow on the ground. There was six to begin with; so now, there is almost a foot. I tear my eyes away from the window before I can start admiring everything about the winter wonderland outside. I get dressed for the day, pulling on my warmest clothes, preparing for the inevitable freezing air. There is a fire going downstairs, but I don't have time to sit there. I scarf down a hot breakfast and grab my backpack from the chair next to me, then brace my face for the cold as I pull open the front door. I step outside, into a world so blindingly white that I have to blink a few times in order to regain control of my vision. I’m wrapped snugly in my coat, ready to catch the Snowbus to get to school. I don’t even shiver as I wait, though the temperature is well below freezing. I’m used to it. After five years of our little wood being covered by ice and snow, our whole village is used to it. The younger ones don’t remember a time when there wasn’t any white outside, other than the tiny flowers that used to grow beside the road. Us kids used to swim in the lake, with the weeping willows hiding us under their curtains of hair and shutting the world out while we played. Now, the ice over the lake is so thick that it has become glass, a mirror that displays your reflection. It is impossible to see the creatures underneath. I wonder what has become of them, since they have been hibernating for so long. My thoughts are interrupted by the bus with its giant snow wheels. The engine purrs as it slows down. It is also white, not only because of the blanket of snow that conceals the top of everything it lands on, but also because the yellow paint it used to wear has faded away to nothing. Now only the base coat remains. I think, just for a minute, that it would look very pretty with its yellow against the harsh white, a smear of brightly colored paint on the blank canvas around it. The doors swoosh open, and I climb on. I am the only one. Many people have left because of the seemingly eternal frost. Many have stayed also, but they don’t live in my area. More still have taken to homeschooling. I imagine them staying at home, enveloped in a blanket by the fire, calm and peaceful as they sip hot cocoa and carefully do their math and history and science. They are learning the same things we are, but their environment would make it easier, more tranquil. I am jealous until I imagine them falling asleep.

I turn to the window as the bus begins to move once again, carrying its passengers to their destination. Little wooden houses flash by my window, some with smoke coming from the chimney. The fireplace is made of stone, and the inside walls are insulated and coated in plaster, but the outside brown is aesthetically pleasing no matter what season is here. I close my eyes and remember when we had seasons. The vivid green and pink and purple and blue of spring, how the tree branches were full of leaves. The scorching heat of the summer, which became less and less until the snow stopped melting. That happened first five years ago. I force myself to think of autumn, of the leaves turning brown and orange and red and falling off the trees, leaving their branches bare. It was always beautiful when they began to change, when they clung to their branches for dear life until they were shaken off.

Even now, there is a little bit of color. The evergreens persist, and little holly berries hold fast to brown and white tree limbs. It is a good reminder that not everything is cold and dead. Icicles hang off of every surface, sparkling in the sunlight. The bus approaches the school building, slowing once again to release the children it carried. I skip the last step, hopping out of the vehicle. The snow crunches under my boots, packed firmly against itself. I look around, watching the sun gleam off the snow, still fresh from the night before. Then, a single, tiny flake flutters onto my nose and melts. More follow it down from the sky, falling to meet my outstretched, gloved hand. Even though I am used to the cold, watching snow fall and feeling it on my tongue and eyelashes and nose is a beauty which I have never gotten over. At recess, a few of the older kids decide to go ice skating. I follow, even though I’m not very big. I’m at a weird, in between age. The older kids ignore me until we get to a river. It is too wide to jump over. Most of them slide carefully across on their feet, as gracefully as if they’d done it a thousand times before. Some closer to my age move on their hands and knees, or even their stomach. A few look back at me. One of the bigger girls nods encouragingly. I realize that while they all are rooting for me, I have to do this on my own. Tentatively, I put one foot on the ice. It feels sturdy but slippery under my shoe. My foot slides forward, and I pull it back towards me until it stops. Holding my arms up to steady myself, I lift my other foot and put it further out on the ice.

Someone cheers. I keep focusing on not falling. I slide my first foot slowly forward, then stabilize. I move the other one. Gaining confidence, I go again and again. More people cheer as I make my way across, moving steadily, but faster than before. Finally, I lift my foot, ready to place it on the snow, but I slip. Before I can fall, hands grab me and pull me back, righting me, not letting me topple. I look up and see the girl who nodded at me earlier grinning. I am part of the group now. If winter is a time of friendship, maybe it is good that we have it year round.


Grass and… “What was that other smell again?” She wondered. She knew, but could not remember precisely what it was… She felt herself rolling down over the wet grass. Isabella blinked, but she did not see it properly. Everything was a little blurry. Was She rolling down a hill, maybe? The sweet, delicious scent in the air. It smelled like green too, but a little sweeter than grass. She wanted to remember what it was. She took a long breath. It was delicious, a tender smell, delicate, smooth… Childhood… “Ohhh, yeah! That was it! Childhood” She remembered, something from her childhood. A flower? Something grandma used to have in her garden and, when she was a little girl, she loved it! Isabella remembered. But she also remembered that she only had sensed it at night… Ohh, yeah! Not exactly a flower, but a small tree, full of small little beautiful white flowers. Grandma called it Lady of the Night because the flowers only open at night and only at night we can feel their fragrance. A remarkable scent, it can be sensed in a distance.

Although… as far as she could remember, it should still be early in the morning yet and she was at her father’s lab. There was no Lady of the Night there. It was her birthday and she was talking to her father in his Lab… wait a minute, something was not right… Trying to understand what was happening, she recalled in her mind the last events before she felt herself rolling down in the humid grass: After breakfast, her father called her to his Lab, to ‘show her something’, he said. He always had all kinds of interesting inventions in the lab. As a never completely satisfied alchemist, he was always up to something new. What could it be now? She was very curious about it and she was excited! It was always something astonishing, even though most of the time it did not work as expected… Lab was a mess, as usual… he worked until after midnight last night. She knew it because she and her mother were still talking in the kitchen, eating coconut cake, around midnight and he had not come back yet from the lab when they went to bed. That morning, her father was very very happy and looked proud too. For sure he had a great new invention! Once in the lab, he gave her a small box. Yellow, with a white bow and some sparkling purple little little points. It was clumsy, but beautiful in its own way. “Your birthday present!”. He said smiling. “Ohhhh…” She smiled at him too. The box had a rough touch on her fingers. She opened it carefully and took from it a necklace. She held the cold blue rock, the necklace pendant, inside her hand. “It is gorgeous!” “I’m glad you liked it!” Gordon, her father, laughed to himself. He turned his back to Isabella and began to wash the alembic and the aludel in the sink, it was a mess there. Then he started blabbing: “And you know, your mother was not so sure about it for your 21st Birthday present”. He laughed again. “You know your mom; she always worried too much about nothing. You just have to be a little careful and I’m sure you are old enough for that now.” She tried on the necklace. It was a little bit heavy on her neck because of the rock, but she would get used to it. She looked at herself in the mirror close to the door. It was indeed a beautiful necklace. When she looked back at her father by the lab’s sink, he was fading away… All the utensils in the lab were fading away… the balconies, the sink, everything around her was fading away… But she still could see his eyes opened widely in the shocked expression on his face when he turned to look back at her since she was not responding to him. She also saw when he put both of his soaked-in-soap hands on the side of his head. When she did not see anything anymore, she still heard him screaming: “Isabella? Isabella? Ohh, my God… Isabella!!!” He exclaimed. Was she fading away to him too? “Your mother is going to kill me! That is for sure!” “Ohh, my God…” She heard something crashing. “Oh, my God… your mother is going to kill me, for sure. I didn’t even explain to her how to…” And then there was she. Rolling down in the wet grass, sensing the smell of the Lady of Night’s flowers. She finally stopped with a last bump of her head in the soil. “Uhuu…” She contracted her eyes. “That hurt.” She began to hear some crying in the new environment… several crying actually. A very sad crying. Why were they so sad? She wondered. Little by little those people began to appear in her view. Where was she? She sat on the grass; it was almost night already and there were several Lady of the Night around her. That explained the smell she was perceiving. It was a large field of grass. Who were those people and why were they all crying? Why were they dressed so differently from everything she knew? Ohhh… it was not a field of grass. It was… a cemetery. Someone had died. She decided just to stay there and wait. In respect for those who were in grief and in respect for the one who had just left this world, she waited. She waited while they did their prayers, while they cried some more, while they said their goodbyes, while they hugged and comforted each other. She waited until the day finished completely and became a full night. She just stayed there sat under a Lady of the Night tree, in silence, appreciating the sunset and the delicious aroma of wet grass with the sweetness of the Lady of the Night’s flowers. Someone was playing a peculiar musical instrument. She heard someone calling it ‘violin’ and Ravel’s bolero. It was a nice song for someone’s soul to be received in heaven. It was a spectacle just for her, apparently, since the others were too busy crying. Then, they all began to leave the place, still crying a little. Sobbing. She was thinking about what she should do next when the oldest lady in the group passed by her and called her: “Come on, dear. Let’s go. Let us all go together.” The old lady had a sad smile, a very sad one. Her invitation sounds like something that she should follow. So she got up and walked by the side of the old lady, who embraced her with one arm and said: “There is a hot soup for all of us. You should have dinner with us tonight.” Why did she feel as invited for that moment? As someone who should be there? The old lady gave Isabella a cozy sensation, a familiar one. She felt like at home embraced by her and the old lady had the aroma of vanilla with cinnamon, one of her favorite aromas.

The old lady continued to walk side by side with her. Isabella looked back. There were way more people there than she noticed at first. Most of the women there were wearing pants, like the men. She had never seen that before. There were a lot of things that she had never seen before that moment… Some of the women had their arms and their legs without being covered by any clothes. That would be a scandal as far as she could understand. But it looked pretty normal there. Suddenly she had a clue, that necklace… and she asked the old lady: “What day is today?” “You are not from here. I notice. But that is not a reason for not to have dinner with us. You are here for a reason.” Isabella was confused. If the lady knew she was not from there, why was she being so friendly with her?

“Today is June 23.” The old lady answered. What? Her birthday was in May…” The old lady smiled at her “from the year 2019.” Isabella opened her eyes in astonishment at the old lady and thought: yes, Dad, it is a big, huge, ‘Oh, my God!’ “By the way, my name is Clara.” The lady introduced herself. Isabella looked down, trying to organize her thoughts. The necklace must be a time-traveling dispositive. Clara gave her a clever smile: “Don’t you worry, honey. You must be hungry. Let’s eat first.” Isabella got the courage to ask Clara what she was wondering about: “Who died?” Clara sighed heavily: “Well… someone’s old friend, someone’s newer friend. Someone’s lover. Someone’s teacher. Someone’s inspiration. Someone’s buddy, someone’s last harbor, someone’s first door…Someone’s wife and someone’s best friend…” There was a tear in Clara's eye. “Someone loved, someone very very loved.” The old lady might be a little bit crazy, Isabella thought; that would explain a lot. Anyway, she was very hungry indeed. She would stay for soup… hopefully it would have some crackers, too. During soup, the crying had stopped, finally, but the sorrow was palpable. Everyone was in deep silence. Only she was there not sharing that sadness. She was confused, true. She did not know what would happen next in her life, which also was true. Nevertheless, despite that, she was pretty much okay: she watched an amazing spectacle, the soup was delicious, and there were crackers. Later worries were for later. The silence was a little bit embarrassing, but that was fine, too. Then Clara, who had been sitting in front of Isabella, asked everyone for attention, looked at the strange girl in front of her, and said: “Isabella, why don’t you tell us one of your stories to distract our minds?” What? What? Wait. Why? She questioned in her mind. But the old lady kept smiling at her. She was already a fan of Clara and she felt as if she should pay for the soup or something. “Well… hurm, hurm”. She cleaned her throat. She was taken by surprise. She heard some wings flapping outside and looked through the window. There was a beautiful white bird flying against the blue sky. It was a big bird and the sky was so blue, without any clouds on it. His white feathers got remarkable in the sky. His freedom, flying away to the infinite, melted her heart in tears. “Well… ahh… It all begins with Once upon a time, isn’t it?” Everyone stopped eating and turned their heads to her, listening. An old man, not too far from her, was smiling tenderly. His smile gave her comfort and the sense of a safe place. Warm and cozy, like a home. She instinctively smiled back at him. Then it all started to begin inside her and the story just flew as a river… “Once upon a time, there was a young woman called Alya. She had brown skin and dark hair that matched the deepness of the even more dark night of her eyes. She always wore very colorful clothes in the old India where she lived. She lived in a small village and she used to walk to the Ganges very often. In those times,  the path to the river was full of trees, flowers, and other natural beauties. She was happy that way. She had a lot of friends inside and outside her village. Her father was the leader of their village, but it was only to organize things since everyone worked for the well-being of all of them. Everyone had their own chores to keep things well balanced. People in that village were so peaceful that they were vegetarian, unable to kill anything. In her free time, she danced alone, keeping the silence of her mind. She walked alone in nature, sang, or spent time with her best friend. A boy who was born on the same day as her, but two years earlier. One day, though, the village was conquered by some foreign warriors. Since people in her village were too peaceful, they were left to surrender themselves. The chief of the warriors said that he was ‘taking care of them’ and obliged them to serve him. Her father tried to argue that they were doing pretty well until then and did not need any kind of protection, but that was.. in vain. The warriors’ chief became fascinated with Alya. He forced her always to dance, sing and make company to him. She was also forbidden to walk outside the village. She missed her lonely time and her walking to the river. In the beginning, Alya thought things would change in time. That the Chief would forget about her, that she would be in peace again and would have time for her own again. But that did not happen. Every day, she became sadder and sadder. She did not want to dance, sing, or even eat anymore. The warriors’ Chief got worried. Ayla’s father could only say “She got sad.” Then the Chief got her one gorgeous, beautiful white bird in a golden cage that sang so preciously that she could stay all the time just listening to him. She loved the bird, of course, she loved animals. And she loved to hear him singing. Over time, though, the bird too stopped singing and eating. She looked closely at him. Would he be ill? She looked at him and wondered what would be wrong… He always had fresh and clean water. He always had the best fruits to eat, and the best grains. And, also it was a very beautiful golden cage… She sighed… The bird sighed too, looking at the endless blue sky. It was a cage. She understood. Even though it was a golden one, it was still a cage, like her own. She looked at the bird, so sad he was… from time to time he looked to the freedom above him. Thus… she opened the cage and released the bird. He immediately flew away to the big blue. His wings were wide open, flapping and flapping away. As higher as he could go. She cried a lot in missing him… You know,  as we always do when we miss someone. But she knew that freedom meant everything to the bird. And she was happy for him.” People smiled at her at the end of the story. “But…” someone asked. “What about Ayla?” Isabella smiled as if she could hold everyone and their sorrow in her own arms and comfort all of them, one by one: “Well, some say that she ran away in the middle of the night. Others that her soul flew away from that body. Her father said once, ‘Every sorrow finds its ends, here or beyond, in the afterlife.’ Alya lived the time she had to live there, then, she left…” People smiled at Alya’s happy ending. Then Clara, the oldest lady in the room, concluded: “When the Soul ends its journey in its body cage, it is time to leave. It needs to fly away to the infinite blue sky. To where is its real-life… as the bird” Isabella smiled at Clara as if smiling at an old friend, although it felt like a fresh new friendship. The old man smiled at her again and then, everything began to fade away… she could still hear some of them whispering about the story, how their beloved one was flying happily in freedom. She could still sense the vanilla-cinnamon smell from Clara. Then she could smell recently baked honey cookies for breakfast in her house while hearing her father and mother arguing loudly about her in the kitchen. Her mother worried, calling her father crazy and threatening to kill him if he did not bring Isabella back before noon. He was trying to explain and justify himself. Although it was not working… At this point, she arrived on the couch. How convenient was that! A soft landing this time. She would eat again, that was great, she was hungry again! She quickly took off the necklace, she would need some explanation from her father before wearing it again. “Mom, mom!” she called, making herself to be noticed in order to finish that confusion in her house…


When the clutter in your basement looks more like rising floodwaters, it's time to go down there and deal with it. Building an ark to escape in would only be a way of avoiding the inevitable. And, besides, God would probably want me to go out into the world and collect all the animals, two by two. No thanks. I'd rather deal with the clutter. I opened the basement door and looked down the stairs. The only clear area was the path from the bottom of the stairs to the washer and dryer. The path was walled-in by piles of clutter almost up to my hips. I sighed and made my way down the stairs. About halfway down, I spotted an old shoe-box on one of the steps. I picked it up. There were words written on the side in magic marker: Box of Memories, 1987, for Quentin Ngoro when I'm grown up. Going through the rest of the basement's clutter was going to have to wait a little longer. Upstairs in my bedroom, I sat on my bed and placed the shoe-box in my lap. After I removed its lid, I saw a small disorganized collection of old photos, baseball cards, playing cards, a small red rubber ball and a set of jacks, and an old baseball. Somehow these all belonged to me, when I was a child, but I had no memory of putting this together. Digging through the collection, I noticed a sheet of 8x11 paper, folded in half. I unfolded it and saw that it was a handwritten letter from the boy I used to be to the adult I would one day become. To the future Quentin, Today is Tuesday, July 21 st , 1987. I'm about to finish my box of memories. Once I'm done with this letter, I'll fold it in half, put it in the box, close the box, and then store it somewhere where it hopefully won't be noticed until I'm older. I didn't want a big box. I wanted something you could put in your lap and rummage through on a rainy day, remembering the boy you used to be. The baseball is one that I caught during a Baltimore Orioles game, when Reggie Jackson hit a home run into the stands where Dad and I sat. After the game, Mr. Jackson kindly autographed it.. The photos are of me at different times in my life. The earliest one is of a baby in a bassinet. I can't believe that the baby was me. How small I used to be! Another one is of when I was six. I'm sitting upright in a hospital bed, with a toy yellow bulldozer in my lap, a bandage wrapped around the top third of my head. That was after a dog bit me in the forehead and a doctor had to stitch the skin on my forehead back together again. The toy bulldozer was a get-well-soon gift. There are some other photos, too. At the bottom of the box is a book that I bought at the school library's book sale last year. The Black Cauldron by Lloyd Alexander. I didn't want to part with it, but I wanted you to have it. I hope you'll like it, too. I didn't want this letter to be as long as the ones I write each December to Santa Claus, so guess this is it for now. I hope everything turned out well. I wish I could look at you and see what I grew up to be. Were you a pilot, astronaut, or doctor? I hope one of them. But if not, I guess that's okay, too. From the past Quentin I smiled to myself. Much had changed in thirty-three years. I didn't become a pilot or astronaut or doctor. I went to law school and became a lawyer instead. Why? Because I was inspired by a book, To Kill a Mockingbird , and a fictional character in it named Atticus Finch, who was himself a lawyer. There was a knock on my bedroom door. “Come in,” I called as I closed the shoe-box. Cat came in. She was almost as tall as I was, with long dark hair and dark eyes. She wore a plaid button-down shirt, jeans, and was barefoot. An echo of her mother, right down to the lack of fingernail and toenail polish and no rings on her fingers. “It's almost lunchtime,” she said. And then she saw the shoe-box in my lap. “Where did that come from?” “It was on the basement stairs,” I said. “I meant to deal with the clutter down there, but I got distracted by this shoe-box instead.” “Maybe I can help with the clutter,” she offered. “That would be very kind of you,” I said. “Mind if I join you?” she asked. I nodded and moved over, so that she could sit down next to me. Cat touched the shoe-box's lid. “So what is this?” “A box of memories,” I explained. “Something that people used to make long before MySpace and Facebook existed.” “Sort of like a scrapbook?” Cat asked. “Sort of,” I said. “Can I see what's inside it?” she asked. I nodded and handed it to her. She carefully opened it and carefully went through the shoe-box's contents. “Seems to be the sorts of things that a young boy would've been interested in. There's even a folded sheet of paper. Probably something he doodled on. Who did all this belong to?” “It belonged to me,” I said. “Apparently I created it when I was ten years old. To be stored away until I was grown up.” Cat glanced at me. “You mean, like a time capsule?” I nodded. “Something to remind myself of who I used to be. I even wrote myself a letter.” She removed the folded piece of paper. “Then you didn't just doodle on this.” “Correct,” I said. “May I read it?” she asked. “Or is it too personal?” “Be my guest,” I said. Cat pushed her hair behind her ears and silently read the letter. When she finished, she said, “That's quite a long letter for a ten-year-old. I'm not sure if even I would've written anything that long when I was his age.” She refolded the letter and put it back inside the shoe-box. “It's kind of like finding a bottle on the beach with a letter from 1987 inside it. An echo from a different time, a different world.” Then she noticed the book and took it out. As she did so, something small slid out of it and fell on the bed. It was a small photo. She picked it up and looked at it. “Is this Ma?” she asked. But then she turned the photo over and looked at its backside. “No, it isn't her. It's someone else. Someone named Sharon Ferguson, or 'Sunny' for short. It's dated 1987. A girlfriend of yours, maybe?” “I didn't have a girlfriend back then,” I said. “May I see it?” She nodded and handed the photo to me. The photo was of a pale-skinned preadolescent girl with freckles, green eyes, and red hair in a ponytail. At first I didn't recognize her. But then, like a recording, I could hear a girl's voice coming from deep within my memories. A voice I hadn't heard in over thirty years. * * * * * * * * * * “Quentin? It's Sunny. Why don't we go outside and play?” “I don't want to,” I heard a boy grumble. He sounded familiar. “Why not?” she asked. “Because I don't want to play House again,” he said. “It's dumb.” “Okay – then what do you want to play?” she asked. The boy's face came into view and I saw my ten-year-old face. Probably not what you'd call good-looking, but nothing too scary. And then I saw her face. She was very pretty. But why wasn't she hanging out with other boys, the popular ones? Or maybe she was bored with them? “What if we went to the park?” I suggested. “It was a new playground. If it gets too hot, we could sit in the shade near the duck pond.” Sunny looked thoughtful, then nodded. The park was about a block or two from our elementary school. You could get there either by the street side, or through the field and woods on the other side of the school. We chose the latter route. As we walked along, she asked, “Do you ever wonder what you'll be when you're a grownup?” “Sometimes,” I said. “Maybe a pilot, because they get to fly to faraway places. Or an astronaut, because they get to travel in space. Or a doctor, because they help people. What about you?” “I think I want to be a scientist or an engineer,” she said. She was definitely smart enough. Compared to her grades, mine were awful. Not as bad as my father's were, but that's not saying much, since he almost flunked out of school. “I wish I could be one of those,” I said. “You could,” she said. “You're pretty smart.” I shook my head. “Not like you are.” “Maybe you just need some help,” Sunny said. “But who would help someone dumb like me?” I asked. “You aren't dumb, Quentin,” she said. “I know you aren't.” “You're just trying to be nice,” I said. She frowned. “No, I'm not. I bet with a little tutoring you could improve your grades.” She grabbed me by the arm, and we stopped, facing each other. “ I could be your tutor, in fact.” “Why would you do that, Sunny?” I asked, puzzled. “Because we're friends,” she said. “And friends help each other.” “If you think it'll do any good,” I said. “I sure do,” she insisted. “I could start helping you today. in fact. After we get back home, I mean.” “All right,” I said. “If it's not too much work for you.” “It isn't.” Then she smiled and tapped me on the arm. “Tag! You're it!” She ran ahead and I ran after her. In the park, parents were seated on benches that were in the shade. They talked with each other while watching children and dogs play. The fountain in the middle of the park was on and some of the kids were running in and around it, getting wet as they cooled off. “Hey!” someone said, giving me a shove from behind. “Lookee here, it's Quentin. The school idiot.” His two best friends stood nearby, snickered and hooted with laughter. I recognized the voice as Dwayne's. One of the school bullies. I kept my back to him and tried to ignore him. Sunny turned around, though, and said, “Don't call him that.” “Why not?” Dwayne asked. “It's his name, ain't it? What else do you expect me to call him? Moron? Mental retard?” “He isn't stupid and you know it,” she said. “Then why are his grades so bad?” Dwayne asked and laughed. “Have you seen 'em? They're even worse than mine are.” “I don't care,” Sunny said angrily. “You just leave him alone. You hear me?” “Isn't it a shame?” Dwayne teased me. “Too weak to defend yourself, so you have to have a girl protect you.” I turned around to face him, fists clenched, arms held against my sides. “Don't give in, Quentin,” Sunny warned me. “It isn't worth it.” “What choice do I have?” I asked. “Yeah, if you're so smart, Sharon, you should tell him what to do,” Dwayne said. “Mama's boy don't know how to stand up for himself, anyway.” His insults and teasing were having the desired effect and he knew it. I stepped past Sunny, my fists raised. She tried to pull me back. “No. Don't do this.” “Maybe I want to,” I said. “You wanna go home with a black eye?” she asked. “Maybe I do,” I said. “It would be worth it just to plant one on his stupid face.” “Hey, Carrots, maybe you should let him be stupid without your help,” Dwayne teased her. Sunny went cold and still. “What did you call me?” “You heard me,” he said. “Carrots, Carrots!” Dwayne's friends parroted. Next thing I knew, Dwayne was flat on his back with a bloody nose, and Sunny was on top of one of his friends, straddling him as she punched him. Dwayne's other friend had backed off, like the coward he was. Dwayne got to his feet and wiped away the blood flowing from his nostrils. He looked at Sunny's unprotected back and smiled to himself. I grabbed him by the arm, yanking hard enough to force him to face me. He didn't like that. “You leave her alone,” I said. “Oh yeah?” he retorted. “And what are you gonna do? Cry on me?” That did it. I punched him in the face with my left fist. It hurt enough that I had to wring it until the pain went away. But the shocked and hurt look on his face was worth it. “Why you little runt,” he said, getting into my face. But he didn't get a chance to do more than that. The adults were on their feet now, forcibly separating Sunny and me from Dwayne and his buddies. The adults were frowning at all of us. I'd never seen them this angry. “Of all the stupid things you could've done,” a white-haired black woman told us, “and you decide to have a fight here at the park. What would your parents think if we told them? Hmm?” She looked at Dwayne first, pointing her forefinger at him. “No surprise that you're involved in it.” He looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here. “Kathleen?” the black woman called to another adult, a white woman. The second woman was younger, and maybe a few inches taller. She had short dark hair, and looked strong enough to play football. “Take Dwayne home and tell his parents what happened.” Kathleen grimly nodded. “Gladly, Geraldine.” She came forward, ready to grab him by the arm. “But I didn't start it!” Dwayne complained, trying to pull away from her. “I didn't punch him first. He punched me first!” “You did start it,” Geraldine said. “We were watching. And from what we could tell, they were both minding their own business. But you just couldn't leave them alone, could you?” He looked like he was going to cry. “It's not fair! I'm going to tell my parents how awful you are!” Kathleen narrowed her eyes at him. “Don't threaten me, boy. We're going to talk with your parents. Who knows? They might just ground you again, even if the school doesn't expel you.” As they left, Dwayne kept trying to free himself. He looked back at me once, gave me an angry look, and tried to make a rude gesture with his free hand. Kathleen grabbed that hand and pulled it back down. “Don't think I didn't see that,” she told him. “You are in a world of trouble, boy.” Once they were gone, it was Dwayne's friends' turn next. “You have a choice: act like him, or go home right now,” Geraldine said. They took their heels and never looked back once. Geraldine sighed and finally looked at Sunny and me. “Maybe you two should go home, too,” she said in a much calmer voice. “But it wasn't our fault,” Sunny protested. “I know it wasn't,” Geraldine said firmly. “That wasn't why I suggested it. Maybe you could spend the rest of the day tutoring him. Unless you'd rather end up like Dwayne?” I shook my head. “I didn't think so,” Geraldine said. “Are you going to tell our parents?” I asked her. “About this fight?” “I'll make you a deal,” Geraldine said. “Let Sunny help you improve your grades and I won't tell anyone about this fight.” She held out her hand. “Is it a deal?” I nodded and shook her hand. “Deal.” With Sunny's tutoring, my grades steadily improved. As a reward, Sunny gave me a photo of herself. If only I hadn't lost it before the end of the school year. * * * * * * * * * * But now I'd found it again, with my daughter's help. “I guess sometimes you need to pick up something old,” I said, “dust it off, and look at it with new eyes. I certainly did in this case..” “Did you two ever date?” my daughter asked, handing the shoe-box back to me. I shook my head. “But we did stay really good friends. All the way through high school.” “How did you manage to forget her, then?” she asked. “She sounded really special.” I shrugged. “Maybe it was when we went to different colleges. Or later on, after I finished law school. I was pretty busy for a long time. And then I met your mother, which made my life even busier … but for a good reason.” “I wonder what happened to Sunny,” Cat mused. “Maybe you should try to find her. Now that you're single again, I mean.” “Hint?” I said. “She might have forgotten about me after all these years.” “Or maybe she hasn't,” she said. “Try using Facebook, Pa. I've found some old friends that way.” She stood up. “See you in the kitchen.” She left my bedroom, gently closing the door behind her. “Thank you, Quentin and Sunny,” I whispered. “For everything.”


August 21 st 2020: The Present He pulled out the heavy suitcase from beneath the old coffee table in the attic, immediately covering his nose as he felt the tingles of a sneeze in the making. The room was dusty, as was expected, as his parents had not ventured up there for years. It was a big day. In more ways than one. For the first time since he was admitted, Mason was going to visit his father at the nursing home. The timing too was fitting as the day marked nine years since his sister's passing. A few tugs and some unfastened clasps later, he pulled out the bag that lay folded neatly atop the contents of the moth-eaten luggage. The costume was intact, its blue and red fabric glistening beneath the tattered plastic covering, the shiny silver goblets - the eyes of the mask -reflecting the pensive expression on his face. It would be totally out of character for Mason to show up at the Wings of Care Nursing Home, dressed as a superhero, but it was much more than his character that was at stake. As if on cue, a spider scuttled hurriedly across the web-tangled floorboard in front of him and Marley's laughter echoed reminiscently in his ears. He felt her presence then, cheering him on in the silence of the empty house, convinced that what he was about to do was good and right. ***** Marley I’m Marley Cadence Elliott and I’m the baby that Geoffrey and Lisa Elliott had planned for. They were high-school sweethearts that stayed in love even after attending college in separate states in the US. They tied the knot a year after they graduated and began trying for a baby in their fourth year of marriage. Geoffrey’s a musician who loves Reggae and Rhythm and Blues. He attended Juliards on a scholarship, going on to manage a chain of radio stations called Citadel Group and founded a small recording studio in Miami. Lisa Elliott is the daughter of the prestigious dentist Albert Atkins, fondly known as "Dr. Tatskins". He gained the nickname after running a marketing ad for his practice, featuring a teenage girl on anesthetics getting her tongue twisted saying " Stanks Dr. Tatskins. Sthat didn't hurth a bith ". Lisa was a brilliant academic, an aspiring dental surgeon like her father, but midway through college, she discovered a greater love for animals instead. Graduating with honours from veterinary school, she became employed at a licensed Vet clinic as the lead Dentist and Oral Surgeon after three years in residency. I was supposed to be their bouncing baby boy. Geoffrey coveted the name Marley, after the famous titled reggae singer Bob, because during the early stages of their pregnancy, I responded with kicks and thumps whenever they played me songs by the popular band The Wailers. As they claim, the sequence of my movements seemed to be rhythmic and purposeful, like a cadence. Hence my unusual middle name. It wasn't until the third trimester that I turned in the womb, the gynecologist noting no sign of testicles on the ultrasound image, indicating that a little girl was on the way. My parents were mentally unprepared for a daughter, far less one that was diagnosed with PKU. Phenylketonuria (PKU) is an inborn error of protein metabolism, a condition which has no known cure. The rare disease occurs in children, usually from birth, commonly inherited from their parents. It prevents the body from properly breaking down proteins, specifically phenylanine . When the body is unable to break these down, phenylanine builds up in the blood causing problems throughout the body which commonly result in seizures, developmental delays, memory lapses, irritability, behavioural issues and intellectual disability. My parents were devastated when a simple breakout of eczema and the pediatrician's shrewd observation of my delayed growth at my three-month checkup led to the diagnosis. No one in either of their families had the condition and it was unfamiliar territory for them both. Oddly enough, I grew steadily throughout infancy and toddlerhood and I’d even dare say that I’m a smashingly successful thirteen-year-old-girl with ailments. I’m smart and observant, respond well to my treatment and strict diets, despite my occasional episodes of mood swings, seizures and anorexia nervosa. My parents were so busy working around me - my treatment, special education, diet and routines – that the morning sickness, fatigue and general inertia experienced by my Mom went unnoticed until she stepped on the bathroom scale one morning and recognized that she had gained six pounds! That was nine years ago. The time that I learned that I was going to be a big sister. This time the baby was not one in the planning but they were extremely fidgety, always doing checkups, nervous and anxious, and - the part they would not say out loud but I knew to be true – praying that the baby would not be like me. I prayed hard for that too. And for me to have a healthy baby brother. ***** Mason It’s difficult being the second child in a family where your older sibling isn’t the same sex and also has special needs. That's mostly how I feel whenever I’m alone in my room and my parents are busy fussing over Marley. It helps that my older sister is not a fan of the attention but chooses to rise above her disabilities, lavishing me, her younger brother, with all the love and attention that our parents unconsciously withhold; taking on the world one day at a time, with the energy of an all-male football squad (it’s her and my favourite sport). I’m the baby of the family and the “normal” kid. Everyone expected me to be like my Mom: fierce and determined, especially when she gets her hands on a drill (it’s part of her profession as a “doggy dentist”). That’s why they named me Mason. Mason Albert Elliott. But the only drills I’m good at are the ones where my family stops in the middle of dinner and a movie to rush to Marley’s aid in her episode of a seizure. Or my enrollment in football summer camp that would be cancelled as they have to use funds to go out-of-state with Marley for treatment. Or the bi-monthly sibling support therapy sessions I’m forced to attend with other kids with special-needs siblings. I’m nine-going-on-ten and overly acquainted with these drills that have become an integral part of my life. Marley had been doing really well for the past eighteen months until she suddenly lost seven pounds in under two weeks. She started having tantrums, forgetting things and being really crabby with everyone, including me. Her doctor referred her to a specialist at the Children’s Hospital in Boston, which is out of state. Dad had a huge contract signing for an album recording with a local artist who’s getting really popular and Mom has rolled-over vacation (whatever that means) so she booked the trip with Marley. They’ve been gone for over a week. Dad just got off the phone with Mom and it sounds like Marley isn’t doing so great, but the good news is that they’re coming home. He doesn’t bother to tell me what’s happening in detail, just the tidbits that he assumes my little nine-year-old brain can absorb. Maybe it’s because I’m shy and timid, mostly reserved and quietly observant. Except when Marley and I are together. And she’s having one of her good days. I’m happy she’s coming back but also confused as to why I’m sad to give up the attention I’ve been receiving while it’s just been Dad and me. At least we’re half-way through summer and football camp doesn't end for three weeks, so I just might get a late enrollment. ***** July 28 th 2011 He wore a Spiderman costume to greet her at the airport as it was her favourite superhero. He didn’t care about the long stares and the wary looks of the masses. His wife and his daughter were coming home after being at a children’s hospital in Boston, where the latter had been undergoing treatment for PKU for the past eleven days. Marley was his pride and joy, his little girl that he admittedly didn’t hope for initially, but the child that strummed all the musical strings of his heart. When she was eight, he had read her the children’s fictional called Charlotte’s Webb and she'd become enthralled with spiders ever since. When Marvel comics launched the modern remake of the blockbuster Spiderman Movie, she was already in her pre-teen phase and she immediately idolized the character. It was her smarts, coupled with her innocence, that caused Geoffrey Elliott to love her fiercely. Her illness never defeated her as she was as resolute and determined as her mother. Marley had the spirit of his wife Lisa which made her a fighter. He would do anything to make his daughter smile and today, smile she would, when she came through those arrival gates. At least that was the plan. He sat patiently with his son Mason as they watched scores of people filter by. The flight had landed on schedule and his wife and daughter should be looking to disembark at any minute. Suddenly, in a fit of nerves, he needed to pee. He had not factored in getting out of the suit to take a leak but couldn’t hold it too long. An elderly lady that sat next to them offered to watch Mason while he slipped off into the nearby washroom. Meanwhile, a guy acting suspiciously was being shadowed by airport authority officers. He slipped out of the washroom hastily as Geoffrey was entering. He noticed the guy mainly because the hem of his white shirt was sticking out of the fly of his dark blue cargo pants. “Hey!” Geoffrey called out, stalling the guy in the process. “Check your fly man” he continued as the stranger slowed his pace, glancing sheepishly down at his trousers. Just then, three officers approached and suddenly the man took off running in a sprint. Everything happened quickly – armed officers encircling, people pulling away in a frenzy, voices echoing through walkie-talkies, sirens and shouts over the PA system. They caught him, sequestered him and grilled him with questions. Geoffrey was making his third attempt to get out of his Spidey suit after the frenzy died when officers entered the washroom, evacuating everyone inside. They found a bomb in one of the stalls. It was chaotic. Flights were delayed, others rerouted. Airport wing had to be evacuated. Marley and her mother, along with other incoming passengers had to be cordoned off at an evacuation point away from the landing strip. He never saw them until many hours later that day. Somehow, a video still-shot of him in his Spiderman suit calling out to the bomber was captured and circulated on the evening news. The running reports tagged him as “The Spider that Caught the Fly”. He was credited as the hero who managed to alert authorities of a man who had somehow managed to plant a bomb at an international airport in broad daylight and without detection. May 12 th 2015 Fame seemed destined to follow her and she had become tired of it. Her father was well-known. Her practice was the most popular in the state. And her husband had made their family a household name when he was tagged four years ago as The Spider that Caught The Fly. Maybe to the world he was a hero, but to Lisa, her husband had failed. Losing a child is difficult for any parent. So when their daughter Marley died three and a half weeks after the airport bomb fiasco, she felt like her world had come crashing down. Sure, she was not the anticipated baby they had hoped for. Marley was supposed to be Mason. Her firstborn should have been a boy as she had wanted and as they had planned. But she loved that little girl with the fire in her eyes and music in her blood. Now, Lisa Elliott couldn’t face the tune of silence in the aftermath of her only-daughter’s being. What made her grief compounded was her husband Geoffrey’s bizarre behaviour that subsequently ensued. He became irrational, uncompromising, an overly-emotional alcoholic, who was apathetic toward her and particularly to their son Mason. The therapist said it was unconscious and unintentional, an unhealthy form of coping with his grief. But the behaviour, and his subsequent medical diagnosis took its downward toll on their marriage, bringing Lisa to a point of no return. As she sat in the courtroom, she registered no disappointment at Geoffrey’s absence for the divorce hearing, his lawyer instead stepping in to act on his behalf. It was almost four years since their daughter died and her marriage had officially reached its point of death in pursuit. Thoughts of her son and a resolve to do better by him are what kept her chin upright as she listened to the lawyer’s recital of her husband’s missive – one in which he resolved to let her take everything (as she was the breadwinner in the marriage) including full custody of young Mason. June 6 th 2013 His name was recognized in his new school and people began to pay attention to him. Many of the boys wanted to be his friend. He loved the attention, craved it actually, and bought into the stories that developed in his head. He was the son of the famous Spiderman that stopped an airport bombing by pulling on the hem of a man’s shirt through his open fly. That was Mason’s polished version of the story as an eye-witness to the event. His embellishments of the facts of that day were grossly exaggerated but for once he was among the cool kids and he felt it necessary to keep up whatever façade was needed to bolster his newfound social status. His parents did everything in their power to show him love but he never felt like he was loved as much as his sister. After Marley’s death, his father started behaving weird, much like his sister would whenever she had relapses, and his parents started fighting frequently. He never showed any physical evidence of his need for their cuddling so they always assumed that he was alright. Marley’s death took a toll on him too. But as usual, they were too preoccupied with themselves and with Marley’s loss to truly notice. It was Career Day at school and they were tasked to dress as the professions they intended to become. His mother fancied him for engineering and design, or anything along the lines of drilling and concrete works (she silently pressured him to consider dentistry like his grandfather and her). His father was neither here nor there, lackluster in his energy or interest in what his only son would become. But Mason saw himself as his father’s son. It was his Dad who had made him famous at his new school, his father who had indirectly won him the attention that he needed. He told his parents over breakfast that morning that he wanted to be an entrepreneur. He dressed in one of his smart suits that his grandfather had bought him to wear to Sunday Mass, but secretly, he stashed the Spiderman costume that his father had never removed from Marley’s bedroom. He was at the front of the class, dressed in the Spidey suit that was too big and too long for his tiny frame, addressing his classmates, teachers and the parents that took time off to be in attendance. As Mason explained that he wanted to be a superhero when he grew up, he went into his made-up version of the airport bomber incident with his Dad. Just then, the doors to the classroom flung open and his father came barging in. He was angry and seemed ready to tear Mason to pieces as he spotted him donning the precious costume. But as his father listened to Mason talk about how much he’d loved his sister Marley and how he wanted to be a hero Dad to a little girl in the future, just as his father had been to her, tears fell steadily down his face and he ran up to Mason and embraced him. It was the first time in Mason’s memory that his father had hugged him so passionately and whispered words of love and comfort to him. That was the last time they had shared a tender moment, before his father was diagnosed with FLTD and their family was ripped further apart. August 21 st 2020: The Present Much had happened in my life over the years and I'm thankful for my psychological growth. Life has dealt me so many bad cards that I could become bitter or better as a result. Thoughts of what life would have been like if my sister Marley had not died often flood me, leaving me overwhelmed with regret. But I've learned to be thankful. There's a reason and an explanation for everything that happened. Though I may never get the answers to the “whys”, I find solace in the fact that hope still lives. Frontotemporal lobar degeneration (FTLD) is the cause of my father’s behaviour. Grief and compounded traum are the causes of my mother’s steely countenance and her defensiveness. Significant loss and changes in my early childhood are the reasons for the many mistakes I've made and the difficult journey I endured to becoming my true self. I will salvage the remains of the relationships I've lost with the persons that I love the most. My mother Lisa will be there today too... A sense of peace engulfed Mason as he pictured his father’s expression when he would learn that Spiderman was at Wings of Care and had come to pay him a visit that day. ****