Whispers in the Fogs Whitechapel, London, 1889. The city’s up-and-coming electrical lights have been a guiding hand for many people living in the capital of the Victorian Era. But where there shines a light, darkness is being cast not far. This is a grim tale of a man’s journey through the less favorable streets of London. A tale spun by fate. A tale that went unnoticed in history, for it shed light on a person so obscure to our daily lives, that most see the name and think of nothing more than the poor souls that were lost in the Autumn of Terror 1888. This is the story of Detective Clearburough and his ongoing investigation of Jack the Ripper. London was still in trance and fear of the previous year’s murders. Scotland Yard and its members are still amidst finding the culprit of the killing of five poor souls… Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. It was not an uncommon thing to hear of beatings over a prostitute, hell some went so far as to murder, but these? Something so obvious as to say they were murdered merely for being of the wrong profession did not sit correctly with the Detective. Since the death of Miss Chapman way back on the 31st of August 1888 was he on the case alongside many other prominent figures of London’s crime-solving team. And yet? No traces of anything. Sure they were suspecting a few people, but without proof, how would one feel satisfied to have found the actual killer amongst the populous? “Dearest, are you thinking of that case again?” The voice was as sweet as sugar, yet felt so fragile and tender. The Detective shook off his thoughts and looked to his side. Arm in arm, in his safety she was. His darling wife Anne-Liz. He took off his hat and started scratching on his mustache. When it came to looks, both looked as dapper as high royalty, despite their impoverished life. “Ah, you must forgive me, dearest. Here we are going on a stroll to see the new city lights being activated, and all I can muster to think of, is that devil..” Her soft finger quickly placed itself onto his lips and she started giggling. “I’d rather want you to not think of it at least while you are taking the day off from work. I am surprised you even let me go out still, dearest.” The Detective quickly took her finger and placed it on a blue spot next to his nose. “If you are hitting as hard awake as you do in slumber, I reckon not even the devil himself could make you flinch away from a fight.” Both continued their conversation. Of their life, God, and practically anything they could think of. And yet? The Ripper never truly left Clearburough’s mind that night. It was as if he jumped from nightly streets to worried minds. Today was to be a special day. London always marked itself as one of the most advanced cities in the entire world. The epitome of modern. That night, February 2nd of 1889, a new step into the future was made. Whitechapel was to get electric lights! It was decided upon after an inventor noted, that it could bring light to the hearts of those in fear. Granted, East End London was the most impoverished part of London, but if beggars were to have light at night, so the inventor thought, rich people might want to invest in more beautiful craftsmanship. Give them electrified Art. Aberdeen O’Malick was an Irishman living in Whitechapel himself. The man, alongside a few interested fellows and with the help of London’s Administration of Development, already have contributed to a more shining future for the denizens of the city, starting with the installation of arc lamps by the Holborn Viaduct and the Thames Embankment in 1878. Mr. and Mrs. Clearburough’s goal was to attend that very same initiation of new lights for Whitechapel by Mr. O’Malick. Accordingly so, many of the streets in Whitechapel did not even possess any means of illumination. Seeing all these new pillars with a lamp attached looked out of place. As if the poor banded together and stole them from where they once stood. Truly, to see the district become brighter at night gave the Detective a worry less in the world. And even so, it felt as if the Ripper mocked him still. From afar with a wide grin exceeding any person’s normal smile. “You ought to become even more beautiful, shining so brightly by yourself in all this darkened street is already illuminating my worried heart, Darling,” Mr. Clearburough suddenly spoke up and give his wife a kiss. “These lights couldn’t come at a better time, I agree, you old charmer~.” The lady caressed his cheeks as both stopped in front of a large crowd. It felt like half of London has ushered into this smaller street. All Ages and wealth were there and amidst them stood a lanky fellow with a large mutton chop beard and safety goggles. “Ladies and Gentlemen! People of London, I welcome you all to our newest endeavor for the city as a whole! Before you; I stand with the power to give light to those who have been praying for it! Would t not have been without the help of Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, as well as the kind folk from the Whitechapel Board of Works, we’d still have a darkened night ahead of us!” The crowd started cheering. At least the majority of streets were to be put under guiding lights. “As a representative of London’s Administration of Development, as well as the O’Malick Electric Company, I welcome you all to a new age of light in Whitechapel!” The man in his leathery apron turned around and pulled a lever hoisted high up on a building with the help of a string. To the astonishment of all, each lamp, one after another, started to light up. At first, there was flickering at best, then a beam of light as if the sun itself had come forth, then back to a more acceptable level of brightness. “It’s as though I can now see every last snowflake in that pile of snow over there,” one old denizen shouted out. “My God, I feel like we have turned night into day,” screamed a woman further back. Cheering and clapping filled the air with sounds that haven’t been heard much of in this usually gloomy world. Children hopped around and began throwing snowballs now that they could see better. Others started outright dancing with their Missus to celebrate the occasion. Commissioner Warren made his way to Mr. Clearburough, followed closely by Mr. O’Malick as he still wanted to ask him something. “Charles! I never thought you had your hands in this!” Both men greeted each other with a handshake, followed soon by a tender bow by Mrs. Clearburough. “You and I both been dreading over this case for a good few months now, Seamus. To see so many people be less inflicted with fear is at least a small token of gratefulness in all that has happened lately.” Finally, Mr. O’Malick caught up with Commissioner Warren and shook his hand as well. The young and ecstatic man could barely hold his eagerness in. So much so, that he could not even talk cohesively. “Ah, m-my apologies for coming so suddenly, but I just had to give you my thanks for setting everything in motion alongside the police force!” It’s then, that the inventor noticed Mr. Clearburough and immediately shook his hand with the same tenacious eagerness just as that of Commissioner Warren. “You are doing a remarkable step towards London’s safety, Mr…O’Malick, was it?” not even a second later, a little piece of paper is pressed into the man’s hand. “Quite so, good sir! The poster I have hung up around the city sadly forgot to check for spelling, but overall I am happy that my home is getting the illumination it so desperately needed!” Alas, the joy, as quickly as it had come with the light, vanished once more as a woman started screaming. “THE RIPPER! T-Th…HE!...” Dyed in blood, the lady fell onto the ground, bleeding away her innards as her stomach revealed a nasty, open cut to her womb. The light began flickering and their protective illumination blew away like a candle’s light in the wind. Mr. Clearburough, Commissioner Warren, and a few Police Officers present at the event quickly drew their weapons. Not a single sign of panic had come out of anyone’s mouth yet. Heavy breathing…a flock of people cowered together like sheep in a thunderstorm. The ever-so-intrusive fog of London hushed out of the varying streets nearby. “Stay…close to me…very close…Anne…” Detective Clearburough wrapped his left hand tightly around his dearest, pulling her closer to his back and keeping his hand firmly placed at her back. Still no sign of panic or screaming. Silence and quiet dread overcame the once illustrious singing and dancing. Atop a building, the very same hosting the lever for Whitechapel’s lights, a silhouette began to form amidst the thickening fog. The first lamp that had just illuminated everything around it sprung to life once again, only to break violently right after. Sparks flew away from the lever, causing the thick to partially reveal the silhouette once again. A hat…a coat…a cane and a smile going beyond a normal one. It’s as if Clearburough saw the very thought he been having for the last few months. It was him. The Whitechapel Murderer, Leather Apron…Jack the Ripper The very sight of his shadow alone made people feel dread and fear deep in their hearts. It could not have been a mere coincidence, that the lights had started to fail when he showed up. What was even more unusual, was the sudden appearance in front of so many people. One could argue, he is still anonymous, but why risk that, especially with the police and a member of Scotland Yard present? Truly, the conundrum only spun deeper into the web of mystery. “YOU ARE NOT GOING TO GET ANYWHERE, GET HIM!” The doors of the building were run over by the officers. Commissioner Warren and Detective Clearburough rushed after him, keeping Mrs. Clearburough in the safety of Mr. O’Malick. Upon reaching the roof, the silhouette still stood there. One officer ignited his lantern and swung it forth, but was met with a terrible view. Instead of the Ripper, they found the corpse of a once beautiful woman. Slaughtered like an Animal, dressed in an expensive suit, and most gut-wrenching of all, cut at an aorta as she was leaning against a pike with a hook holding her up like a dried trout over a fire. Detective Clearburough and Commissioner Warren enter the scene not so long after and are taken aback by the unfolding view before them. “Oh dear God…that Woman…she is…” Mr. Clearburough looked at Mr. Warren with a confused mind. “You know this woman?! Who is she?” The entire police force around him became silent. The Commissioner took off his hat and placed it upon his heart. “Molly O’Malick…sister to our handshaking enthusiast. What a terrible fate…Get her down from there and put her into some loins!” The lights sprung back to life once again as the corpses were both being put into cloth to transfer them to Scotland Yard alongside Mr. Clearburough. Nobody felt like celebrating anymore, especially not Mr. O’Malick, who broke down in tears as he saw the hand of his sister peek out of the cloth. Only she had a ring with the initials of her name engraved on it. Even though he did not show it, Detective Clearburough felt an immense dread lurking behind his back. Jack had returned. Not only had he prevented good publicity over the new lights, but they were also shut off again by the O’Malick Electric Company just a day after for ‘maintenance’. London’s people were still in danger. It was time to finally put a stop to this maniac and his killing spree. Whitechapel has been in nigh complete darkness for too long. And despite this setback and blackout. Neither Technology nor the will to catch evil had been stopped. If anything, it only engulfed Mr. Clearburough in even more thoughts on how to catch him…and perhaps…solving the city’s lack of light in Whitechapel and Spitalfields might be a good start on solving Jack’s nightly terror. What will follow, is a cat-and-mouse game between the murderer and police, as if it wasn’t already. And to you, my good sirs and madams reading this…I welcome you to sit down and watch closely, as one of history’s most notorious killers returns. The Blackout brought forth…Whispering in The Fogs


Older  Date

It’s a warm summer evening and David is busy writing about himself to an unknown responder on a new date site. As he writes he is thinking to himself, this is far different from the days when I use to send a note to a possible date, asking for her phone number and pick up for next Saturday night’s dance…..I have recently taken up employment here, having spent most of my living in the north, how about you? He waits, wondering if his trying to reconnect his social life this way will work. Yeah, I know I want a new relationship but it can’t be the first thing one says, especially when it is not face to face. He gets up from his couch and goes to the kitchen to make himself a coffee, as he waits for a response to his opening introduction. As he does so, his mind goes into archive overdrive, stirring up his teen years of dating, dancing and after party joy rides in his good old Zephyr…while humming Dean Martin’s, ‘That’s Amore’. Just as he makes his drink, there is a ping sound from the lounge, and he quickly returns to his present engagement….online date site….response….Hi David, I like that you are new here,….. He continues to read and writes, nice profile pictures, where are they taken? I am interested in knowing more about you...…my opinion is that we are in a better country at this time….their chatting continues for the next 15 minutes as David wonders when it will shift to the actual first date, as he types,…. nice chatting with you Mary, maybe we can have a coffee next week and talk about seeing the movie you have mentioned? The chat closes with the promise to do the same tomorrow night and there’s an exchange of love hearts. Being summer, the morning is bright and David prepares himself breakfast, then sits at the breakfast bar, reading the papers front page. Next it is the business section, to read the review he wrote on the Reserve Bank’s response to the housing price crises. Satisfied with what he wrote, he peruses other interests and subconsciously turns to the movie section, scanning for the movie mentioned by Mary. Ah, Mary he says to himself; nice profile pictures, her chats came across as very confident, this might go somewhere, he chuckles aloud. Now for today, Saturday; shall I do my usual, or go and see my brother? I wonder what he would have to say, about his older bro giving online dating a spin. Especially when he chatted to me over Christmas about giving it a go; nothing too serious, just a new way to interface with a stranger without being embarrassed. He finishes breakfast, put dishes in the dishwasher, and goes to the bathroom. Adjusting to living on his own, has taken some time maybe a bit more difficult than he first thought. It is five years coming Easter since he got that sad and unexpected phone call telling him Jean had died in a multi car accident. While he coped preparing the family for the news and dealing with the issue of burial, it has a haunting grip on his emotions when driving out of the city. It may be a nice day but it is the inner wrestle he goes through to persuade himself to get in his car and travel through the city to the open speed of the freeway into the countryside. Why his brother chose to relocate sometimes annoys him, but today it seems okay. Though there is an internal emotional struggle and bouts of actual pain, it is less of a struggle today, as he gives a ‘thumbs up’ sign to Jean’s white cross. He knows he cannot push her death onto his brother; how would he have known that his moving into a lifestyle block was going to result in the death of his sister in law. *  * * * While David is driving out to have the day with his brother, Mary prepares herself to visit her good friend Sue. Sue is a long-time friend to whom she has come to for emotional help, is expecting her, not that she knows of Mary’s last night dateline chat. She smiles to herself as she recalls that thirty minute chat and the most handsome profile pictures she has seen for a while. He was polite, interested in her, asking about her likes and being prepared to make the suggestion of a date; of course it would be a ‘yes’ even though it was chat number one! Mary gathers her wits and tennis bag as she goes to the garage to set off for her ‘tennis date’ with Sue. The thought of a date, makes her heart flutter, telling herself not be like her teenage self, and to be true to her real age. Much has taken place since those years, life has been rough if not brittle but she is now a mature lady. She messages Sue to confirm they’re still meeting and telling her she is on her way. While driving across the city to the country tennis club Mary tunes into the local talk back radio. The topic, as most Saturdays of late, is the rising house prices that most places across the country are experiencing. The host is using the morning paper’s business section as the talking point and apparently is referring to a journalist write up on the Reserve Banks. As Mary catches up with the momentum of the topic, she hears the name ‘David’ being linked to the article, and processes bits of last night’s chat. There is a sense of a possibility that this ‘David’ must be her David to which she has another flutter, thinking, wait till I tell Sue my David must be the business journalist we both have many a time discussed, even going as far as rehearsing dating lines. She again, feels flustered but excited.

Her phone rings and a text message appears on the car screen, Sue is affirming their date and is on her way. Mary can’t wait, she puts her phone on speaker and calls Sue, hoping she will do the same and not ignore her call. ‘Hi Sue, I’ve got a surprise and it can’t wait, I have to tell you’ she says, with excitement and actually hears Sue pause while imaging her questioning facial look. ‘Yes, well tell me if you can’t wait another twenty minutes’. Mary speaks, ‘I’m going to have a date with that journalist David we have talked about. You know the one we sometimes act out as a date’. Sue’s response is rather deflating, ‘are you for real or kidding me? How would you have organised this, you don’t even know him and furthermore you would be too embarrassed to ask’. ‘No, I am certain it is him’, she says, ‘I’ll tell you more when we see each other. My conclusion is it must be him, I can’t wait to tell you. See you there’ as she prepares to hang up before Sue can think of her next interrogating question. ‘David the journalist, sheesh, I don’t belief it’! Sue is heard to say, as Mary hangs up. * * * * * The countryside tennis courts are a means for both middle aged ladies to get out of their respective homes. Both being local girls, they have always respected each other’s opinions on many matters, today will be no different as far as Sue is concerned. Both cars appear in the parking lot more or less together. Mary, gives herself a quick look in the mirror and sees Sue is already locking her car. Mary does likewise and signals the club house, where there is a weekend coffee cart nearby; her idea is they both get a coffee and listen to the story of her online date chat the other night. Mary nearly trips as she rushes, dropping her tennis bag. Sue, sees it, holds her hand over her mouth, noticing how Mary manages to keep herself upright. They meet, order their coffees and select a table in the sun and Mary, fully recovered, plunges into her Friday night date chat with David. Sue can’t do much more than listen with her mouth open as Mary reiterates the procedure of date line chatting, with this middle aged man called ‘David’. She then explains how while listening to the local Saturday talk back, she has come to the conclusion it must be the journalist man they have often spoken of and that there could be an actual date with him! * * * * * David finds himself turning into his brother’s property, acknowledging the country’s setting as being therapeutic. His brother Ian comes toward him as he gets out of his car, extends his hand to shake and welcome him. Inside the suggestion is they head on down to the local tennis club as soon as possible, for club day doubles. Ian, tells David, ‘Pam is already there because she is with the local club whereas I’m a casual, but I still like a bit of tennis, don’t you’? Before there is an answer Ian indicates they better leave now to get there for the fun of playing mixed doubles, as he escorts David out towards his car. David is relaxed and okay with a bit of tennis, which is a family game though Jean didn’t really take to it, she would come to watch and look after the children. At the club Pam is busy organising the mixed doubles, she counts those there and those coming to realise she is two ladies short to make it possible for all the men to have a game. She looks up to see the same two ladies she has seen and met before, playing to the side. She wonders if they’d be willing to try a bit of serious mixed doubles, and plucks up the courage to go and ask.  Mary and Sue stop playing as they see a lady getting closer.  ‘Hi, I am Pam, I think we have met before, you’re Mary but I’ve forgotten your name’, turning to Sue. Sue acknowledges Pam’s memory, states her name, remarking that the club seems busier than usual, is there a club meet? Sue is pleased for the opening, ‘Yes, and in fact we are short of two ladies to complete a club mixed double; I’ve come over to ask if you’d both like to fill in, so all the men get a game. We ladies need two more, because my husband is here with David, his brother, who came from the city for the day.  Sue, glances at Mary aware that the name ‘David’ is rather precious right now, to see Mary turn her head toward a group of men. ‘Yeah, why not’ Sue answers for them both.  Pam smiles, ‘Great, see you in front of the club within fifteen, thanks again, the men will be pleased each will get their game on such a nice day’. Mary and Sue, converse discussing the pros and cons of sparing with the mystery David. Considering she has three ‘David’s’ twirling around her thoughts, Mary is preoccupied evaluating which one she will ace! Sue interjects her thoughts saying, ‘40 love’, and lets out a girlish laugh, causing Mary to drop her racket as they near the club house. She returns a friendly wink, bends to pick it up just as a hand is bringing it up to her. As she straightens herself up within touching distance is a well-shaped middle aged man, causing a brief touch of skin, as he hands her the racket, saying, ‘The pleasure is mine, have fun playing this afternoon. See you both on court’. The afternoon truly is warm as tennis players run about the courts, playing pretty good tennis, with the odd shout; 15 love, out, 15 all, 30-15, 30 all, 30-40, deuce. As for the two city girls they have fared well against their male opponents, winning a few sets and matches. It is the last round, they approach court three, two men introduce themselves as Ian and David; Mary is obliged to acknowledge David (the one closest to her), because he earlier handed her, her racket. Mary becomes self-conscious, of holding eye contact maybe a bit too long, but it seemed like he locked her gaze and she couldn’t divert her eyes. Sunglasses come to the rescue as she adjusts them, he whispers ‘May the best team win’.  Sue and Mary serve first and from then on it is serious rallying as the men have the city girls more or less rushing from net to base line, to retrieve drop shots which nearly outwit them. Ian and David too, are given the run around, causing David to even outwit himself, as he works his backhand to their advantage. Coming to the net to shake hands all four are perspiring and breathing heavily.  Both teams have played good hard tennis but the men have to concede the city girls to be the winners. * * * * * Coming out from the ladies Mary and Sue are chatting, feeling pleased about themselves on winning their last game. The club has filled and it looks like a sea of white, as they scan for somewhere to sit. Then out of the blue, who comes to the rescue but David with a broad smile. He, shows them to their table along with Ian and Pam; ‘Drinks are on us’, he says, as he asks Mary what she’d like, 'beer or wine? Though you seem to be the lady who likes a wine, I need to ask so not to be accused of second guessing'. Pam, holds her wine and says ‘Cheers to the city girls for winning against the country boys, giving them a rally for their money’. Sue, holds hers and replies, ‘It was fun to crush them, the best team won’!  The chat centres on country lifestyle living as Mary tries various manoeuvres to work out which David she has warmed too. Conversation centres on him, telling them how he is adjusting to single living and his journalist vocation, (Mary breaths a nearly audible sigh of relief), as David continues to speak of his family, and the loss of Jean. Mary is now certain that this is the ‘David’ from last night dateline chat and the papers journalist but how does she ask him, is the question. Ian and Pam show surprise at David’s open chatting to the city girls, about his life, as he continues to say more, ‘Jean’s father apparently impregnated a young girl and was advised not to marry her. He moved to the North Island for work and a new life. The young mum and baby stayed south, finding support from family and friends. Sometime back Jean had decided to take a DNA test and that is when the possibility of a step sister came to light. She guessed they must be of a similar age and was in the process of further investigation, when the car accident happened’ adding ‘I do have the test results’. Realisation dawns upon Mary, that this must be the ‘David’ she chatted with last night and finds the inner will to openly ask him by coming straight out with her question; ‘David, are you the dateline David who I was chatting with last night’? David is clearly elated replying ‘Wow, are you the Mary’! Surprise is expressed by both at the coincidence of such a happening, as the others also express their wonderment and excitement.

Pam announces that they have decided to dine at the local country club, and for Mary and Sue to join them. Mary at this point is too interested in David and hesitates. Sue comes to her aid by saying ‘Nice, but they need to return home’. All five raise their glasses and drink; David is beaming, Mary is hooked while the other three look on knowing they are about to witness an off the court singles.

At this David stands, comes towards Mary, ‘Don’t worry about a date line chat, how about a real life chat, at the Waterfront Restaurant tomorrow for brunch’?  Mary blushes, looks at him and answers, ‘Yes’. David, speaks his thoughts aloud, ‘I can’t help but wonder how much like Jean you are’, as he lightly kisses both her cheeks. Now it is Mary’s turn to be true to her feelings; ‘Brunch with you will be lovely. Out there on the courts you played so much like my late Jim, that I had to remind myself he died five years ago. If life has surprises, family ties are the most likely places to find them – maybe you’re his unknown twin’. She smiles and gives him a light embrace, saying to him as well as to Ian and Pam, ‘Thanks for the lovely day at the country tennis club’. Sue stands, picks up their bags, and walks away while Mary turns to acknowledge David with an air kiss.

word count: 2845


My feet won’t fit into my shoes, maybe a villain came and shrunk them with a shrink ray while I was sleeping.

“Hurry up!” Mom says as she grabs her purse.  Mom takes my hands and sticks them into the sleeves of the jacket, she turns and twists me, and out of nowhere a hat lands on my head like a space ship. Whoosh. I spread my arms out and wobble like I’m in space.  “Put your shoes on, I’ve already asked twice!” It’s mom's angry voice.

 I try again. This time the feet fit, maybe the shoes got bigger like a balloon, but no one blowed in them.

 She puts her hand on my head and steers me out the door. The snowflakes are falling and I want to catch one with my tongue, but she is moving me towards the car. She opens the door, and I climb into my car seat. My car toys are all here. I have three Hot Wheels cars, two transformers, and a stuffed owl. The stuffed owl is the softest, but the cars are the fastest, they like to race each other. I am halfway into my car seat when she picks me up and puts my butt into the seat.  “I want to buckle,” I say, but she is already pressing the metal claws together. I like to do it myself, it’s like doing a puzzle, I can put so many pieces together easy, but she does the buckles and now I’m sad. I can feel the tears coming to my eyes.  “Not today baby, we are already ten minutes late.” She slams the door.   Now I can only see her back. She is driving. We’re going to story time and it always takes a long long time to get there. I pick up a red transformer, he transforms into a fire truck. Oh no! The evil owl is attacking him. He tries to fight back, but then the owl uses his super beak power, and the transformer is hurt. He calls his friend the blue transformer for help. The blue transformer transforms into a police car, he will arrest the owl and put him in jail. “I will get you, trouble maker!” The blue transformer yells. He goes in with the handcuffs. CRASH!  Someone pushes me so hard I almost fall out of my seat, but the buckles keep me in place, they are too tight and hurt the front of me. Everything is spinning. My blue transformer flies into my forehead. Where is mom? I don’t see her. Everything stops moving and I’m scared and all my body things hurt. I start crying. Mom? It takes a million seconds for her to open my door. The tears are burning my eyes and I reach for her. It isn’t mom. I cry much harder. It’s a man, a stranger, and he takes my buckles off. He takes me out. He is holding me, his beard is scratchy and he smells sour. I push away with all my might, but he must have super strength because he is still holding me. “MOM!!” I yell. I twist my neck to see. “MOM!”

The man walks away with me, then he turns so I can see the car. It’s the same color as ours but the shape is all wrong. The front is crumpled like when we do crafts, the car is made of metal, not paper, how did it crumble? “MOM!” I am crying so hard I might throw up. There are three people around the car, but not mom. Did the big push make her disappear? I need to find her, she’s the best at hugs and kisses and playing with me.

“It’s ok little man, your mama will be alright” The man’s voice is deep, I can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks. “You hear the sirens? They are coming to help. You’ll get to see a firetruck.” I look up from the crumbled car. The firetruck needs to hurry and find mom.

“It’s going to be alright” The strange man keeps repeating. We stand there and wait. I don’t have the energy to fight him anymore. My face is wetted from tears and the snot and the snow. I wipe it with my sleeve. I can see the fire truck and the police car now. The sirens are too loud, I don’t want to look, but if I don’t look I might miss it when they find mom. The firemen get out and they walk over to mom’s door. There is a saw, but I can’t tell what they are doing. I didn’t know firemen used saws. I hope they don’t cut mom. I’m very scared, not just pretend, like when we play at home and mom is a zombie.

I can’t tell if all this is real or pretend, cars aren’t supposed to bend like paper. The noise from the cutting is too much, I cover my ears. The man keeps saying something, I can feel it in his chest, but I can’t hear the words because of my hands. Another person comes. The man gives me away. I start crying again. This person is a woman but she isn’t mom either. “No need to fret buddy, what’s your name?” She asks Peter, but the words won’t come, only tears. I hit her with my fists, I can’t tell if she feels me hitting her at all. She puts me down in the back of a truck. Where will she take me? “I am going to check you out. Make sure you are ok. My name is Melissa, and my friends are working to get your mom out of the car. She is ok, just stuck in there. They have these cool tools to open up the door and let her out.” Melissa is touching me all over.

“Ouch,” I say when she gets to my forehead. “You got quite a shiner there. But no worries, I have a special bandaid just for you, do you like Paw Patrol?” I nod.

She puts the bandaid on, it feels big. “Want to see? I bet you’ve never had Marshall and Chase on your face before.” She smiles at me.

I nod again. She walks me over to the front of the truck. I wasn’t sure I could walk after the big push, but my feet still work. We get to the side mirrors and she picks me up. My face is all red and puffy, but there is a brand new bandaid on my forehead, it raises up a little where the booboo must be. I touch it. “Ouch!” “Yeah,” Melissa says. “It will hurt for a few days, but it can remind you of how brave you are.”

In my games brave doesn’t feel like this. Brave is saving mom, ripping the car apart, and not getting hurt at all. “Peter??” Someone screams. I don’t recognize the voice, it’s all high. I turn and see mom, she is on a bed with wheels, there is red on her skin and her clothes. Melissa puts me down, she grabs my hand and we run over to mom. I want to give mom a hug, but Melissa holds me back, I want to hit her again. Mom lifts her head. “Are you ok?” I have never seen mom cry before, not even when she cutted her finger when she was making soup that one time.

I want to hold on to her and not let go, but someone is wheeling her away. I want to run after her, but I’m not fast enough. All I see are people’s legs and the bed wheels being loaded into an ambulance. I can’t see mom anymore. I might explode. I pull after her, and Melissa picks me up again. I wish I was bigger and taller and stronger, I wish I could hug mom, I wish the car didn’t crumble, and mom wasn’t red. I let Melissa carry me into the ambulance. She puts me on a bench and ties belts around me. I can see mom, she is sleeping. I wish she would hurry up and wake up.


'Anything can happen now!' my aunt shouts on the phone, and her voice sounds hollow, distant. Well, she is distant from me. She lives far away, in the middle of the huge country. I don't know where she exactly lives, to say the truth, – we hardly met, maybe a couple of times at the family gatherings, in the deep past. Since recently she has kept calling me. She says she must take care of me. Even if from a distance. She and I are the only members of our extended family who remain alive. 'Anything can happen these days!' she keeps yelling at me. “Be more specific,” I ask. “This woman. She can be anyone... Anything!'' “Like who?” “A spy! An agent! She can use your kindness against you!” my aunt says. “Come on. You should have seen her. She's scared, that is all. She fled from the war, for God's sake.“ “It doesn't make her a good person by default.” “Nor makes her a spy.” “Be careful, kid,” my aunt sighs. “Do you know her full name at least?” The lady's name is L. Her kid is in a safe place now. She said she had placed the kid first (“ I know people, too, ” she said) and then traveled further. “I need to find the place where both of us will be happy and secure,” she explained to me. “I figured we were not happy nor secure where we lived before.” For that purpose, lady L. traveled through numerous countries before she got to where we, she, and I, met. She started her journey in a provincial town, it was at the beginning of the war. The lady L. used to own a small shop there. “What did you sell?” “Female stuff, mostly.” “Such as?” “Nail polish, wood polishers, bath polishers. Polishers, yeah, for different use. And, also, rags.” I met her at the grocery store. The lady L. was wandering in the canned food section, trying to figure out what was the difference between one type of canned tomatoes and the other. She struck me as a person with a very little life experience. I offered help. We ended up having a coffee together, which I also helped to choose. My aunt is the elder sister of my mom's and is the complete opposite of the latter. She never had a family or kids of her own, having devoted her whole self to work in the public sector. She built a community sports center in their town, almost literally with her own hands. My mom was proud of her elder sister. Mom used to say she'd go and visit her sister one day. And she never did. No wonder, though: my mother lived like a bird – no plans, no roots, no savings. She worked as a stewardess and then she was an operator in customer service. “When she talks to me, I hear my mother's voice, you know,” I say to lady L. on the next day after my aunt's call. Funny thing about parents – even if they are dead, they somehow have access to your mind, and even when they are dead, you think of them: they mean well. Lady L. and I are at some official place where they get the paperwork done. ''What does she say to you?” asks lady L., using her application form as a hand fan. “Who?” “This aunt of yours.” “Ah. Just usual things – that she misses me and stuff.” Lady L. smiles. “Do you have relatives?” I ask. “No, just my kid. All gone.” “Now, or...?” “Long-gone.” “Okay.” The lady L's face expression is null. Looking at her is like looking at a freshly linen bed sheet – neat, clean, monochrome. “How did you get here, again?” I ask. “I told you already.” “I know, I know. Just I was telling to someone and seemed like I missed a few details. Where did you after...?” She interrupts me: “I'd rather not go there again.” “Okay.” “Sorry. I really don't wanna talk about this.” “Sure. I understand.” Some people in line talk to each other, others remain silent. It's hard to say who's sadder - those that are quiet or those who chit-chat. The lady L. texts, I can't but look over her shoulder. “Just making sure, that they are waiting for me,” she says as if she noticed me peeping. “Who – they?” I ask. “People at my next stop.” “Where will it be?” “I haven't decided yet.” I nod. “You know any decent pedicurist?” the lady L. asks. “Sorry?” “Look at this shame!” she points at her toes – the polish is half ragged. “I can give you, you know, a nail polish remover.” “I am not some lout!” she exclaims. “I used to take care about myself, and I did it alright.” “You're next in line,” I say. “They are waiting for me,” the lady L. says. “Who?” “People that I know.” I dare to ask: “What's your plan, though?” She stares at me bluntly. “I want them red.” “Excuse me?” “Red toes. My turn! Counter number 27”. My mother had a period in her life when she became extremely suspicious. She thought, for instance, that my friends wanted to let me down. She would come up to me and say that I deserved better friends. She wanted to protect me and she never could. “That's all friends I've got, mom,” I, a teenager then, responded. “Better be alone than in a bad company.” “Define bad company,” I disputed. “People who pretend to be someone else,” mother fended. “I've learned human nature, believe me, kid. Flight attendants are the best psychologists ever.” You are not a flight attendant anymore , I wanted to say then. But I didn't. “They might also steal from you,” she added. I didn't know who my mother was at that point. It was a period in her life when she was getting ready for her final flight. She was preparing the ground for an easy take-off. And it didn't play out easy. I missed her dearly until I turned 20 and outgrew my pain. It seemed like I fell asleep, while lady L. was away at the counter. We don't talk much on our way back to the downtown. Lady L. is not such a pleasant lady, after all, and if I think about it, I don't even know her last name. “Let's meet for a drink in the evening,” she said when we were about to split our ways. “Like at 8?” “Are you sure you've got money for this?” I ask her. “I've got some support,” the lady L. responds. “The fact that I fled from the war, doesn't mean I am helpless.” “Why am I helping you then?” I ask. She shrugs. “This is absolutely your choice.” I didn't want to go. She was unpleasant. She was shut. She was ungrateful. Maybe my aunt was right, after all. I went only because my close friend, whom I supposed to meet with, canceled on me. Maybe my mom was right, too. “What about you?” the lady L. asks. “What about me?” “Why are you engaged in all this... activity?” “Activity?” “I mean, in all this helping,” she sips wine. “Good wine, by the way.” “Everyone is helping,” I said. “People are not generous, by nature.” “I believe, people are different.” She smirks. “Tell me about it,” she says. “I was just thinking... I don't trust people.” “Fair enough.” I, too, sip wine. It tastes horrible. “Where do you work?” she asks all of a sudden. “Who, me?” “You, who else?” “I used to work for one NGO and I was... They've let me go recently,” I say. “Where's your income coming from?” she insists. “I've got savings and I rent out a flat.” Lady L. laughs loudly. She is getting drunk so quickly that this is even scary. “Let's drink for a farewell!” she raises her glass. “What farewell?” “I am leaving tomorrow morning,” lady L. says casually. “What? How? Where?” “I told you repeatedly that people are waiting for me,” the lady L. sounds irritated. “Where?” “I will let you know when I am there.” “Did you get a ticket?” She nods. “Do you want me to take you to the airport?” I ask. “Oh no, no,” she says. “No. You've done enough. Enough.” I make a certain effort to take this “enough” in a good way. The same night I check the departure schedule. There is quite a few flights scheduled for tomorrow morning: Naples, Frankfurt, Tel Aviv, Doha, Seoul. She could go anywhere. My aunt calls me again. “What about your new acquaintance?” she asks. “How is she?” I respond after the pause: “She left. She can be in Doha, in Rome, in New York.” “People are unbelievable!” the auntie is almost shrieking with delight. “People are...” I interrupt her: “They really are.” Then I say: “You know, auntie, it won't hurt if I lay low for a little while.” “How is that? Are you in danger?” “I am most definitely not. But just in case. Don't call me until I call you.” Aunt mumbles something and then she says: “Is there anyone who can take care of you?” “Of course.” I look at the departure schedule one more time in the morning. And then again, for no reason, in a week. Lady L. didn't call me, of course. But she can be anywhere.


Zip Code 99999 belongs to a post office that most people don’t even know exists.

There is a seventh dimension quality to this place even Rod Serling wasn’t aware of, but it is real.

It is not the Dead Letter office or the final destination of letters sent by children to Santa Claus at Christmas time.

While it is not a vortex or some other alternate reality, the Post Office at the End of the World is exactly what it says it is and its chief purpose is to connect people who have long been disconnected for whatever reason.

Let me explain… Bullrush Island is barely a rock in the Atlantic Ocean claimed by the greater state of Maine off the coast of Bar Harbor.

While few tourists have ever heard of this place, the lobster fisherman have first hand knowledge of this rock sanctuary.

Upon this rock, they built a post office that is only accessible by boat and in that establishment, there is only one postman who wears the title of Post Master General.

Having served as a postman in Bangor for over a decade, I got a letter one day from the Federal Friendlies at USPS transferring me to Bull Rush Island. “Hey Nate.” I walked to his office after opening the letter, “Is this some kind of joke?” Nate Mueller was the postmaster at the office in Bangor where we considered our office as the last stop before St. Andrews, New Brunswick.

Nate was an overall good no nonsense manager who ran a tight ship as he called it, even if staff noticed a few leaks from time to time.

“Whacha got, Rick.” He took the notice from my hand. “Oh, you got the assignment on Bullrush Island.” “Yeah, so?”

“It’s known as the post office at the end of the world.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’s pretty easy duty out there.”

“Out where?” I shrugged. “Do ya know where Bahr Har-ber is?” He asked. “Yeah.” I nodded. “Well, it’s about thirty miles past there.” He pointed to the map pinned to his wall. “Ain’t nothing out there.” I shook my head. “Well it’s so small they don’t even bah-ther putin’ it on a map.” He put his hand to his chin. “Dee-lightful.” I whistled.

“They send a boat out twice a week and carry any mail in a small satchel.

You put anything headed for the mainland in that thing.” He smiled, but buried in that smile was sinister intent. “Good luck, Rick.”

Two weeks later I was standing at the Harbor Master’s office as a cold wind blew off the water.

Wearing a thick cardigan sweater and watch cap, I still shivered in the stiff ice cold breeze. I waited five minutes for the door to open. “Can I help ya?” A young lady asked, unwilling to fully open the door. She was buried beneath a heavy coat and a wool hat.

“I am here for a one way trip to Bullrush Island.” I held out my ticket. “Are ya sure?

I’m not even sure we got a boat headed out there.” She shivered.

“It’s Wednesday and according to the table posted on your door, you have a boat headed out to that island.” I pointed to the schedule tacked to the door. “Yeah, but the weather is a bit challenging.” She waved me inside.

Once she closed the door, I was embraced by the warmth of the Franklin stove in the middle of the small room.

In the next room there were two men sitting at the control panel with switches and levers.

One was peering through a pair of binoculars and holding a radio receiver in his other hand. “Roger, if you sail to the right of the buoys, you should be in good shape as you go through the channel.” He spoke into the receiver. “Roger that, sir.

We are going to spend a few hours setting lobster traps out near Peter’s Point.” “You are clear to do so.” He spoke before putting his receiver on the hook on the console.

“Morning, what can I do for ya, Stella?” The second harbor master asked when he saw her. “Gentleman needs a ride to Bullrush Island.” She pointed to me. “That so?

We got an ice storm headed this way.” He squinted at me, lifting one bushy eyebrow heavenward. “I am the new postmaster.” I said, glancing around the small room. From the wrap-around window, I could see gray clouds that seemed to absorb the colorless water.

“You are the postmaster at the post office out there?” He appeared as if he was going to burst out laughing, but he contained himself.

“We don’t get much traffic from out there.” The other man spoke, still peering through his binoculars. “Bring a good book, heh?” The first man laughed. “I got the Wave Goddess headed out there this morning around ten.” The man with the binoculars said from the side of his mouth. “That’s two hours.” I looked at my watch. “Couch in the other room.” The other man pointed. “Or go down to the Sandbar Cafe.”

“Stella, do you got some fresh coffee on?” Asked the man as he the binoculars on the console. “Yes, Barney.” She nodded. “Coulja get me a cup, please?” He implored. “Sure t’ing.” She smiled and left the room. “So, you’re goin’ to be the new postmaster out there on that rock?” Barney smiled as Stella returned with a steaming cup of coffee, “Thanks, doll.”

“Yeah.” I shook my head as the horizon completely disappeared.

“Good luck.” He shook his head as he sipped his coffee. “Whacha name, sport?”

“Richard Hollingsworth.” I answered.

“Well Richard, it gets pretty lonely out there.

The last guy nearly went nuts.” Barney nodded. “Nearly?” The other guy chuckled. “C’mon Mort, don’t freak Richard here out.” He smirked through his thick bushy mustache now wet with black coffee.

“Naw, he didn’t go nuts, but he did like to stroll around the island naked.” He chuckled as his gloved hand pulled one of the levers on the console. “Baker’s skiff is pulling out of the harbor.” “I see her.” Barney put the binoculars back to have a look.

I walked out of the room and sat near the stove.

Stella was reading a magazine, but would glance up at me as if she was afraid I’d do something odd.

When she glanced at me, I would render a smile to creep her out a bit. When I did, she would move her eyes back to the magazine.

“Fine weather we are having.” I got up the courage to speak.

“Bettah during torrist season.” She did not look up from the magazine. “So, what happened to the last postmaster?” I asked as I looked around the room.

“No one really knows.” She flipped a page. “But you have a pretty good idea.” I shook my head. “Folks say he took his rowboat out last week.” She flipped another page, “Coast Guard found the boat, but he wasn’t in it.”

“So he went over the side?” I asked, but she just shrugged and flipped yet another page.

“No tellin.’”

“I’m Derrick Olsen, captain of the Wave Goddess.” He held out his

hand and I shook his bear paw.

Olsen was a burly man in his early forties with blonde bristle facial hair, so light it was nearly invisible.

He wore a wool turtleneck shirt and a peacoat with a thick wool watch cap.

He had three deckhands all dressed in similar fashion, “Are ya sure ya wan’s to go out today?” I showed him my dispatch. He lit his pipe as he read the paper I handed him. “Postmaster, heh?” Derrick scratched the nape of his neck. “I don’t envy ya in the least. Place is pretty secluded out there, mate.”

“Neither do I.” I tried to smile, but failed miserably.

“Hey cap’n, are we goin’ to Bullrush Island?” One of the deckhands asked. “Yup.” He shook his head. “Are ya sure cap?” The other deckhand had an inquisitive expression on his face, “Coast Guard is talking about a Nor'easter blowing in.”

“Eddie, we’ve had worse.” Derrick slapped him on the shoulder with a hard whack. Eddie just nodded and began setting the lobster pots.

Ice began falling from

the sky as the Wave Goddess pulled away from the moorings. Before leaving Bar Harbor, the waves began to get choppy and my stomach began to talk back to me.

“If’n ya gonna puke, make sure ya do it over the side.” Eddie advised me. I must have turned a pale shade of green as we pulled away from the main part of the harbor.

Why anyone decided to put a post office on Bullrush Island, I will never know.

As the thirty foot schooner was buffeted and bounced on the swells, I emptied everything I had in my stomach into the brine.

“Can get pretty rough there, mate.” Derrick said to me from his wheelhouse as I bent over the side. The freezing rain fell sideways coating the deck with a slick surface that was impossible to walk on.

In between retching fits, I was able to look up and see the horizonless seascape ahead of us.

Derrick had the binoculars to his face as he kept his free hand on the wheel.

He pointed to an empty patch dead ahead. “Be damned if I can see it.”

I knew he was talking about the destination, but I was too busy with my own problems.

The pitch and roll was both internal and external. “Got it.” I heard Derrick as he pointed. My eyes looked where he was pointing, but all I saw was the dull gray gunmetal sky dead ahead.

In a few minutes, I saw shapes and then it came into view.

It was a single cinder block structure that rose out of the jagged rocks. A dock jutted out to embrace us.

With his experience and seaman skills, Derrick was able to guide his boat to the dock.

His two deckhands leaped onto the dock once we were close enough.

They were able to tie the moorings to the dock.

The boat continued to bob and weave even after the boat was tied to the dock. Eating a pear, Derrick took his knife and cut off a chunk.

He put it into his mouth and pointed, “There ya be, mate.”

“What?” I managed to say wiping my mouth with my shirt sleeve.

“We have arrived.” He spit out some of the fruit as he spoke. “I can’t-”

“Ya gotta.” He shook his head. “We are still moving.” I gasped. “Barney and Beau.” He called to the two deckhands.

As if on cue, each of them grabbed one of my arms and hoisted me to the dock. “Ya new home.”

“Much obliged.” I belched.

“Don’t mention it.” He waved to his deckhands to come aboard.

Barney and Beau both jumped up on deck leaving me kneeling on the dock as the waves shoshed on through the gaps in planks of the dock.

“Don’t stay there too long or you’ll wind up like your predecessor.” The motor of the Wave Goddess sounded like a low rumble.

Bubbles emerged from the motor as the boat slipped into the grayness and disappeared.

Bullrush Island was no bigger than a football field with a bulky building occupying the middle part of the island.

The rocks that made up the small landfall were jagged, but a path had been cut into the rocks that provided a smooth walkway to the front door.

Once inside, I saw a calamity left to me by the former postmaster before his disappearance.

He had been nice enough to leave a few chords of wood near the fireplace.

After a few minutes, I had a blazing fire going as the place began to warm. The building had two rooms, one room was where the mail was supposed to be sorted and the other room was made to be living quarters with a bed and stove.

Nothing fancy, but the pantry seemed to be well stocked with non-perishable ready to eat dehydrated food.

There was a sink and a hand pump. There were matches in the pantry in which I could light the four lanterns that hung in various places from the rafters. If nothing else the place was cozy once the fire had warmed the confined living area.

Taking one of the lanterns from the ceiling, I wandered into the mailroom where envelopes lay strewn all about.

It appeared as if my predecessor had flung them to the floor in a fit of rage.

The nameplate on the desk read “Neville Harper.” I took this to be the name of my predecessor. “So why on earth did you go mad?” I asked as if he could answer my question.

I am aware that isolation can drive a sane man to the brink, but I had craved seclusion and now I had been granted this accommodation at this post office at the end of the world.

Apparently, Neville was not of that ilk.

There are those who need socialization and conversation, but I do not require such things. I am the new Robinson Crusoe.

Mine will be the only footprints in the sand at the shore.

If there is a shore.

Somewhere in the mess of the post office there is an order that I know nothing about.

Who are these people whose names adorn the scattered envelopes?

What are they doing here?

Who brought them in the first place? So many questions.

Who shall I ask?

I find a radio among the ruins.

Good, but it doesn’t seem to work.

Damn.

What was that noise? I heard something creak in the floorboards.

Could it be a rat, a vermin?

I shall set traps in the morning. I cannot allow them to take over.

I am in charge.

I have a dispatch attesting to that.

The wind outside howls, I can hear a faint echo, “Welcome Richard to the post office at the end of the world.”

When you look out the window, you can see it, the end of the world.

Ancient mariners would speak of the end of the world where ships would navigate right over the edge or be eaten by sea monsters that lurk in the colorless waves.

I walk out to the dock.

I can hear them.

I can hear them as they slither between the waves.

What happened to you, Neville Harper? Did you venture out too far? Is that what happened?

Damn it, the fire went out while I was at the dock.

The building is as cold as a tomb.

Cold as a tomb. I shall have to start from scratch. It is cold.

Very cold.

Why would they put a post office out here?

Was it to drive a person crazy?

Is that it? Well, I will not succumb to this madness. No, I will surely rise above it.

Surely.


'No matter who it belongs to, standing in front of a grave is a strange feeling. I don’t dislike it… but I cannot say I like it either. It’s cold, but it’s also real. It’s the only reality I am sure of. It will catch up to me as it caught on to this one here. ' Monologuing to himself, James placed a bouquet of white flowers in front of a tree. 'There once used to be a rock slate here, but with time, the name on it has withered away and maybe, the soul too. ' Roughly thirty years ago “Oh no I fell asleep!” James got up, panting. Mom will kill me! She WILL kill me!

was all he could think of. Fumbling, he got up and picked up his school bag. He had fallen asleep on the warm grass of the temple garden. “It hasn’t been that long, kid. And you better wipe the drool off your face.” A hoarse voice startled him.

He spun around to see an old man sitting on one of the two benches behind him. He had crazy white hair which looked like it was full of static. His hooded eyes looked almost closed and he was wearing a tired smile on his wrinkled face. The man was holding a bouquet of white flowers.

James, who had grown red with embarrassment, ran away without a second look. He was almost home when he stopped running. A distressing thought entered his mind. The old man had found his secret place, so it no longer belonged to only him. What if that old man starts coming every day?

James decided to settle it out with the old man the next day, in case the old man dared to show up.

The next day after school, James ran to the temple at full speed. He stopped in front of the benches, panting. The old man was not there. “Thank God!” He puffed and fell on the bench. After a few moments of silence, he heard a somewhat familiar, hoarse voice. “Sleeping again?” The old man chuckled. He was standing behind the bench. Startled, James jumped up and blurted out the speech he had been preparing in his head since yesterday, “T-this is my place s-so you please find your own.” sensing that maybe he sounded rude, he added a “- Sir” at the end. “Oh I see, so this is your place now?” smiling, the man went around the benches and sat on the other one. “Don’t worry, I’ll go. Will you let me tell you a story before that? I want to talk but there’s no one else around.” he patted the bench. Hesitantly, James dragged his feet and sat at the corner of the bench. “A long time ago this was my place. I went to a school there-” The old man pointed somewhere randomly “- and I would come here every afternoon to play with Kiko.” “What‟s that?” After knowing that the old man owned the spot before him, James felt intrigued to know his story. “Kiko was a fine lady. The prettiest feline I had ever seen, and no matter how hard I tried, she wouldn’t play with me. She would always give me the cold shoulder and climb up that tree-“ again he pointed, this time more accurately, to a big tree in front of them. “That tree is way too big for a cat to climb. Are you sure you are not lying?” James questioned. The old man burst out laughing. “I swear I am telling the truth. That tree has actually grown quite a bit since the last time I was here. In fact, this whole place is so different. The temple was smaller, the trees were younger, and there was a little stream on the other side of the forest which has now dried up. Also, there was no clear path to this place like there is now. This was a real secret place; my secret place.” James’ eyes were ready to pop out as he tried to imagine the scene that the old man had painted for him. “Was it really that amazing?!” James squealed in delight. “Yes. It was like a page out of a fairy tale. And it was all mine and Kiko’s.” James had totally forgotten about the cat till the old man mentioned it again. “You see Kiko did not belong to this place. She suddenly appeared out of nowhere one afternoon and I fell in love with her. But her lack of interest in me broke my heart. Still I decided that I would win her over.” “But it‟s just a cat!” exclaimed James. “She-“the old man smiled softly, “-was so much more than a cat. She was my friend.” James didn’t say anything and continued to listen quietly.

“I started getting food for her, every day. She ate it and then went back to ignoring me. After a few days, I started luring her in. I would hold on to the food till she would come to me and then pat her on her head before handing out the food. It took her a month to trust me. After that, the days went by like in a dream. Every day was fun. Going to school, playing with Kiko and lazing around at home for the rest of the evening.” “That sounds sooo boring. I do the same thing every day! Without Kiko of course. I wish I could just grow up and own a car and see the whole world and not study.” James’ eyes sparkled. “I felt like that too at some point. But now… I just wish those days would come back. Just once more, I wish I could go back, meet Kiko…” the old man’s voice suddenly grew heavy and his eyes welled up. James sensed the emotion but did not understand what happened. “Uncle?” “Ah sorry” the old man wiped his eyes and got up from the bench. “Are you leaving?” James asked. “Well, this is no longer my place. It belongs to you now. Treasure this time. One day you would long to come back but will be stuck in the real boring life.” With that, the old man walked away silently and waved one last time before disappearing around a corner. James sat still for some time and then walked over to the big tree that the old man has pointed to before. Behind it, he saw the bouquet of flowers that the man was holding yesterday and a small rock slate with something written on it in a jagged handwriting. He bent down and read it, “In the loving memory of my Kiko”. “KIKO?!” James exclaimed when he realised that he was standing in front of the cat‟s grave. He dashed back to where the old man had disappeared, but could not find him. James waited for the old man to come back someday, but he never did. In his place, James offered flowers to Kiko’s grave on that same day every year till he graduated and moved out of town. Roughly thirty years later A grown up James now stood where he once used to play as a child. 'Life kept getting busy and with each passing day I kept losing myself.' James thought to himself. ' Every day was full of work and people. I finally understand what the old man had said. I too felt a strong urge to return to that time. So strong, that now I am here, recalling his words.' 'Those were the most carefree days of my life. Taking a slight detour from school to home was only natural. I could wander just because I felt like it, or sit and stare at the sky. Not every thing that I did had to have a meaning. I was at peace with my existence-' A ball came flying at his feet and James returned it to the playing kids. He looked around himself. The temple was now just a dilapidated hut. The trees had been cut off and the garden had been turned into a crowded playground. Thankfully, Kiko’s tree still remained… but who knows for how long. James walked away silently and before disappearing around the corner.


A bald eagle soars above the sky, looking down at the land below. It sees mountains, green in the summertime, now covered with snow, sloping down to meet a little town at its base. The sun begins to peak above the top of the mountains, chasing away the dark and replacing it with a soft orange glow. In the town, smoke rises up from the chimneys as the first day of December began. This was Revelstoke, British Columbia. A signboard on the way into town reads that the population was 7000 and some residents. Of course, this doesn’t account for the large number of tourists who normally pour in during the winter to enjoy the ski season. However, this year had been slightly different from most. For 9 months, people had been imprisoned in their own homes, afraid to go outside for the fear of an unknown enemy. This didn’t apply just to Revelstoke but was the case across the globe. There was a deadly virus looming in the air, infecting the lungs of its victims and taking many a life. But today, the first day of December, felt like the first day of spring. A vaccine had been introduced throughout the country a week back and life was slowly but surely returning to some sort of normalcy. The snow blanketed the ground and bright lights emanated from charming antiquated houses. The carolers started going from door to door singing their merry tunes and were given warm welcomes by the families who opened their doors to them, letting their hallways be filled with the sweet sound of music. The kids were playing outside, building snow angels and snowmen. The eggnog flowed along with glasses of mulled wine, reserved mostly for adults with a sip or two for the kids of course. Things were looking up for business owners too as customers bustled from one store to another, buying one thing they needed and then realizing they had forgotten another. Those in the food sector were doing especially well. Most of the shops in town were located on Mackenzie Avenue which ended in a cul-de-sac. There were three buildings on this cul-de-sac. The first being a rustic two-story building, the top floor was an apartment and the bottom housed a bakery called “Paradise sweets and treats”. Right across from “Paradise” was another bakery which was newly constructed. It had a fresh coating of baby-blue paint and a bright neon sign which glared “Cookie-Mania”. The sign could be seen from afar.

The proprietors of the bakeries had names exotic to the region. “Paradise” was owned by Nabi Hasan, a 23-year-old who had inherited the shop from his parents and “Cookie-mania” was the brainchild of 22-year-old Maha Noor. On Christmas Eve there was always a little festival at the town hall. For 5 years, Maha and Nabi had set up stalls at the festival and competed to sell the most baked goods. They would meet briefly the following morning at the local café where they would tally the sales to see who had made the most money. After computing the winner, they would shake hands and be on their way. The winner would keep a sober face until out of sight, upon which their facial expression would erupt from the glee they’d been containing. The roots of their competitive relationship went back to their childhood. They had gone to the same middle and high school. During class, they would always be vying for the teacher’s attention and trying to answer the question before the other. When they would play sports, the coach would never let the two of them be captains at the same time because an all out war would erupt on the field if she did.

You would think as the years went by they would have started to act more maturely. Perhaps under normal circumstances they would have but…  Nabi’s parents who had French and Algerian roots had migrated to Vancouver in the 80’s and eventually moved north to Revelstoke in the 90’s, after getting sick of the noise and bustle of the city. They were both adept bakers and being entrepreneurial, set up the first bakery in Revelstoke which only had a population of 200 people at the time.

They had done fairly well. In the winter of 2016, they rewarded themselves for their hard work by going on a skiing trip. On the way back, they had been driving down Highway 1. The visibility was poor and the roads were icy. Nabi’s dad was driving slow, however, the wheels went over a frozen patch and the car skidded. Its trajectory put it in the path of a big rig trailer which screeched to a halt. But, not before the car went under its wheels. Nabi had not been in the car, he had been at home, eagerly waiting for them. After the cops gave him the news, 17 year old  Nabi now had to fend for himself. He finished high school and started running the bakery full time. At the funeral amongst the numerous attendees was Maha, who for the first time showed some sort of warmth towards Nabi. A few days later she offered to work part time for him while was attending the local college to study business administration. He took her up on her offer. She was a quick learner, both at college and at the bakery where she had soon learned all of Nabi’s family recipes. After the accident, Nabi channeled his grief into the business. He slowly came to terms with what had happened. Six months later, he opened up the shop at 9:00 as usual. Maha came in 5 minutes later to start her shift and placed a letter beside the cash till. “What’s this?” Nabi asked. “Read it please”, she replied. It was her two weeks notice and she also wrote that she would be opening up her own bakery. She purposely avoided eye contact. Nabi asked curtly, “So is that why you wanted to work here? To learn all my recipes and then run off and start your own place?” “No, it’s not like that…” , she answered. As said, she left after two weeks and soon after opened up her shop. She rented the empty store right across the road. Combining her business education with her baking skills, she was soon poaching a large volume of traffic from her mentor. Nabi didn’t want to go into her shop himself so he paid some kids to go in there, buy some of her goods and bring them back to him. Through the espionage he found out that in addition to new recipes, she

was selling his family recipes, albeit with slight twists. The items’ names were different and maybe there was an extra ingredient or two added but they were essentially the same things he had taught her. “I should have seen this coming”, he thought, “She thinks she can steal my customers with my recipes. She has another thing coming.” He renovated his place, polishing the old wooden floors, putting in new lighting and giving the exterior a fresh slab of paint. The shop kept its rustic look and the upgrades made it look even classier. That wasn’t enough though, so Nabi also learned new recipes through baking books and online. They divided the town’s population between them. The older residents were pure loyalists to Nabi, since they had been going to his shop since his parents’ time. However, the younger lot tended to prefer Maha’s bakery because of its cool and modern vibe to it. There were also some who had no problem going to either shop. Interestingly, both the aforementioned individuals had a mutual friend from their schooling days. Her name was Sarah. A good looking girl, of medium height and skinny build, she was the 4thgeneration to be born in Revelstoke. She was a free-spirit, not wanting to be tied down to one job or one person for too long. She too had entrepreneurial blood coursing through her veins. Cannabis had been legalized in the province the previous year. Being a recreational user and enthusiast herself, she decided to open her own dispensary. The location she chose for her dispensary was the third building on the cul-de-sac. Just as Sarah was sandwiched friendship-wise between Maha and Nabi, her shop lay front and center of her friends’ bakeries. The location was no mistake; she had chosen it strategically. After buying weed from her shop her customers would immediately head to one of the bakeries to buy baked goods and satisfy their munchies. It was a sort of a win-win for all of them. She opened her shop in January that year and got a friendly response from the town’s over 18 population.

Just 2 months in, the pandemic hit. People, had to look after their finances more frugally, some, including the stoners, had to get second jobs. Sarah still got business, even turning a profit but couldn’t help but notice that people were still rushing to the bakeries. Perhaps because sugar is the only addiction which doesn’t come with warning labels attached to it.

In addition to her slight envy, Sarah was tired of the ongoing feud between her two best friends. It was exhausting juggling her schedule between the two of them. She thought she had a way to kill two birds with one stone. She called Nabi and Maha up asking each of them to meet her the next day at the local café, “Les Trois Mousquetaires”. Sarah didn’t tell either, that the other would be there.

The next day, the 10thof December, at exactly 5 minutes to noon Nabi and Maha both stepped out of their respective shops’ front doors. They glanced at each other with a hint of surprise and then looked away. They proceeded walking down the opposite sidewalks. Each wondered why the other was going in the same direction. They both matched each others’ pace, looking at each other now, speeding up till they were jogging. They reached the front door of the café a split second apart. Nabi was slightly wound up from the exercise, Maha was fine. “What are you doing here?”, they both asked at once. “Sarah…” uttered from their mouths. They walked through the door and Sarah was there. She rose to greet them. “Hey guys…ya both reached at the same time huh”, she said chuckling nervously. “What’s going on Sarah?” Maha asked. Sarah gestured for both of them to take a seat. Then she spoke, “I’ve had a bit of a slow year guys and cash is a bit tight. So, I’m setting up a stall at the festival. What I want is for the two of you to set up a joint stall this year instead of competing with each other.” Nabi looked at Maha, analyzing how she had taken the news. She looked indiffernt. Turning to Sarah he said,” I would do just about anything for you Sarah but there’s no way I’m working with

her

after what she did to me” and nodded in Maha’s direction. Sarah replied, “I know you two have bad blood between you but please, please put aside your differences. Just this one time, for my sake pleeeease.” "Fine, I guess" muttered Nabi and "Sure, for you Sarah" said Maha. They had two weeks which was ample time to prepare everything for the festival. The three of them carried on with business as usual. The bakers bought the ingredients they would need and stored them to be used on the day of the event. Sarah stockpiled some merchandise and got a stand to sell it. On the 23rd, Nabi’s day was going about as usual. There had been a lot of rush since the morning. It was noon and he had just sat down in the back room. He had made a generous portion of scrambled eggs to have with a rich, buttery croissant and a piece of baklava loaded with honey, cashews and pomegranate for dessert. Just as soon as he sat down, the bell on the front door chimed. He got up and his countenance took on an expression of surprise.

There was Maha standing with an awkward smile across her face. Despite their rivalry, Nabi couldn’t deny that she was a very attractive individual. Her thick, jet-black hair was pulled back neatly highlighting her symmetrical features. She must have come from working out, because her smooth olive skin was radiant from the exercise. She had a chiseled physique forged from hard work and her athletic hobbies. Her hands were outstretched holding a box. Nabi walked up to her, taking it from her and opening it. Inside was an assortment of colorful pastries.

He ushered her to the back and asked her to sit while he brought out an extra plate, together they sat and shared each others’ culinary delicacies. It was a sensual experience for the palate and their appetites were satiated by the last bite. After clearing the dishes, Nabi sat down and pulled out a pack of hand-rolled cigarettes. He offered one to Maha, she accepted and he lit it for her gently. He then sat down and lit his own. The hazy light-grey smoke dissipated from their mouths, slowly trickling out an open window. They smoked in silence for a minute. Looking around Maha said, “I like the changes you’ve made, its still old-fashioned but with the new register and computer it looks closer to this century.” “Thanks I guess”, he replied with a smirk.  She continued, “I owe you a long overdue apology Nabi. What I did to you, wasn’t right. There are no excuses for what I did. I just hope you can forgive me.” He took a drag and exhaled before replying “Ok, I don’t want any grudges going into the new year. Let bygones by bygones, you know? “Thank you“, she said with a sense of relief emanating from her . She got up to leave and they walked to the front door. Nabi: “I’ll come check out your place tomorrow evening and we can pile up the things to take to the party in Sarah’s car. Maybe even take her along with us.” Maha: “Absolutely!”.

She had taken a step towards the door when she turned around abruptly and hugged Nabi. Before he could say anything she had left. He stood there for a moment, feet glued to the ground while the endorphins from the cigarette and the touch of a beautiful woman rushed through his body. The next day when Sarah walked through the front door of Maha’s shop, she was shocked to see Nabi there. He was smiling; complimenting the layout, the cool artwork and the funky furniture. “What’s this going on?” Sarah said jovially. “Just a Christmas miracle which you made happen babe”, Maha giggled. They took out the goods to the car in batches. When they stepped out, it had been dark for a while. The sky was clear and the natural light from the stars and moon mixed with the artificial light made by electricity, illuminated the street for them. The air held promise of being a great night. They made their way to the town hall and set everything up. Slowly but surely people started pouring. By 8:00, the party was in full swing. Kids were running around, the air full of mirth and music. Sarah was selling her “intoxicating edibles” to the adults, while hordes flocked to Maha and Nabi’s stall. They had christened their joint venture with the name “Heavenly Bliss” which fit the moment perfectly. They made good money. Enough to bolster Sarah’s financial spirits, a good year-end bonus for the bakers and the three set aside some to give to charity. They closed down their stalls a bit early to unwind, eat, drink and relax. They were sitting and enjoying each others company when the music suddenly stopped. Then the words echoed from the large cabinet speakers, “Last Christmas I gave you ma heart, but the very next day…”. Nabi looked up at Maha, who was acting aloof but he knew she wanted to dance. So he took her hand and gestured to the floor. Her hazel eyes twinkled at him as she got up. Giving Sarah a grin, they made their way to the floor. They danced slowly, holding each other tight. Their faces close to each other, like swans touching heads.

They decided to crash at Sarah’s place. In the corner, near the fireplace, there was a small but well decorated fir tree under which there were three gifts. “What’s this?”, Nabi asked. Sarah replied, “Just a little something something for my friends and something nice for me too haha.” They had some hot chocolate and crashed, exhausted after the long but unforgettable day.

The next morning Nabi and Maha awoke to a buttery aroma. They exited their rooms and made their way downstairs to see Sarah making fresh-hot pancakes. They heaped on pure Canadian maple syrup and devoured them all. Sarah headed to the door, saying she had to run some errands and would be back soon. “Don’t mind, I already opened my gift, it was just perfume”, Sarah said while exiting the door, winking at Nabi. Nabi and Maha sat down on the couch to open their gifts.

“You go first”, Maha said. “Ok”, said Nabi, secretly happy that she had said so. He opened the wrapping to find a festive green and red sweater which he slipped on. “Nice, now your turn”, he said. She unwrapped her gift to find a box, inside which was a ring. “Why would Sarah give me a ring? Maha pondered out loud. She then looked at Nabi who was kneeling on the rug for some reason. “What are you doing?” She asked, smiling. “Maha”, he replied, “Will you marry me?”. C. 2020 Nabi Hasan Akhtar


This bar is seedy and disgusting. Not the kind of place I like to frequent. But I needed somewhere off the radar. A place where no one pays attention to you or remembers a face or name. Even the bar's name, ‘Hot Bird’, bespoke the kind of venue it was. I had sussed out the joint earlier and knew it was perfect for what I needed tonight. I am a closet artisan so one of the things I love the most about my job is the opportunity to transform my appearance. My current persona calls for a chic peroxide blonde bob, green contacts, long false eyelashes, thigh-high suede stiletto boots, and a tight-fitting little black dress. A Triple Boost Ultimate Cleavage bra that promises to increase the bust by up to three cup sizes and my Giorgio Armani Beauty Rouge lipstick complete the outfit. I arrive a few minutes after midnight. Strategically late for my sordid tryst. I always love to keep them waiting, it makes my arrival so much more theatrical. Especially in this case when I can see John at the far corner table. He already has five empty glasses in front of him and one on the go. I strut over to him, and his eyes nearly pop out of his head, ogling me as if I’m dinner. Think he might even be drooling. Looks like I chose the right outfit for tonight’s assignment. He sways as he tries to stand, I make it easier for him and lean inwards. He slurs loudly in my ear. “Candy Cane.” I nod and slide into the booth with him. He places his large, hairy hand on my thigh and attempts to kiss me. Pushing him away and batting my eyelids like an insipid barbie doll, I giggle. “You need to buy me a drink first darling, I’ll have a Long Island Iced Tea, actually make that two,” I simper at him, winking suggestively. He makes his way clumsily towards the bar. As soon as he’s out of sight, I locate the tiny vial in my purse. Getting the minute dropper out I do a quick scan to make sure no one is around. One drop is all I need, any more than that could kill him.

By the time he returns I’m ready. “Babe let’s take our drinks outside to the courtyard. It's private out there and I want you all to myself,” I purred, licking my lips suggestively. Outside it’s spookily quiet, there’s not a soul in sight. I lead John over to the softly lit couch where plush cushions are scattered haphazardly. Placing my drinks on the small glass table I sit gingerly in the far corner. I try not to think of what some of the stains might be from. John sits near me, and his stale breath nearly makes me gag. I place one hand on his thigh as I reach for his drink. “Here babe, drink this first, then we can get to business.” I start to inch my hand higher up his pants winking and licking my lips. I watch as he gulps his drink down with gusto, his eyes slit and hooded with lust. Two minutes later John slumps on my shoulder. He’s out cold. I tap my watch to send the message. Placing his head strategically in my cleavage and his arms around me I wait for the reporter. He’s here now, snapping the incriminating shots. Photos complete, he leaves as quickly as he arrived. Grabbing an antiseptic wipe out of my purse, I clean any surface I’ve touched. I use a special spray that destroys DNA in any place I’ve touched John. I take his glass with me, that way there’s no way anyone can find remnants of the drug I used. Wrapping it in the antiseptic wipe I place it delicately into my purse. Draping John over the cushions on the couch makes it look like he's having a nice snooze. This drug is amazing, he should wake up in about 2 hours with a headache and no idea what’s happened to him. Leaving quietly through the side entrance that the reporter used earlier, I check if no one's around. Darting across the road, I duck through a dusky alley and jump into my silver Sports Subaru. As I speed home, music blaring, the adrenaline pumps through my veins. What a buzz. This is the part I love the most about my job. Tomorrow Senator John Spilling will be splashed all over the New York Times. His political career will be shredded and his marriage in tatters. His sweet, naive wife will not put up with his public indiscretion. Part of my background research was on Lady Penelope Spilling. She might project a cool, refined manor in public, but behind that smile is a possessive, jealous streak. All of it lies, Senator Spilling is truly evil. He has side deals going with the Mob that has our streets laced with drugs. So many young people have lost their lives due to the abundance of Ice and Speed available to them. Senator Spilling has been using drugs as a platform for his political campaign. Waffling on about how he was going to rid our streets of the drug barons, runners, and dealers. Meanwhile, he was in cahoots with the biggest and most dangerous organization in the city of New York. Letting them run their business without any interference from law enforcement officers. And for this, he was getting large donations to his political election campaign fund. This ‘black money’ is tax-free and a way for the Mob to money launder. Win-win for them and the corrupt and disgusting Senator. Obviously, I was not the high-class tart he thought he was meeting tonight. One should never underestimate a pretty face. I was now $10,000 richer, thank you very much indeed. But I didn’t do it for the money. My social conscience stems from being raised by a single mother. My dad left when I was about five, I don’t remember much about him, except him being an angry, abusive drunk. We lived on the poorer side of town, in a housing estate. Growing up I lost many a friend to drug overdoses or prostitution. I saw young guys shot for getting on the wrong side of drug dealers or barons. And witnessed many homeless people spending the night in sleeping bags in Time Square; having to rely on the kindness of strangers to donate clothing, bedding, food, or money to help them survive. The world was a rotten place at times, and I had seen far too much of it. I decided to join the Police Force hoping I could make a difference. During my second year of working for the NYPD, I was offered this job. It required six months of specialist training and was a top-secret division. The pre-requisites were a high IQ, a high level of fitness, and dare I say it, hotness. Luckily for me, I ticked the boxes on all three. Now I’m helping rid New York City of some of the most corrupt and evil men. So far, I’ve taken four down, well five, if you count John. This is only my first year on the job. A lot of research is required for each target. Working out their weaknesses, and the kind of lady that would attract them to stray. Each time I take a target down I receive a bonus payment, on top of my normal salary. The extra money I make is donated to homeless shelters and residential inpatient treatment centers. It’s not much, but I like to think it might make a difference.

Time to start research for target number six. Opening the dossier, a prominent movie star stared back at me. Captured in a photo with his gorgeous model wife, and two young children.

This could be interesting…