I’ve been in this cage for 30 days. Or so the strokes on the wall tell me. 30 days of the same dim light. Enough to see by. Enough to cast the same dingy pallor to me, the palette on the floor, the bucket, the stained white walls. I try not to think too hard about the varied streaks and stains, a faded iron red, a deep gouge, a jagged slice. I note but do not delve. I categorize and catalog. The wall, the floor, the ceiling. The window, too high to see out except the thin rectangle of light tucked up away from me. A tease at a life and world outside, beyond, out of my reach. Sometimes sunlight will trickle in to reach the top of the opposite wall. I spent one afternoon balanced on the palate, the overturned latrine bucket, reaching up, fingers outstretched, just trying to touch that brief hint of sunlight. Trying to let some of its golden glow touch me and infuse me with the same lightness, the warmth of touch, like you could almost pretend a hand was caressing you. I couldn’t reach. I fell and slammed against the wall, then smacked into the floor, now covered with my own stinking refuse.

This is my life. These are my companions. I count, I breathe, I close my eyes and try to imagine myself somewhere, anywhere else. But when my eyes open, they always come back to this same wall, the same streaks and patterns revisited hundreds of times. Always the same. Yet today, something feels different. When I stare at the wall, at the gouge that runs like a child’s idea of a lightning bolt, two feet from the floor, I see a faint glimmer. I blink my eyes, push at them, but the glimmer stays, intensifies.

This is no good. I look around me. Alone as always, drab, gray, washed out.

I close my eyes and turn away and sleep takes me. When I wake again, my gaze rushes unconsciously back to the wall. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding into one another. The glimmer, a faint luminous iridescence, ripples, trembling down the wall. My breath pushes out in a long frustrated sigh and I turn away once more. She said this would happen. The walls of my mind would begin to bend, to find new doorways, new escapes I didn’t know were possible. I said, “No. Not me.” I would remain firmly grounded. Here. Present.

And yet here we are. I resist. Three more cycles — light, dark, awake, not — before I push myself up to standing. The stone feels cold against my bare feet, slick almost. I cross the room until I stand before the ripple.

It’s as I left it. As though a soap bubble has encased the small crack in the wall. I breathe out and then lift my fingertips. I stretch them out and gingerly tap the surface. A tingle shoots up my arm and I pull back, hissing at the warmth. I cradle my hand in the other and avert my gaze, scared of what I might see. I half expect it to be scorched or blackened, transformed by some nightmarish contortion. I flex my fingers twice and then force myself to look down.

They’re still just fingers, same as before. I lift my eyes and hand once more, frowning at the mortar. There’s something about it that pulls me forward, and without thinking, I reach out my thumb and forefinger and pinch at the small gap between the two edges of the gouge. It has a rubbery resistance, as though I’m grabbing at the skin of a half inflated balloon. I rub my fingers together and gasp as I see the wall come towards me, shift and twist with my movement.

I let go and step back from the wall.

This cannot be happening. Should not be happening. I will sleep. Sleep will fix whatever is wrong with my brain. And tomorrow I will map every mark and scuff in this cell. I will count as high as I can and then back down again. I will breathe and root my feet on the ground and feel every rise and fall of my chest. I go back to my palette, lie down and cover my head with my arms. But when I wake again to the pale strip of light above my head, I do none of those things. Instead, I calmly get to my feet and cross the room. My hand reaches out of its own accord and grasps that persistent glimmer. I pull. The wall comes towards me, folding in as though nothing more than a thread-worn bed sheet. I scrunch it into a ball in my palm, the stone and mortar rasping against my skin but no more durable than chalk.

Before me lies the dark corridor. I traveled it only once, on that long walk from the courthouse, to the van, and then through doors and passages of the prison. Then I had an escort. Now I am alone. No one is here. No one is coming.

The shimmer has expanded. I see it now in the pathway in front of me.

I drop the wadded up wall of my cell and it clangs, hard, and high, and brittle. I don’t hesitate now. I reach out and grab the glimmer. I pull and the darkness comes with it, folding again, disappearing into my fist, a scrunched version of reality with no more resistance than a spiderweb.

I pull again and again until the dark gray confines of mortar are gone and I’m standing in the yard, the wide sky above me, pavement below me, the cool air on my face. Here I’m not alone. Guards stand at attention. They are stiff, angry, immovable. They have guns strapped to their backs and batons at their waists. Most days, their gaze goes right through me as though I no longer exist. Sometimes I believe them. But they see me now. They stare. And I stare back. No longer contained. The walls of my confinement crushed between my fingers. They shout and pull the guns from their backs, level them at me, confident in the power of pain and violence.

But they don’t know that they too shimmer. It is nothing to me to reach out and close my hand around the space they occupy. To crumple them up and toss them over my shoulder. And so I do. I wad them up like a discarded love letter, a first draft. I pull down the fence, the guard tower, and there is nothing holding me in now. I am loose, but everywhere I look, there are still walls. Buildings, factories, warehouses. Empty, dead boxes blocking out the sky, cramping my lungs, darkening my eyes.

I need them gone too. It is but a flick of the wrist to erase them, to see what lays beyond.

I pull down building after building. I go through neighborhoods and towns, consuming, destroying, crumbling them all in my hands, and letting the pieces slip between my fingers like grains of sand.

I crumple until I find myself in a dense stand of trees. There is dirt under my feet, and the sweet twittering of songbirds around me. I’m alone again. Somewhere new and safe. The broad, open sky sparkles above me.

No one and nothing can touch me here. I’m free like I never thought I’d be again.

And yet the iridescence ripples along the tree trunks, rolls over the dry, overgrown meadow grasses. The glimmer pulses against the ground and flitters across the expanse of blue sky. It’s there, taunting me. It wants me to see what’s next, what’s beyond. To pull the world into my fist and cast it away, layer after layer after layer. What lies beyond the blue sky? What lies beneath the earth? And how long will I wait to find out?


“How long since we took them?” Derek asked. Richard looked up to his friend. He was wearing a loose cotton t-shirt with a crudely drawn colorful circle as a print, a black sport shorts and light summer shoes. The sport shorts were a bit ironic as they didn’t look like they had seen any exercise in a long time. The added weight suits him though, Richard thought. He’d gone from a lanky adolescent to a plump and full young man. He’ll have to watch out nonetheless, if he’ll let go too much, his jolly belly might turn into a beer belly. The forest they were hanging out in was known for its beautiful full sequoia trees, luscious green fields in between and full of colorful and vibrant fauna and flora. Especially during spring you could hear the full concert of hundreds of birds and the complementing white noise of the wind rushing trough the treetops. Richard was raised in an Atheist household and was 99.9% sure there wasn’t an afterlife, but if there was one place he’d want to go to when he died, it was this place. “Must have been an hour or so ago”, he replied to his larger friend. Another beautiful thing about the “Forest of Heavenly Songs” as he’d started calling it, was the fact that almost no one came there. Something about not being close enough to the nearest Starbucks. Richard smirked to himself. Better that they keep their Social Media sewage water out of his forest. The fact that almost no one came here was something enjoyed by the rare jogger and hiker. But it was especially useful for another thing. “Should be kicking in then any moment now, right?” It was a paradise for psychonauts. Men, women and everyone in between using ancient herbs or modern, lab fabricated substances to reach different states of consciousness. Richard grinned to himself again. “Druggies” was a more commonly used and less whitewashed term. He looked around in the forest and remembered the first time they came here as young teenagers, to smoke their first joint. They ate through four bags of chips and couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous the frogs sounded. He was glad all of his friends were drawn to nature. He’d met some people who only smoked inside, blinds closed, gaming or watching stupid tv shows. He shuddered at the thought, took a swig of his water bottle and turned to Derek. “Yeah, not too long from now.” Derek nodded and took a swig as well. The thing that should be kicking in right about now were mushrooms. Not just any kind of mushrooms, but magic ones. Or at least that’s what everyone called them. It was actually very scientific, or at least chemical. The active components would bond to certain receptors in the brain and then… something made all areas of the brain work together, that wasn’t entirely understood, then again not a lot of research had been done on it. His face frowned together. No wonder, if it’s still illegal. He sighed and tried to let the thought wash away. Wasn’t there someone who said that any science we didn’t understand might as well be the same as magic. Huh, maybe they were in fact other-worldly. Semantics aside, that wasn’t why the both of them had bought the mushrooms. The description on the website stated that the fungi would “help you view things from another perspective”. A pretty vague description, Richard thought. Then again, he’d experienced something like that in a previous trip. He’d been having trouble with overcoming his overthinking. He’d already made great strides, but there was just something not clicking in his mind. Mushrooms had made that click possible. But like any skill, story or lesson, once learned, can always be forgotten. He looked at Derek staring off in the distance, no doubt waiting for the effects to come up. Both of them were at troublesome points in their life. Derek had changed universities and Richard was still dealing with the after effects of some nasty mental issues. Normally it wouldn’t be a great idea to take psychedelics in these circumstances, but he was stuck, Derek was stuck and a trip among good friends always made for an interesting story to tell. Derek suddenly got up and said; “I’m gonna take a piss and stretch my legs before they start kicking in, be right back.” He walked off to the nearest tree behind them, still a while away from the field they were sitting in. Richard waved him off and laid himself down on the green. He looked up to the sky to see if the clouds would take on any strange shapes. Still nothing, he sighed to himself and closed his eyes for a moment. “What was the name of the mushroom again?” he asked out loud to no one. Psilocybe Sensus , that was it! He smiled to himself as he felt a rush of warmth and comfort engulf his entire being. Speak of the devil… In the darkness of his eyelids, strange shapes began to take form, some geometric figures, some more anthropomorphic. He enjoyed them and let them continue to flow in his sight. After a while the shapes became brighter and brighter, until there was only a white canvas in front of his eyes. This is weird, my eyes are still closed right? He thought to himself, not feeling where his head began and his toes ended. He decided not to fight the visuals and instead stared at the canvas slowly becoming greener and greener. He suddenly could distinguish shapes again. It looks like…. A branch? Trees? But I’m nowhere near around…. He tried to rub his eyes but found his arms not responding. Oh shit, not nice. Was all his fragmented mind could come up with. Just breathe Richard, breathe. He blinked a few times to distinguish more clearly what he was looking at. Suddenly he saw his arms zip his pants up and stare down at the ground. Is that… a small belly I’ve suddenly got? What’s going on? His visage shifted uncontrollably to his raised arms, he was waving his hands in front of him and noticed the tracers of his fingers going in all manners of direction. “Hehe, guess it was about time” he heard Derek say. What on earth… I’m… inside Derek’s eyes. No this can’t be, I’m just hallucinating, projecting what’s happening to Derek. Oh God… Derek, it’s got to be kicking in with him as well, I have to find him! He tried all his might, but couldn’t even try to get up from the field. He just looked on, helpless as Derek was waving his hands in front of him, trying to touch the tree, which all of a sudden looked ten meters away, when he had just peed against it. “Brooo, this is some potent stuff” Derek said again. A branch cracked and Richard saw his vision swap to the right. He felt like Derek wanted to let a little shriek out, but found he could only gasp at what he was seeing. A deer was standing right next to him, eyeing him with a tilt of his head with those big black eyes. Richard could only imagine what was going through Derek’s mind right now, he could barely comprehend his own thoughts. They both knew you shouldn’t pet a deer, something about the mother not being able to recognize its calf’s smell. But this one was too big for a calf right? “I don’t know, I’m not a deer expert”, Richard heard Derek utter to himself. Jesus, their minds were synced now? The calf, or not-calf, didn’t seem to mind Derek, it even came closer and closer to him, even bowing his head in front of him. Richard saw his right hand going up and up, ever so slowly to touch the animal. When he made contact the deer flapped its ears for a second but then allowed Derek to continue. “You’re a sweet girl aren’t ya?” Derek said to the mammal. It shook its head slightly and Derek started to giggle. The deer looked up to see the peaceful, laughing face of the young adult, licked his and turned his head away. Richard saw his vision turn dark as Derek blinked in the first time since what felt like forever. When his eyes came to once more, the deer was standing at least twenty meters away, taking one last look at Derek before sprinting out of sight. The deer hadn’t made a sound, nor crackled any leaves up when Derek looked away. “Impossible” they both said. But the wetness of his hands and the fur on his clothes didn’t lie, he had just petted a deer. “Fuck, I gotta go check on Richard, tell him what happened” Richard saw his vision turn towards the field he was lying on and flashing back to a white canvas again. Suddenly he had control of his body again, and was staring up at the clouds. He got up to see Derek racing towards him with a smile as wide as the grand canyon on his face. “You’re not gonna believe what just happened to me!” he panted to Richard. Richard laughed and replied; “Before you say anything, shouldn’t you wash that saliva off your hands?” Derek’s jaw dropped as far as anatomically possible, at which they both started laughing like they were smoking their first joint again.


Being seven years old stinks! This evening I was supposed to go to the soccer club pizza party, but I’m grounded for failing a test in school and trying to lie about it. I wouldn’t have been able to go anyways just for failing the test but I still didn’t want to miss it if I could help it!  Wendy Green was going to wear her new JoJo Siwa watch and Taylor Gates was bringing her Glitter Girl doll in a new outfit, and I have to miss seeing them! And it’ll be so embarrassing to explain why I couldn’t go! Mom and Dad are out on a date tonight so I’m stuck at home with a babysitter. Of course, I’m not the baby. My little brother is, but the fact a babysitter comes to my house would be another thing I’d be embarrassed to tell my friends. But secretly I think she’s super cool. The babysitter’s name is Allison. She’s fifteen years old ! She just started high school! She wears makeup and does her own hair, which she’ll help me with sometimes when my baby brother doesn’t need much attention. She has a smartphone with Snapchat! Mom and Dad won’t let me use Snapchat, but when Allison’s over and after she takes care of my brother, we take selfies and use the filters and stuff. Then she sends the pictures to me. She’s learning how to drive, but she says she can’t take me anywhere by herself until she has her license. She even has a boyfriend ! But my brother is taking up a lot of Allison’s time this evening. He didn’t settle down until I was in bed myself so we couldn’t do the fun things we normally do when she’s over. I can’t wait to be a grown-up so I can do what I want. I won’t get grounded for failing a test. If I know everything by now, I imagine I wouldn’t even fail any more tests by the time I’m in high school. I won’t need a babysitter. I won’t even have to live with my parents and baby brother if I didn’t want to. I could use Snapchat. I could drive, go on dates, and to pizza parties whenever I want. I’d go to bed anytime I wanted too. When I wake up the next morning, I turn on the lamp and see I’m not in my own room. My My Little Pony comforter is not on my bed and my dolls and stuffed toys aren’t next to me.  No other toys are to be found anywhere in the room either. Instead, I see a dresser scattered with makeup, jewelry, perfume, and hairstyling things. Some clothes lay around the room that look bigger than me. Have I become a grown-up already? I get out of bed and start shuffling across the room. My body isn’t moving with my own control, which is confusing and scary. But I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see Allison’s face. I’m in her body! Allison shuffles to the bathroom and turns on the shower. While in there, she shaves her legs! It seems so easy to her but thinking about a razor makes me worry about cutting my skin off! When she gets out and dries off, she puts some face cream on a few pimples. Eww! But she puts makeup on a while later and she has the pretty face I recognize. The pimples are hardly noticeable too. When its time to go, Allison gets to practice driving on her way to school, which isn’t as easy as I imagined. There are so many things to keep track of: the car’s speed, the mirrors, the dashboard meters, the signals, the signs and lights, other cars on the road. On top of that, her mom in the passenger seat was more nervous than leaves in a wind storm the whole time. She was constantly fussing at Allison to stop, slow down, use the turn signal, or watch the blind spots. It’s overwhelming! They pull up to the high school in one piece though—thank goodness—and Allison gets out. I don’t see what her mom was so nervous about.  I never noticed how big the high school is, or even been this close to it until now. Allison must’ve gotten the hang of it by now but I’m afraid I’d get lost. She makes her way down the halls to her locker. I wish we had lockers in elementary school. We have just as many books and crap. First thing in the morning, Allison is in a class called algebra. Its like a math class but it uses letters. I thought just learning how to do multiplication was hard. It looks like algebra uses all kinds of math. Her teacher reminds the class about a test at the end of the week and passes back assignments. Allison’s paper has several teacher’s marks on it and I can tell she’s nervous. I guess you can even fail tests in high school. Over an hour later, a bell rings and Allison goes to another classroom. This time, English, one of my favorite subjects! I’m one of the better readers in my class, I’m a decent speller, and I enjoy the vocabulary activities. Except, in Allison’s English class, she’s working on a ten-page research paper on a current issue—whatever that means.  And ten pages, holy cow! The whole class period, Allison was on the internet researching something called her thesis, writing things on notecards, and then typing an outline. I thought writing my book reports were tough! Allison’s lunchtime is almost like mine. The school lunch even looks a lot like what we eat at my school. In a crowded cafeteria she eats and talks with her friends and her boyfriend until time for the next classes. I guess they don’t have recess during lunch in high school. Allison goes to a class called homeroom after lunch. While there, her class is instructed to take something called career assessments. They’re like personality quizzes, where they ask if you would rather buy and sell stuff, or study or build something. You choose whether you wanted to do that the most or the least to answer the questions and, in the end, it suggests the best things for you to do after high school. The fact that Allison and her classmates are taking quizzes for that seems a little funny to me.  When you’re around my age, all the time people ask what you want to be when you grow up. When a kid answers that question, I think sometimes we want to do what our moms and dads do or we just think a job is super cool, and we think a lot of things are super cool too. To me, playing soccer, creating outfits, and teaching a class all seem super cool, so when I grow up, I want to be either a soccer player, a fashion designer, or a teacher. Do kids in high school forget what they want to be when they grow up? What if the test says they should do something different? Most of the choices on those quizzes all seem super cool but only one could be the answer. How do you choose? I only have about eight more years to figure this out… The school day finally ends after a few more hours and classes. I thought that Allison would have the time to do what she wants now, but she had to call and talk to her mom first. “Can I go with my friends to the ice cream place?” She asked. “Who’s going?” Her mom asked back. “Candice, Sarah, and Ella,” “What about your homework?” “It’ll get done, Mom!” “If you fail your algebra test, you’ll be grounded,” Her mom warned. “Can I not have a little fun, Mom?” “Stop it, Allison Kenzie! Don’t forget curfew or you’ll be grounded sooner.” Wow…Allison does some super cool grown-up things, but she still has to do homework and pass tests. She has pimples and has to shave. And she has to talk to her parents before going out with her friends and has to be home at a certain time. I guess life doesn’t get any easier in eight years.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The estate in Arak, in all its glory, was a gift

from the Qajar dynasty, the rulers of Persia from 1789 to 1925, to her great grandfather, Mirza Isa Ghaem Magham Farahani, for he had served as their trusted chancellor for more than 20 years.

The mansion, in its powerful display, was a perfect representation of him. An artist-drawn portrait, hung in the entrance halfway, showing a look of a man not common today. His long-black beard, almost as tall as his colossal hat. Eyes looking away from the artist, maybe to show the perfect angle of his sharp features.

Her father, Aman Allah, as well as the Arak residents talked forever fondly about Mirza Isa Ghaem Magham Farahani: An honorable man, a scholar, an author who had served as the Prime Minister of Iran in 1834, until his tragic betrayal and murder just a year later. Luckily, many of his published books including the Monsha’at were left behind to carry-on his legacy.

While she was staring at the gorgeous structure before her, her own beauty a reflection upon it, one of the older servants, Fatemeh Kanoom, who had dutifully served in that house since her childhood, rushed to welcome her.

“Welcome home Ezzat Kanoom (Mrs)!” Others circled around her reaching to kiss her hands and show her their affection. Ezzat was used to attention. In her opinion, too much. Her beauty was like a thick coat of armour, unmatched, with the exception of her own mother, a distinctive beauty, who had left her father’s lands in Bakhtiar and Lorestan to enter this house as a noble bride at such a young age. It drew the eye from suitors galore and some women's disdain. If only she could take it off from time to time.

It was a joyous moment given the sad circumstances they found themselves in. Alil, one of Asgar’s sons (the old and faithful gardener still living in the house), arrived with the lit ‘esfand’, the seeds and dried fruits of Garden Rue (Peganum harmala), to perform the customary 5000 year old ritual of burning esfand in honor of this beautiful mistress. He held a metal spoon, scooping esfand seeds and heating them until they smoked, giving off a familiar aroma to the servants who believed in it’s “magical” effects. The seeds began their popping sound and between the smoke and sound, more greetings were exchanged,

the esfand working its way to ward off the evil eye. The esfand see has its true medicinal properties. Used throughout history to cure many ailments and diseases, leprosy being one of them. Iranians believe that the evil eye can be bestowed upon someone through an ill-intended compliment, speaking of a positive endeavor before it happens, and occasions such as this one that Ezzat was in. Coming back home.

The servants were certain that the evil must have befallen their beloved masters to have to endure so much tragedy. She closed her eyes to embrace the smell and ritual of the burning esfand, not because she believed in such nonsense, but to put the servants at ease. She lowered her head below the metal spoon that was being circled around her head. How she wished that she could truly believe that the disinfecting smoke and popping sound of the seeds could actually shield from the evil intentions--that it could take away all of the unwanted attention from men that seemed to constantly surround her.

She closed her eyes to breathe the old familiar smell of the house. The delicious milk bread, a specialty of Aligoodarz

(the birthplace of her mother) that was being baked in her mother’s memory, was coming from the kitchen, filling the room and her thoughts. Was it really 24 years, since she was in the kitchen baking with her younger sister Azam, whom she had practically mothered? She recalls their floured faces, in a dream-like arodescense, in their majestic kitchen, while her younger uncles received lessons from the mullah who came to act as the boys’ tutor every morning. What a waste! She thought, as a light tongue-click and hiss escaped her mouth.

She would forever feel resentful on why it was the boys in the house who received the education. While she and her sister were strongly encouraged to learn cooking instead. Although she could feel happiness from time spent with her little sister learning to cook and spending time with Godsi Khanoom the kind hearted Chef, but still the resentment was there. Conversely, deep down in her un-admitable depths, she was proud of her cooking skills. She had yet to meet someone who could match her skills as a Chef. Fariba, the youngest of the servants, took her bags,”Ezzat Kanoom, how did you get here? Why didn’t you call us to come pick you up at the station?”

“Now Fariba, you know better than that. Ezzat Sadat never asks for help! She is my proud daughter,” came the voice of the kind hearted old Chef, Godsi Kanoom. They liked to add the word Sadat, whenever they used her name, as a sign of respect, as this was a title reserved for those thought to be of direct lineage to the prophet Muhammed himself.

Everyone fought to grasp a bag.

“She is a Ghaem Magham, and her mother’s daughter, that she is, may God bless her soul,” said Asgar Aga, the gardener. With that, a silence fell on the room. The women in the room became teary-eyed, a few others closed their eyes and said their Salavat’s (Islamic prayer saying may peace be upon her) in honor of the sweet lady they had so loved. “Where would you like to stay?” Mastaneh, the inexperienced servant, asked once more. Godsi Kanoom, pulling herself up while breathing hardly so she could scolded her, “Where do you think silly girl, In her mother’s old room, of course, next to the library”

In the background, servants still are overcome by excitement and curiosity over the arrival of Ezzat Sadat , and her striking resemblance to her mother. They whispered to each other, how is it possible, that aging and giving birth to five children, in addition to the pollution in Tehran, where she had been living, has only made Ezzat Sadat more beautiful than before. Asgar Aga, glanced an angry look at them, and took her over the charge of her bags, while ordering the younger ones to be careful with the esfand. As they passed the library, she paused to step in. She looked at the door behind which, once upon a time, a large-boned servant boy, Taghi, had hidden in secrecy to listen to the mullah who had been giving lessons to her uncles. Taghi was tasked to bring tea and dates to the young masters during their tutoring. Unbeknownst to them, Taghi had made it a regular occurrence of hiding behind the door during their tutoring and listening to the lessons. On one particular afternoon, the mullah asked the boys a question about Socrates. “What is the Socratic method?”

To which he received no response. Just as the mullah’s frustration began to set in, a voice rang out with the correct answer. “A dialogue of asking and answering questions to stimulate critical thinking leading to deep ideas and finding underlying presuppositions.” Wide-eyed, the mullah watched as the young Taghi came from his hiding place. Now angry and flabbergasted, Mullah forcefully escorted the servant boy to Mirza.

Everyone, including the Mullah, expected and feared that the boy would be punished for his actions. However, Mirza was more impressed by the boy’s actions and aptitude for learning than angered by his disobedience. Instead of disciplining him, from that day forward, young Taghi was included in the tutoring sessions and was able to learn, no longer as a servant, and with no need to hide. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips into a sad smile. It was in this house that the young lad, Taghi Khan Farahani, would grow up, be educated, and become Amir Kabir Naghashbashi-- one of the greatest Prime Ministers Iranians would ever know.

She was proud of her Jad, (great grandfather), her blood, dating back all the way to the profit, and her heritage. They had educated young Taghi and forever changed the course of his life, presumably for the better. Hesitantly, she wondered if it was not some of Taghi/Amir Kabir’s sins that brought about all the tragedy in her life.

Amir Kabir was known as the Iranians’ first reformer. As a ruler he attempted to modernize Iran. First, he took notice of how European powers had intervened in Otooman affairs. So, he removed any possible grievances before a foreign power could claim to be their “protectors.” He was an intelligent man, a highly revered man. Probably due to his roots, he did a lot for most minorities, including Christians and Zoroastrians.

Still in all of his glory, it is his sin, of which Ezzat was sure God would not forgive, he was responsible for the death of 20,000 innocent people of the Bábi faith. Bábism, the faith that professed that there is only one unknown and incomprehensible God. A God which manifests his unending series of manifestations. The faith was founded in 1844 and flourished in Persia, the faith that became the principles of modern day Bahai religion. Amir Kabir regarded the followers as a threat and repressed them until the execution of the Seven Martyrs of Tehran and the execution of the Báb himself--the herald of the Baha'i Faith.

Surely, she thought, this mansion and her family as guardians of Amir Kabir were cursed from the heartbreak of the Báb due to his actions. She did not consider herself to be of the superstitious disposition, but what else was there?

In the last year of his life, Amir Kabir was exiled to Fin Garden in Kashan and murdered by command of Naser al-Din Shah Qajar. She wondered, what if her grandfather had punished him that day, instead of letting him study? What would have his fate been? And the faith of those innocent 20,000 people he killed? She was lost in thought when Asgar Aga approached and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“As God is my witness, I tried to tell your father, Aman Allah, that you and your sister deserved a chance at education, just as if God had blessed him with a son. You had an astronomical promise, Kanoom Jan. If only your father had taken the time to pay attention to my humble request, you would be the first female Iranan prime minister Kanoom Jan. I am certain of it.” He called her Kanoom Jan. A term of endearment, also to say “dear.” She leaned over and kissed Asgar’s old cheeks. The dear old man. It should be noted that she was not fond of men often, but he was an exception. Many of her childhood memories included him and his kind gestures. The day her mother died, she ran out to the field and cried her eyes out. Asgar Aga was also fond of her mother. She had always been kind to him and his children. He brought her mother’s favorite horse, gifted to her from Bakhtiar, to the field, and they rode together for hours in silence.

Her mother was a stunning, sweet, obedient and fragile wife. It was said that when she would enter a room, men and women alike would be mesmerized by the refined movements of her soft body.

Ezzat resembled her beauty immensely, but not her personality by any means.

After her death, Ezzat took the role of a mother for her younger sister until her father, as was expected, decided to take on a second wife, a simple commoner this time, no traces of nobility, nor beauty, neither in her blood nor actions. Ezzat would never dare to tell him how that really made her feel. Seemingly, her sweet mother was so easily forgotten.

Upon the birth of her first child, also a girl, the commoner, knew she had to quickly get rid of any female attention, towards Ezzat and Azam. Not when their mere presence was a constant reminder of the elegance, and purity of their mother’s blood. At ages 8 and 4, she hurriedly married Ezzat and her sister off to their cousins. Even though, under Islamic law, they were not yet of age to marry. Neither had experienced menstruation. The stepmother cared little and Ezzat was married to her 25-year-old cousin and Azam to his 20 year old brother. Neither given proper time to grieve their mothers’ death, they would be sent to live with their new husbands, the children of their mother’s sister, and their aunt Talabeh in Tehran. In such a small period of time, the girls had lost their mother, their home, their family, and their life as they knew-- it all to be,

a man’s wife. Now here she was, 24 years later. She was there to pay respects to the father whose orders had shaped her life, and a destiny she had not desired. There grows the seed of her bitterness, not towards her father, a man that she respected, but towards the culture. The male dominated world that imposed such a lack of choices on her. That only saw her worth as an exceptional cook, and nothing more.

She was the mother of five children, three boys and two girls. What a good, dutiful wife she was, surely he would be proud.

To think, if someone had taken a chance on her the same way Mirza took a chance on that servant boy years ago, where would she be now?

She walked slowly to her room and wiped the tears away. She attempted to put on some makeup. She needed to give her most dignified face to the servants. After all, with her stepmother dead, as the oldest daughter, she was there as the lady of the house today.

She sat in the room, appreciating her surroundings. The archways resembled mountains and pillars to the side of each with as much mass and height. How can something this large and beautiful not be made by nature? So exact and by man’s hand. Everything looked the same, though the walls had been freshly painted.

The Persian rug on the floor was the same as she remembered. It had been a gift to her grandfather from King Fath-’Ali Shah Qajar, who in turn, had gifted it to her mother on their wedding day.

It was an 1834 Tabriz made rug. Hand woven, intricate detail, heavy even by sight. It filled the room as much as the air did. In the middle of the room, a tall peak to show the main entrance and on either side, sprawling horizontal-length to create an open square. To look out from the entrance, the courtyard right in front, and on either sides of it the house stretched out like arms.

She had imagined this moment so often, the day she would come back home. The day she would dare to look her father in the eyes and ask him why. Why had he not allowed her to study? Why had he sent her away so quickly?

Her father’s burial was to take place that afternoon. She knew what would follow next, the respectful visits from the villagers, the male descendants of her Jad pouring in, the state lawyers coming to settle accounts, sale of the house, and the many lands her father owned,

the division of the assets, the small family quarrels that would surely follow,

she and her sister, would certainly be left with nothing, after all they were only women. She had no interest in any of it.

She looked outside of the windows at the stupendous view. The majestic look of Safikhani Mountain on one side and Meyghan Lagoon on the other. How perplexing it is to feel so despondent while bearing witness to such beauty.

She straightened her back, took a deep breath, and

knew in her heart that this would be her last stay in this room, in this house, but Arak would always remain an important part of her being, no matter where she landed. After all, at age 32, she knew exactly who she was, and what her purpose in life was. She knew she would never again, allow a man to dictate her destiny. She was Ezzat Sadat, the daughter of Aman Allah Ghaem Magham Farahani, and of Banoo Massoumeh Dadgar,

the legendary beauty, whose family had ruled over the Baktiari lands for over a century.

Their stories and legends, and the consequences of their actions, would live on, long after this house would be gone. Although this room, with all of its beauty, would be a permanent fixture in her memories. That was all that mattered.


She is looking out of her window in the middle of the night sitting in her window recess. Every night Vaishali, a 21 year old of 5.5 feet height, has a round shaped face with her plaited hair long enough to touch her bum, has a habit of seeing the moon and think of all her problems and the things that happened that day. It soothes her soul. She addresses the moon as her “ Amor ” which in Spanish means “Love”. She feels light after sharing everything with her Amor . It’s like Amor is her Guardian Angel and also her Problem Solver. Her life is not bed of roses. She had faced so many problems which made her to be alone. That night too sitting in her pyjamas she was thinking of that particular day but with different perception. That particular day started like her routine. She got up at 6 ‘o’ clock in the morning as usual. After getting freshened up, she drank her favorite black coffee - sugarless and helped her mother in doing some household chores. When it was time, she went to bath and got dressed up. She wore a white kurti that has floral designs in black which is her lucky one and blue denims with a pair of shoes that matches her kurti and her hair loosely held. She ate her breakfast and went to work without knowing that something special was awaiting for her. At work, she have a crush on this person named Prasanth. Prasanth is her co-worker and her senior from college. From the college time, she had a huge crush on him but he had no idea or she thought it to be so. When she enters her workspace, she has a habit of checking on him. She will see him from distance and admire him. Today too she was searching him but he is nowhere to be found. He is on leave. Whole day at work she wasn’t able to concentrate on her work because he will not be on leave too easy and she wanted to know why. To her disappointment she wasn’t able to find the reason. She felt bad. She had lingering thoughts about him all the way to her home. ‘Why’ is her question she was not able to find answer to. When she reached home all her ‘Whys’ question had answer. To her surprise he was sitting in her home with his family for marriage proposal and all she could say is ‘Oh my Good God!!!’. After all the traditional methods of talking about their families and so on, both the families asked Vaishali and Prasanth to go and talk alone.

The first minute they were alone she couldn’t keep her curiosity more than that and asked, “How did you know that I had crush on you?”. Prasanth then holding back his smile came near her ear and whispered, “How could I miss such a beautiful woman in my life!”. She was stunned. She had this moment of imagination running in her head for thousand times but never expected that it would come true. He then told the story of how he knew from the beginning that she a had crush on her, how she was so beautiful the first time he saw her, how the whole college except her knew that he loved her, how he was lucky that Vaishali too joined in the same company he worked in, how he knows she checks him the first as soon as she enter work station, how he got the permission of his family and hers too. And he said the last thing needed for them to be together is her giving stamp of approval for him to be love of her life. Now that she knew the whole story, she could not see him eye to eye. She is filled with shyness. She wanted to say Yes the very moment but she can’t able to find the right words. The man whom she loves stands next to her and asking her to marry him. It is a dream come true moment and she wanted to make sure that it isn’t dream. So she pinched herself and realized this is reality. Seeing this, Prasanth could not resist her cuteness and told her ‘I Love You’ for the first time. All this while she wasn’t able to stop smiling and now without her knowledge she was blushing. Realizing that he is waiting for her reply, she told ‘Love You More’. After this incident, she said ‘Yes’ in front of their families and their eyes met for the first time all this while. After Prasanth’s family left, her mind kept on playing that one scene again and again and she could never stop her smile. At night while she is having her dinner, her mobile phone flashed with Prasanth’s message that read, “Love you Sweetheart. Sleep Well. Will see you tomorrow at work”. Reading this, she realized how caring he is and replied, “Good night Love! Waiting to meet you too”.

Vaishali was not able to sleep with her overwhelming happiness, so she sat at the recess and looked at the moon. The moon is bright today. She felt like her Amor is smiling at her back. On seeing her Amor she thought of every problems she faced. Every time she faces a problem, she wants someone to listen to her problem, someone who doesn’t judge her but listen, someone who will be there for her inspite of that. And her Amor did exactly the same thing and that’s what made her life easy. Now with all this joy and with Prasanth on her side – to be her forever, she was so grateful for her Amor . Every night being slept with nagging thoughts about her life and future, today to sleep with so much happiness and satisfaction, she believed miracles also happens. She also understood that life is going to give us so many opportunities for being happy, sad, to love, to hate, to accept, to grow and so on. It is in us to wait and get through of hard times with a hope that life will someday give us happiness for sure. She thought it is a apt name for life to be called, “Windows Of Opportunities”. As her thought receded, she slept with a smiling face and thanked life for this day!


I am not my mother's daughter. Grandmother told me stories of her smile. How it could draw the stars from their hiding places. How it gave branches voice and the leaves color. I never told Grandmother I remembered it. I was too afraid the stories would stop.

The stories were secret and my father did not like to hear them. “He does not like the reminder,” my grandmother would breathe between her loose strands of dancing grey. I knew she didn’t understand though, that he liked nothing more than remembering that smile. What he did not like was my tainting it. Me with my pinched mouth and sour milk smirk. I did not deserve to recall what he kept sacred and tucked away. I could not find it in myself to resent him for it.

I do not recall when my memories started. Time blends and animates the snapshots of framed photographs with distant voices, piecing together a fabric that never entirely existed. I cannot discern from the rosy cheeks and autumn dusted hair hung upon my walls from the live action reel of cold curls wet against my face and striped rain boots that never stilled. I do not know when one me became another, and I could find no evidence of the transition.

Grandmother took me to the lone hazeltree behind my dad’s patchwork Buick, the sole object of his affections. We’d sit beneath its spindly trunks, and I’d pretend she was mother and I knew she would do the same. She’d plait my mousy curls, pretend they were golden, and tell me of The Little People, even smaller than me.

“Are they beautiful?” I’d wonder aloud, and her answer never changed.

“They’re like us in that way. Some are so filled with beauty it will make your chest ache just to see them. Some have lashed eyes so intense you could swear they hold constellations.”

She never spoke of the other ones. The ones I wanted to hear about. The ones that weren’t beautiful. I drew them myself when I could, their upturned noses and limp, uneven shoulders mirrored me in a way I could not bear to look at.

“Are they good? The ones that make you ache?” I would ask. I wanted them to be cruel, to take that beauty and tarnish it, to render themselves so unbearably monstrous that not even their perfect faces could remedy it.

“Ah, love. They do not think of goodness as we think of goodness. Can one be wicked if they don’t intend it so?”

“Wicked?” “The words to unlock a heart are not given freely, my dear. Even we keep ourselves so far inside it is difficult to be found.”

I knew she thought of mother when she told me how they’d sing. They did not sing to make the flowers grow, and they did not sing to make the moon wax or wane. They sang because they liked it and that was that.

Grandmother kept mother alive in The Little People. She was hidden in every story. I made it my place to find her there. I used my own memory as a map, though as untrustworthy as Grandmother’s tales. I knew the danger of memory. Lies that disguised themselves as truths.

I’d lay awake atop my blankets in the summers when the sun refused to set. I’d listen to the wind blowing through the hawthorne’s branches, a sound I knew masked the dancing feet of The Little People. Grandmother told me they made no sound when they danced, that their nimble feet brushed the thick moss with but the soft whisper of a kiss. I did not know at the time that kisses could be whispered. My jaw worked on the ringleted apple skin that fell from Grandmother’s knife. She had piled them in a heap of red just for me, our secret bargain.

“Do you think they stole her away? Because she sang so pretty?” Grandmother’s head twitched imperceptibly towards the gaping doorframe. She sighed her wrinkle-studded sigh. “Your mother sang and sang to that tree. I think, if they have stolen her away, she knew what she was doing.” Grandmother spoke so softly, it was as if she were not speaking to me at all.

I did not understand then, with my grubby little fingers and my dirt-coated apple shavings, what Grandmother had said to me that day. The phrase “she knew what she was doing” was one I had nodded at sagely, as though I had grasped its meaning.

When I had learned, when I sat at my window sill thinking on all the pieces of her I had collected, I hated Grandmother a little for saying it. I had not then known the cruelty of truth.

The betrayal weaved itself into each of my subsequent memories as if it had always been there. I could not untangle it. When I watched mother’s steps mirror my own, feet flying past half-shy spring tulips, my unwilling kite trailing behind us as though our laughter were not enough to convince it of flights’ worth, her smile held something it had not held before. Something heavier than even the kite’s fear.

I wanted to forget that new look, that addition to memory now settled as fact. I wanted to know the mother as I knew her before, the one who’s guiltless voice had filled my nighttimes, the one who had loved me full to bursting and who had not thought twice of my changeling face.

That’s the thing about truth though. You don’t get the option of forgetting.

I had not thought the way she had left us could change anything. With mother taken, snatched away, I was left an unfortunate creature, an example left to warn others of the whims of fate.

Victim is a far comfier guise than blame.

I no longer liked to play truth. When Grandmother told me stories I kept them locked away and sought nothing from them. Mother’s tree became my tree, and it kept me company where shades of her had previously.

I found myself more bold than before.

I was no longer afraid to ask after the twisted, ugly, wicked Little People.

“Tell me of the Other ones. The ones that scream where there should be song, and the ones that lurch where there should be dance.” The distant mountains sent winged messengers to whisper in hushed lyrics the tales Grandmother now told me. It was in this way I learned that darkness nurtured in people a curiosity masqueraded as horror.

“Tormented souls are often mistaken for cruel and wicked, child. The hate built in their chests twists and bends the body that found no weight in innocence. Remember that.”

I worried Grandmother could see the hate that had twisted my heart, that circled my body in visible blackness, warping my crooked form before her ancient eyes. She had told me once of beings that held so much beauty it could make your chest ache.

My ears of that time, naive and un-wintered things, had not known that life’s goodness could make you ache as much as its badness.

We all fancied that tree as our own, fancied that those beings beneath its roots somehow preferred the lumber of our footfalls to another.

They did not even know we stood there.

To me, mother had become a fiction as grand as the myths that came from sunkissed countries. She was as unreal to me as my present father, his rolled button-downs stained with the evidence of time spent with his Buick.

I thought I had known her. The way her shoulders twitched when I hung from her neck and the way her laugh rocked us both, my ribs cramping from my heart’s fullness.

I had known her. The way she would run her fingers over the spot on my back that made me squirm, the knowledge of it’s secret existence shared only between us.

I thought I had known her. The way her face would still when I pressed my nose to her neck, her eyes heavy and lidded with concentration, sketching that moment behind her eyelids.

To love a patchwork person, sewn together with the threads of half truths and childlike trust, leaves a hollow emptiness, a vast blackhole of questions.

Loving her memory was not like loving her. Wherever she had gone she was sure to have changed as surely as the moon of tomorrow would change from the moon of my right now.

Father called me changeling, an insult. Grandmother called me changeling, a reassurance.

I am not my mother's daughter, my mother sings with The Little People in their rooted halls. Her love was as fickle as a spring night, and I know now it could not have been mine unchanged for long.

But it had been mine.


*Trigger warning: Suicide* Silver sat next to Blue in the early morning light, one of his wings curled around Blue’s tiny body as they watched the sunrise. Blue’s eyes were wide and fascinated; due to his time with the scientists, this was his first sunrise. The corners of Silver’s mouth twitched up into a slight, rare smile at the wondrous expressions on the smaller angel’s face. He should have felt the pure joy of seeing the skies sooner, Silver thought quietly.

The pure ones like Blue deserved to see the sky and enjoy the vast expanse of the heavens above. It was the failed dark creatures like Silver himself that deserved to be here, skulking around the earth. The scientists had given the wrong creatures the freedoms; the truer angels should be flying, not the assassins. Silver glanced at Blue’s right wing; the feathers were growing back from the regular clippings and soon the primaries would be long enough to fly. Silver could imagine the look on Blue’s face the day he finally was able to fly...he could feel the happiness even now. Maybe in a week, they could...Silver lost his train of thought and was startled as Blue’s head settled on his shoulder.

Blue still looked fascinated with the sun, but as the vibrant colors faded to the now cyan sky, Silver felt a calmness in Blue that he had never seen before. Silver himself was never calm, if he were he would have instead assumed he had been drugged. Instead, he often sat still with deadly laziness that one might see in a tiger or a leopard. Silver was like a coiled snake, still but ready to move with a quick deadly accuracy. Not now...he wasn’t calm exactly, but he was less on edge than he should, less on edge than the norm. Until he heard the faint sound of fluttering wings that quickly began to grow in loudness.

“Blue!” he whispered quickly, breaking the spell. Silver yanked his wing back in, nearly knocking over Blue in the process. Blue, as confused as he was, still followed Silver up off the ground and under the cover of the nearby pines. As Silver yanked Blue down to the ground underneath one of the larger trees. Silver felt guilty as he saw the pinpricks of blood dotting Blue’s hand where he had fallen on the sharp needles, but this was far better than the alternative. He spread his dark-colored wings over Blue’s pale cyan ones, covering the bright splash of color. That would have been a dead giveaway against the dusty brown earth. They lay perfectly still there for about 30 minutes since Silver insisted on waiting till the noise had been gone for at least five minutes. “I think it’s safe Sil,” Blue whispered. Silver begrudgingly agreed and folded in his wings after a swift shake-off of the dirt that had been rubbed into his feathers when he had taken cover under the tree. Blue’s light-colored wings, however, stayed the dusty brown even when he tried to shake them out. Silver’s heart twinged sadly, remembering another pair of small brown wings. It had been a different time, and Silver had been a different angel then. Now, all that was left of Hope was gone and he remained.  “Silver?” questioned Blue sounding a bit worried. Silver realized was staring and looked away.  “It’s nothing,” he answered, trying to sound reassuring. It wasn’t a convincing ruse, but Blue, who always believed what people said, believed him and chirped an “Okey!”. Silver forced a tight grin and Blue beamed back, guilt stabbing Silver in the chest.

He hated lying to Blue...but was that really true? He had been doing it for so long, since they met really, so could he truly say that he hated it? Could he really say that he had regretted it? No, he admitted to himself, as wrong as this was he couldn’t regret it. He had felt sorry for his innocent target but he had never felt remorse for what he was doing, not really. It didn’t matter though, not now. It was time for his final lie. “Hey Blue?” Silver called out.

“Yeah?” chirped out the reply. Blue would have no idea what was coming. “I have to go back home.” He wasn’t taking Blue to where he lived. But Blue wouldn’t know any better. The chipper angel’s face fell and Silver quickly backpedaled.

“You should come with me,” he added, hating himself with every word. Blue’s face brightened up immediately. The small creature wouldn’t know that he would be trapped when they arrived. He wouldn’t know that Silver would be taking him back to the labs and a lifetime behind bars and glass panes. He wouldn’t understand the pure guilt Silver was feeling; he would only remember that he had trusted Silver...and been let down.

“Let’s go then!” said Silver with a forced grin plastered onto his face. It had never been this hard before to hunt his targets. A flash of the blade, a thump of his wing and it was over. He would collect evidence, usually a wedding ring or other jewelry, and leave and never look back. He wasn’t even killing Blue, so why was it so hard? He was just another target in the end. Silver shook his head vigorously, clearing his more unhelpful thoughts. As much as he tried to keep people out of his head, being trapped in there alone with his thoughts was almost worse. It was a different sort of poison, one’s own mind. He glanced over at Blue who had gotten distracted chasing a bright orange monarch butterfly. Blue’s mind was one of the few, Silver thought, that had escaped tainting. Blue was 19 years old and still innocent as a 5-year-old, if not more so. Silver, however, was 21 and his mind was beyond further taint; being an assassin-and being in the real world-did that to you.

Silver called Blue over and squatted down, beckoning for the smaller angel to get on his back. Since Silver was the only one who knew how to fly, he would have to get them to the warehouse with the other assassins; it was the place Silver had gotten the assignment and so the place he was to report back to. Silver stood up and with a few sprinting steps launched himself into the air. Flapping hard to pull himself and the tiny barely noticeable weight of Blue into the sky, Silver tried his best not to knock Blue off of his back. As they reached a cruising height, Blue nestled his face into Silver’s neck and held on even tighter. Silver, of course, didn’t show emotion but since Blue couldn’t see, he indulged himself in a real smile. This was where Blue was meant to be. ...but instead, he was being taken back to a lab. The moment was poisoned now. And Silver wiped the smile off of his now expressionless features.

About half an hour later, they could see the warehouse; a giant rectangular metal building that looked like, you guessed it, a warehouse.

“You actually live there?” Blue asked, sounding incredulous. “Yep,” lied Silver convincingly, “Home sweet home.” They landed in the very front of the building and Blue slipped off of Silver’s back. Silver nodded at the two guards (Levi and Rio) and walked inside, Blue following closely behind. For the sake of appearances, Silver stiffened his wings, raising them up and slightly out in a dominant position. He was beta here and he needed to re-enforce that since he had been gone. This simple display of Silver’s kept most of the other angelic assassins at bay and, more importantly, kept them from messing with Blue. Although Silver realized, he was the biggest threat to Blue’s safety now. “We’re almost there,” he told the small angel, who looked extremely excited. As they neared the end of the halls, Silver quickened his pace and Blue had to take swift hopping steps to keep up. The sooner they got to the end of the hall, the less time Silver would have to lose his crumbling resolve. They arrived at the end of the corridor and Silver gave a pointed glance to the messenger who had been waiting by the heavy steel door. The messenger, Luca, nodded curtly and scrambled off to inform the scientists of their subject’s arrival. Then it was just the pair of them, Blue and Silver. Silver typed in the code keeping the heavy steel door closed and stepped back as it swung outwards. It creaked as it opened, hinges complaining bitterly from years of little use. The area in front of the only two cells was dim. The doors of the cells were open and Silver led Blue into the cage. There was a bed on the left side and a small bucket in the corner that served as a bathroom, but that was the only furnishing the bare room had to offer. Blue looked confused, but Silver thought he’d be understanding soon. It was time; Silver had to go. “I’m so sorry Blue…” he whispered hoarsely. Silver hesitated then kissed Blue’s cheek. He turned away then, leaving Blue’s wide eyes and fluttering wings behind. He was leaving it all behind and he was sorry but this was his job. As Silver walked away, wings at a slight droop, the cell doors slammed shut behind him.

“Silver!” Blue shouted desperately, and Silver heard a louder fluttering of wings. Not the usual happy flutters that Blue made, but an awful, hopeless rustling as Blue’s wings hit the bars and ricocheted off of them. Through tears, the first in over ten years, pricked at his eyes, Silver didn’t look back. He couldn’t; if he looked back he would see the betrayal in Blue’s eyes and have to face the reality of what he had done. Instead, he kept walking until he was out of the building and took to the evening sky. Silver flew and flew and flew, numbing his pain in the freezing night air. He flew until he reached the lake where they had watched the sunrise together. It had just been this morning and it was too late now. He slumped down onto a rock, letting his wings droop and brush the ground. He looked up; the sun was gone now and things could not be the same. It was too late to fix it. Silver was numb inside as he watched the moonlit lake. He pulled his dagger out of its sheath, watching the shadows play over the icy blade. He rested it over his wrist and gave an experimental quirk of his hand. A drop of shimmering silver blood oozed out and slid down his wrist. He hadn’t been there for Blue the way he should have been. Silver lifted the blade and brought it directly over the pulsing artery. He had failed him and now he was gone. He brought the cold steel down to his wrist. Without Blue, there was nothing now. “From dust, we came, and to dust, we shall return,” muttered Silver and he pressed down the blade.


EXPULSION That was Malgund village in Chiplun Taluka of Ratnagiri district. The entire area filled with mango, coconut, and areca nut trees was coated by the thick fog of January 1948. Satish using his battery torch paved his way home after meeting the client in the factory which was close to his house. Satish kept the keys of the factory in its proper place and after cleaning himself joined the other members of the family for dinner. His father, Shri Ganesh Pant Gogte said, ”Listen, Satish, you get more involved and take charge of our business activity. Since our country has now got independence, our people will decide the policy for the growth of the industry. The road map will be announced and we have to be prepared to take benefit of the schemes. Ramesh and Suresh are still studying in high schools. You have passed B.Sc. and you will be my spokesperson henceforth. The small-scale unit which I have established ten years ago is now stable. We need finance to take a leap forward. And I am sure our government will announce some plans to help the small-scale industry to come up. We have to achieve something big in the coming 5-7 years. So Satish, you have to share my responsibilities and we have to expand. Soon Ramesh & Suresh will get ready to take some roles. Next year only we should see our industry covering a wider area. I am very optimistic.” Mr. Gogte had dreams in his eyes. He was looking for the opportunity to prove his capability. He had expectations from his brilliant sons. They had proven themselves in schools. He wanted them to sparkle in his industry which he had set up with a lot of hardship. Mr. Ganesh Pant Gogte’s father had spent a major period of his life in jail due to his participation in the freedom movement. His elder brother had also joined the movement. Ganesh Pant had taken up the responsibility of running the family. Despite the turmoil of the freedom movement, he worked hard and set up a small-scale unit producing parts required for making electric fans. Slowly he established his credibility as a dependable source of parts. A unit started in the backyard of his house, slowly grew to provide employment for 25-30 workers of Malgund village. After a frantic struggle by a large number of freedom fighters following different methods to pressurize the British rulers, some following the non-violence and others following the roads of violent methods, finally, Britishers handed over the reins in the hands of Indians on 15 th August 1947. But it had a dark side of genocide as the country was partitioned into two countries based on religion. It was one of the deadliest bloodsheds of the world. But Gogte family was far away from the borders of the partitioned nation, and so was not affected directly by the carnage. Getting freedom for the country was celebrated with fervor in this area. Every individual was happily breathing the air of freedom. Mr. Ganesh Pant Gogte who had put his sweat and blood in bringing up his unit to the present level was looking forward to expanding his unit to cover all of India. He was grooming his sons to contribute to the further development of his unit. After dinner, everyone retired to bed. At around midnight, there was a desperate knock on the door. Ganesh Pant got up, switched on the light, and opened the door. On that foggy night, the sarpanch of the village, wrapped in a blanket was at the door with a couple of senior members of the village. “Yes Patil, what is the matter?” “Gogte Sir, have you heard that Gandhiji is assassinated?” “Oh my God! Who was that idiot?” "We do not know all that but he shot Gandhiji point-blank. Gandhiji collapsed on the spot. And there is a spurt of violence all over India. We have heard that in Maharashtra state, big mobs are moving from village to village causing a lot of destruction. We request your entire family to collect all your important documents and valuables and come with us to our house. Quick. We don't have much time." "But Patil, when the mob comes to our village, we all will have to face the same danger. Whether here in my house or your farmhouse." “No. Gogte sir, it is not the same. The murderer of Gandhiji was a Brahmin. And the mob is destroying the properties of only Brahmins. They have the complete list of Brahmin houses. The mob just pours petrol on the houses of the Brahmins whether anyone is inside or not. They burn the entire property. There are many instances of families burnt alive. Please let us not waste time anymore. Every moment is important. Please take important documents with you and let us run to my farmhouse. I have my bullock cart ready for you. Please hurry up. We do not want you take your car with you. That will disclose your presence instantly. " By this time the entire Gogte family was aware of the lurking danger. They picked up all their important material and started out. In no time, the Gogte family was in Patil's farmhouse.  Everyone was extremely worried. Totally helpless. Soon they heard a big mob carrying burning torches running euphorically towards their bungalow. A lot of shouting and noise was heard. A flash of big fire could be sensed by the Gogte family hiding in the darkroom.

After an hour’s commotion, the mob moved to another village. One could see the property set ablaze. Patil came to the farmhouse. "The inexorable idiots did not listen to us. They tied our hands and legs. Some 7-8 of us who were trying stopping them from doing this horrendous act.” Patil could not control his sobs. In utter despair, the Gogte family waited until it dawned. After the sun appeared, the Gogte family rushed to their house. There was nothing left. The entire house and the complete factory were turned into ashes. The half-burnt axle was the only proof left of the car. The half-burnt furniture was generating a lot of smoke. Ganesh Pant  Gogte could not control the tears flowing away with his dreams. The freedom of the country brought with it, the disaster for the families of the Brahmin community in Maharashtra. The Gogte family took some time to come out of desolation. After considering all the options, they decided to move to Ratnagiri. Without talking to anyone, they took some public transport and reached Ratnagiri. Rented a room in a chawl, and Mr.Ganesh Pant Gogte started a new life from scratch. He had to wipe off his early struggle. He searched for a small part that can be made in the house. Ganesh Pant and his wife took the responsibility of making the part at home and the delivery was handled by the two younger school-going children. Satish looked for a job. And the family forgot the holocaust and took over the challenge of re-establishing themselves.  Ramesh and Suresh sparkled in the school. Earned scholarship and continued their brilliant career. Suresh, the youngest of them was maintaining his rank consistently and was getting popular in the area. After S.S.C., Ramesh got his Bachelor of Science and specialized in forestry. He took up Conservation of forests as his career and strongly moved up in his profession. Very soon Ramesh was the Chief Conservator of the state of Maharashtra. Suresh chose medicines as his occupation. After MBBS, he got his Gold medal in Master’s degree, MD. He shifted to Mumbai. He became the medical advisor of the State Government.

 Ten years passed. All the three sons of Ganesh Pant Gogte got married and had children. They built a big bungalow in Ratnagiri named “AMELIORATION”  Once in February, the entire family assembled in Chiplun and visited the village Malgund. The entire family went to the spot of their house and the factory. A placard displayed there read the following message, “This place belongs to Shri Ganesh Pant Gogte and his family. We are ashamed that this property and his factory were destroyed by the mob frenzy. The person who had struggled and set up the industry, which had provided an opportunity to earn bread to 30 families of the village, had to face this ill-treatment. We could not trace him after the disaster. We do not know their whereabouts. If anyone has any information, please contact the Sarpanch.” Ganesh Pant Gogte was moved. They went to Sarpanch’s office. A young man was in charge. Ganesh Pant told his identity. The young man immediately rose, came forward bent down, and touched Ganesh Pant’s feet. "Sir, please pardon us. Our society had done injustice to you, Sir. We are ashamed of all that. Please come back to this place and start your factory. We are ready to bear all the expenses to rebuild your house. We want your presence here. Sir, I was a small boy then. I did not understand anything about what happened that day. But my father and our earlier Sarpanch, Patil tell us about you every time we pass the place of your house and your factory. Sir, my father is not keeping well. But he always says, he has to see you and seek forgiveness before he leaves this world. Mr. Patil is also in distress. He says, when we hear the atrocities on Jews by Hitler, we feel sympathetic about them. When we come across some Indians who were pulled out of their own houses during partition and had to come to India to take shelter, our hearts cry. But here in our own village, innocent persons were attacked by the unruly mobs in 1948, we could not do anything to save the people from atrocities inflicted on them. Mr.Patil is very upset about his failure to stop the act of brutality.” “Where is he? I too want to see him.” “I will take you there. Please come.” The man took the entire family to Patil’s house. Patil was relaxing in an arm-chair. As soon as he saw Ganesh Pant Gogte, he got up. Bent down and held his feet. Started sobbing. His tears wet Ganesh Pant’s feet. "Sorry sir, please pardon me. I seek forgiveness. I could not stop the mob. I could not prevent the disaster. I am deeply ashamed. Sir, we are ready for any punishment you give us. But Sir, please come back. I tried whatever I could to get in touch with you. But failed miserably. Now Sir, please take charge of your land and please come back to stay here. There were many proposals to purchase the place. But we refused all of them. We wanted to hand over the place to you.” Then Mr.Patil looked at the sons. "Satish, Ramesh, and Suresh. Children, please forgive this old uncle. I was not able to stop the mob from destroying your property. I am guilty. I need to be punished. Please tell your father, to come and stay here. We will build the house for you. You do not have to do anything. We only need your presence here.” "Patil, these children have become a big entity. Satish has become the Principal of a college. Ramesh has become the chief conservator of our state. And Suresh has become the chief medical advisor for the state. He keeps visiting various countries. All of them are very busy.” “Oh my God! I am so happy to know this. Bandya.” Patil called the young Sarpanch. “Bandya Sawant, This is the great sir, in whose factory your father worked. “ “I recognized them as soon as they came. Come on Sir, you will meet another person who is on death bed but keeps seeking pardon often. Yes, my father is waiting to see you, sir.” "Sir, please go and see his father. He is holding on to his life just to apologize to you. After you see him, we will have lunch together. Children, are you ready to share our meal? It won't be like your five-star meal. " Patil said. “Surely, we will come back and have lunch with you all.” All of them went to the other house. The old person could not get up. Ganesh Pant held his hand and with tearful eyes said,” Now I have come here. I have forgotten everything that had happened. Don’t feel guilty. Get well soon.” Tears poured out of Sawant's eyes. He could not say a word. The young Sarpanch, Bandya, his son brought a few cut mangoes and offered them. “Mr.Patil is waiting for the meal to share with you. We will go back to him. “  Ganesh Pant rose with a heavy heart. Again, held the hand of bedridden Mr.Sawant. He could see Sawant’s face brightening up. Sawant in his choked voice said, ”Sir, That night when we came to your house with Patil to warn you about the anticipated danger, you were reluctant to consider yourself as separate from the entire village. Unaware that the agitation was against a particular community, you were ready to face the calamity with the entire village. You considered the whole village as your own family. " Sawant could not utter any word further. He took a deep breath and whispered, " And these impotent family members from the village could not protect you." Sawant was bawling all the way through. Ganesh Pant also could not stop his tears. He somehow controlled himself and said, “Sawant, I told you I have forgotten everything that happened that day. Please don’t feel remorse. It was not the fault of anyone from the village. The outsiders came and burnt our property. They were so many of them. How could you have controlled them? Please, for my sake, drop this guilt. I am settled in Ratnagiri. My children are doing very well in their lives. Please do not worry. Now, if you want to make me happy, take your medicines and get well soon. I am going to come back only if you yourself will come to receive me at the temple.” “Promise, Sir?” Sawant said with freshness on his face. “ I will definitely be there to receive my God back to my village.” Sawant again bawled intensely. Ganesh Pant patting on the Sawant’s back, said, “Now, no more weeping. Let me see you smiling.” Sawant forced a smile. Ganesh Pant and his family left the house heavy-hearted. They had meals with Patil’s family. Ganesh Pant and his wife assured the Malgundkars, the villagers from Malgund, that they would shift and would be an integral part of the village. The Gogte family left Malgund on a happy note.


My spoon clanked against the sides of my cup as I stirred it around and around. I watched as the peppermint tea swirled in sync without really seeing anything at all. My mind told me what to do but my heart wasn't in it. I set the spoon on the counter beside my cup and lifted the steaming mug to my lips, taking a long drink from it. The flavor that I usually loved was tasteless on my tongue. I set the cup back down in defeat. My ears were attuned once again to the deafening noise around me. It seemed the entire extended family had come out for the funeral. People I didn't even know but claimed to be family had all wanted to wish me well and offer their condolences. But it wasn't their words I wanted – I wanted to be left alone. I turned to face the crowd, leaning my back against the counter. It felt as though the kitchen was going to explode with the magnitude of people crowding around. The same went for the living room. So many people. . . My mind drifted to another time, another place, as I stood there in my grief. Once again I was sitting next to Mom's hospital bed, having my last conversation with her. “ How's school?” Her voice was weak and her eyes drooped as she turned to face me. “ It's good.” I took a deep breath, trying to choke back my tears. “ Getting good grades?” I shrugged. Grades weren't my priority right now. “ Lottie.” My fingers stilled from where they had been picking at a fraying thread on my jeans, but my eyes remained fixed on the spot. “ Honey, look at me.” Slowly, I raised my eyes and met her gaze. The pain hit me all over again. “ Talk to me.” Love showed so clearly through her gaze, causing the already forming lump in my throat to tighten all the more. I swallowed multiple times but couldn't seem to get it to go down. I knew I was going to cry and I hated myself for that. Mom needed me to be strong for her, not fall apart every time I came to visit. She reached her hand out towards me and I placed mine in it, feeling her thin skin and bones that seemed to poke through. She was so frail. So weak. But yet so strong. “ Let it out, Lottie.” And this time I did. The tears poured freely down my face until I knew my eyes would be miserably swollen and puffy later. I cried until I couldn't see her face through the tears. “ Mom, why do you have to go?” The sound of obnoxious laughter drew me from my thoughts and pulled me back to reality. I realized then that a single tear had fallen down my cheek and, by the way my throat was closing up, I had a feeling that more were coming. Abruptly, I turned to face the counter and picked up my tea again, taking a long drink before anyone noticed I was crying and came to offer more sympathy. “Okay, here's another one,” a voice came from behind me. I knew that voice all too well and the sound of it made me cringe. It was the voice of my next door neighbor – Rodger Hillingdale. The obnoxious, ever optimistic, boy that overtook the halls of school with his laughter. It grated on my nerves. “What do you use to catch a nerdy fish?” He waited for a pause and I could almost feel the excitement reverberating from him. “A bookworm!” Grating laughter followed. I looked up at the ceiling as I tried to calm the anger that suddenly overtook my whole body. What kind of person made jokes at a funeral? Apparently Rodger Hillingdale did, and my annoyance towards him went up another notch. Time seemed to pass by in milliseconds and I was beginning to wonder if anyone would even be gone by nightfall. Maybe I could sneak upstairs without anyone noticing me. The thought sounded appealing, especially as another burst of laughter came from Rodger's group. I couldn't take it anymore. Cup of tea in hand, I spun around to make my escape and ran straight into Rodger. My hand was bumped and tea sloshed equal parts on Rodger's button-up shirt and my black dress. When I looked down there was nothing left in my cup. I stood there open mouthed, my arms spread apart as I felt the tea seep through my clothes. Rodger, too, was examining his shirt, but merely looked back up at me with a crooked grin on his face. “I prefer to drink my tea, thank you.” My jaw clenched. That was the last straw. “Why are you even here? Who invited you anyways? This is a funeral, if you haven't noticed. We don't need your kind here.” I stopped then to catch my breath and realized I had been yelling. Everyone in the kitchen had gone silent and Rodger stood before me with a stunned expression on his face. Never had I felt so rotten. I slammed my cup down on the counter so hard I was surprised it didn't break and ran from the room. Footsteps sounded behind me, along with the sound of Aunt Susanna's voice. I made it to my bedroom and locked the door before she could reach me, immediately heading for my closet. I had barely opened the closet door before the tears began. With my tea soaked dress, I sank to the floor of my closet and let the tears come. I pulled my knees to my chest and buried my face in the fabric of my dress. My blonde hair cascaded around me and enclosed me in a world of my own, in a safe haven. The sun sank low in the sky and the sounds from below finally began to quiet. My eyelids grew heavy and sleep began to overtake me as I whispered the question I had never gotten an answer to. “Mom, why do you have to go?” ~ A week passed and Aunt Susanna officially moved into the house. Into my life. As if nothing had ever happened. As if my life hadn't come to a halt. She ordered me out of the house; said I needed fresh air, said it would be good for me. But I knew it wouldn't make a difference. It wouldn't take away the black hole that Mom's passing had created. It wouldn't fill the emptiness. Nothing would. As I stepped out onto the back porch, a gush of air hit me full in the face and I breathed deeply. Somehow it didn't feel as refreshing as it once had. Nothing felt the same anymore. Not without Mom. Something touched my leg and I looked down to see my cat, Muffin, rubbing against my leg. I bent down to pet her, but even the simple act of petting my cat didn't hold the same appeal it once had. I stood back up and started walking. Birds chirped overhead and the trees swayed with the wind but I barely noticed. I barely noticed anything. My feet moved but my eyes were glazed over. My heart felt nonexistent. “Hey, heads up!” I jerked my gaze up from my feet to find none other than Rodger Hillingdale running straight towards me. What was he doing here? My first inclination was to turn around and walk back to the house, but before I could even change direction the force of a dump truck plowed into me. With a half scream, my arms flailed and I fell backwards to the ground. No sooner had I touched the green earth beneath me than a squealing, squirming puppy was on top of me and licking my face with his sloppy, wet tongue. “Pipsqueak, bad boy!" The beast was pulled off me and I wiped my face with the back of my hand. Rodger stood over me with the golden retriever puppy squirming every which way in his arms and he struggled to keep his hold on him. “Are you okay?” he asked. My eyes flashed. “Okay? I just got plowed over by that beast and you ask if I'm okay?” I wiped my face off again, feeling like I had a gallon of dog slobber on my face and no amount of wiping would get it off. I got to my feet and crossed my arms over my chest. “Can't you contain that thing?” “Well, first of all, Pipsqueak is not a 'beast' or a 'thing', and, second, have you ever tried containing a puppy?” His eyes sparkled with humor, frustrating me all over again. I rolled my eyes and made a disgusted noise. “Whatever. I don't care.” I turned around and planned to walk away but he grabbed my arm suddenly and stopped me. “Wait,” he said. “I wanted to apologize.” “Oh?” I waited. “Yeah, I'm sorry for the way I acted the day of your mom's funeral. It was insensitive. I'm sorry.” I was actually surprised by the sincerity behind his words and was momentarily speechless. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that.” Again I turned to go. This time he stepped around me to block my path. “What is it this time?” I asked. He had done his due diligence and now I just wanted to go home. Pipsqueak continued to squirm in his arms and it took both hands for Rodger to contain him. “I thought maybe we could be friends. I mean, we are next door neighbors and, well, you seem like you need a friend.” My first reaction was to blow up at him again. I didn't need a friend; I needed my mom. But then, before I could say a word, I noticed the expression on his face. An expression of true care and consideration. It occurred to me that a friend might be nice. I looked away from his persistent gaze and tried to frame the words in my mouth. “You know what? Don't decide now.” He placed Pipsqueak on the ground and the dog immediately started jumping up at me. “How about you come over to my house and we can sit out back? We can watch Pipsqueak chase squirrels. It'll be fun!” “I don't know-” “C'mon.” He took hold of my hand and pulled me away before I could even finish my sentence. Pipsqueak ran in circles around us, yipping the whole time. We didn't stop until we reached his backyard and he ran into the house, leaving me with the excited puppy who thought my shoelaces were the best chew toy. “Hey! Stop that!” I pulled it out of his mouth, cringing at the slobber caked on it. “Here, fetch this stick.” I quickly grabbed the nearest twig I could find and threw it as hard as I could manage. A moment later, Rodger emerged with two cans of pop in his hands. We sat down in the lawn chairs and opened the cans. It was peaceful as we sat there sipping the cool liquid and watching Pipsqueak do his best to sneak up on the squirrels. His best being not very good at all. “So who names a dog Pipsqueak?” I asked. Rodger shrugged. “Mom thought it was a cute name and I was simply glad that she agreed to letting me have a puppy so I went with it.” “I don't think I've ever met your mom.” “Probably not. She works a lot so she's not around very much.” For the first time it almost looked as if his smile dimmed. “Where's your dad?” “He left us five years ago.” He said it so matter of factly, like he didn't feel an ounce of pain from it. But I knew that couldn't be true. Suddenly I saw Rodger in a different light. “I'm sorry.” He shrugged. “What about you? I know your mom. . .” his voice trailed off and for a second we didn't talk. “Where's your dad?” “I never knew him. He left before I was born.” “Wow. That's rough.” I nodded and we went back to watching Pipsqueak. I pulled my legs up on the chair and rested my arms on them. “How do you do it?” I asked suddenly. Rodger looked over at me. “Do what?” “Remain so happy all the time even though you rarely get to see your mom and your dad left you. It seems to me you would be, I don't know, more sad or something.” He shrugged. “I learned long ago that there's no point in letting it eat you up inside. Life throws you down, but it's not about how many times you fall. It's how many times you get back up.” I gaped at him and realized that my opinion of him had been all wrong. I turned back to my pop and took a long drink. Then a thought hit me. What if it wasn't just Rodger I had been looking at wrong, but life in general? ~ Clank. Clank - clank. I moaned as I was pulled from the dream I had been in. A dream with Mom. Clank. Clank. Clank. There it was again. I sat up in bed and looked around. It sounded close. Clank. “Lottie, are you awake?” I jumped out of bed and ran to my window, yanking it open with a jerk. Rodger stood down below with a flashlight in hand and a jacket wrapped tight around him. “What are you doing? You're going to wake the whole house!” “I whispered!” “If that's your version of a whisper then you need lessons.” “I'll be sure to sign up for some. In the meantime, you want to do something fun?” “No, I want to go to bed.” “Come on, don't be a stick in the mud.” “What do you want?” “It's a surprise. Just come down.” I blew out a breath. “You owe me for this.” I closed the window and turned back to my room. As quickly and as quietly as I could, I traded my pajama pants for a pair of jeans and pulled on my worn Converse shoes. On the way out the door I grabbed my jacket and tiptoed down the stairs. Outside, Rodger met me and grabbed my hand before I could say a word. We ran from my house to his with only the light from his flashlight to guide us. Without even taking a moment to stop, he led me around the side and up a lattice work that went all the way to the roof. “Rodger, is this safe?” “Probably not. But that's part of the fun.” I wasn't assured by his words but I was already half way up, so I kept climbing. He made it to the top of the house and peered over the side at me. “Take my hand,” he whispered down to me. I took my right hand off the lattice work long enough to grab hold of it. He pulled me up and a moment later I was sitting on the roof of his house. “Why did you bring me up here?” I pulled my jacket tighter against me. “I should be sleeping right now.” “Stop your grumbling.” He laid down with his back against the roof and stared up at the sky. “Come here,” he said almost reverently. I moved alongside him and followed his lead. When I looked up at the night sky above us I was suddenly speechless. The sight was magnificent. “This is gorgeous,” I breathed. Stars twinkled in the sky, giving the appearance of a thousand lanterns flickering on and off. They lit up the sky so that Rodgers' flashlight was no longer needed. It was like magic. “This is where I come when I need to think or clear my head.” I could feel his eyes on me. “I thought you might need to do that.” My breath caught and unexpected tears sprung to my eyes at his thoughtfulness. I did need to clear my head, and this was the perfect way to do it. There had been so much on my mind since Mom's passing and so many scary unknowns. If I was being honest with myself, I was scared of what life was going to be like with her gone. Would Aunt Susanna want to keep me indefinitely, or would she give me up? My thoughts had been a scary place of late, a place I had been trying to avoid. But here, under these brilliant stars, it suddenly didn't feel so overwhelming. It felt manageable. But what about tomorrow? When the sun rose and my thoughts returned along with the fears and doubts. What then? I looked over at Rodger as he gazed up at the sky and thought about his life. How he'd chosen to have a cheery outlook on life. Then I thought of how I'd been living life, or really, how I hadn't. I turned back to the stars with these new thoughts in mind. It was a choice. The question was, which one would I pick?


HE WAS LATE FOR THAT APPOINTMENT TOO Terrence had always been a latecomer. His schoolmates, from elementary school, remembered that there had been no a day that he didn’t arrive in class, out of breath, all in a hurry, always after the lessons had already begun. Even when he was no longer a child, Terrence continued to be regularly late. He arrived late not only to appointments with doctor, with dentist, but even with girls   to whom he cared a lot,  with whom he had to insist very much because they agreed to meet him. Not to mention his delays at job interviews when he had started looking for a job. Since he was always late, he had to wait a long time before he could find a job, which he soon lost because he kept arriving late every day at his job. But even when he had fixed to meet with friends for a soccer match or a dinner, it happened that he always arrived when  the match or dinner had already started without him. Sometimes he arrived when they were over.. So those , who knew him for his inveterate habit of arriving late , used to say, jokingly: “ Ah, Terrence…you will see that even death will get tired of waiting for him” Those who mocked him like that certainly could not know what would have happened several years later  to that chronic latecomer of Terrence.  Many years had passed when something happened that no one would have ever expected, that no one could have ever imagined. Terrence, now a mature man, was satisfied with his work____he had set up a major travel agency. He was also happy with his family. After a first marriage, which had lasted a few months, he had married Helen, with whom he had three children, now teenagers. His life was a satisfying, comfortable and also peaceful life.  What a pleasant surprise had been for him to receive that phone call from Charles, a friend of his teenage years, when they had been neighbors. Terrence had not known anything about him for years, since Charles had been living abroad for a long time. Charles was back in their town and he wanted to see him, he wanted to meet him as soon as possible. Of course, they had to meet. They had so many things to tell each other , not to mention the memories they had of their time together as teenagers. Terrence, enthusiastic, had invited Charles to dinner at his house, so he would know his family. And also, it must be added, Terrence would not have risked being late for their appointment. But Charles, after thanking for that invitation, had said that he preferred to meet him alone, at least for the first time they would see each other again. Of course he, Charles, would be happy to know his family later.  So they had agreed to meet at the bar, Arlecchino, which was next the stadium. Terrence and Charles had frequented the Arlecchino as boys, after watching a football match or after a friendly game between boys. “ I’ll be waiting for you in front of the bar at five o’clock. We’ll go into the bar together ”Charles said him.. Charles perhaps, after so many years, didn’t remember that Terrence was always late. But of the two, the one who ignored something very important about the other was Terrence, as Charles couldn’t really tell him the true raison why he had called him and why he was so eager, indeed impatient to meet him. Eh, it had been a long time since they had been boys and had played on the soccer field. Then they had been friends, although, how can we say?( how to say?), friends in the lightness and in the heartedness of that green age, friends to have fun together. So, who knows if they had been really friends. He, Charles, thinking back to those times, he had a faded memory of Terrence. Indeed he remembered that Terrence was ( had been) often quite annoying and even snooty. If he was happy to see him again after so long? Well, to tell the truth, Charles didn’t ask himself the question. As soon as he had been again in the town, he had looked for Terrence , since he absolutely had to see him. It was a simple business matter. If he had not been able to see Terrence, to meet him, Charles couldn’t fulfill the assignment which had been entrusted to him. He had therefore considered it appropriate, indeed necessary to give him an appointment to be sure he would see him again, instead of relying  on chance that in that town, sooner or later, he would meet him again. Charles was in a certain hurry to accomplish the task that had been entrusted to him. Therefore the day after his phone call,  Charles at five in the afternoon, but rather a few minutes earlier, was in front of the Arlecchino bat , waiting for Terrence. As soon as Charles arrived, he sat at a table outside the bar and asked for a coffee. Among those who came in and out the bar there was more than one that ( who) he recognized, despite all the time that had passed since he had not seen them. But no one seemed to recognize him. Indeed no one seemed to pay attention to him. To the left of the bar, beyond the bend in ( of) the street, there was the stadium, with its soccer field, from where shouted words arrived to him. “ On, hurry up! On, get the ball!” ….” Warning: shot on goal!” Probably a football match ( game) was taking place , perhaps between boys, as then, when Charles and Terrence were ( had been) teenagers. Twenty minutes ( had) passed and Terrence did not arrive. Charles got up from the table in front of the Arlecchino bar and started to wait for Terrence , standing on the sidewalk.  Anyway, when Terrence had arrived, oh they would take something into the bar, but then… Charles knew that  , they , he and Terrence. would have to get away from there. He should have to get Terrence into his car and to take him to a….a suitable place. Well, maybe in the park next the station, which was just the right place. Time passed and not even the shadow of Terrence….Charles called him on the phone, but no one answered. He began to doubt that Terrence would come. A bad trouble for him ( it would be a bad trouble for him) , who could not wait to complete the task that had been entrusted to him. Not that Terrence had forgotten the appointment with Charles, but, as usual, he was late. He had started in time towards the bar where he would meet Charles. But, on the way, he had had so many unexpected events that had led him elsewhere. It had been about two hours since five o’clock. Charles, who had continued to wait for Terrence, going up and down  the sidewalk, and ( going) up and down from the sidewalk to the bar, was about to leave, to stop of waiting for him, when he was arrested. He was wanted on an international arrest warrant. If Terrence had arrived on time for the appointment, Charles would have killed him, as he had instructed to do.