Angelique grabbed the bar mop and wiped up the excess latte she’d spilled making up her last order. Hands on hips, she sighed loudly. It had been a stressful morning already, and it was only 8:30. The front door banged shut again, and she looked up in time to see five college girls blow in, all giggles, long blonde hair, and sunglasses. They’ll be wanting some fancy foo-foo drink no one ever heard of, and they’ll change their minds a dozen times between them, then someone will have forgotten their wallet. Wait and see. Angelique knew their type. A cough sounded close in front of her, and Angelique jumped. She looked down. Johnny Draw. “Hey, Johnny, sorry, I didn’t see you there. You want your usual?” Johnny nodded and muttered something unintelligible as his big dirty hand pulled a sealed, crumpled envelope from his army-green canvas jacket. On the front was written, “$4.92 for Johnny’s large coffee with cream.” Angelique knew there would be exactly $4.92 in the envelope. Johnny came into Perk-Up every day at exactly 8:30, and every day someone had taken the time to write on and fill a small white envelope with $4.92. She carefully grasped the envelope between her forefinger and her thumb, bubbling effervescently to Johnny to fill the time while he sat in his wheelchair in front of her. “Did you see the sunrise today, Johnny? I’ve been awake since 4:00 a.m., so it’s already been a long morning, but the sunrise made it almost worth it. I’m not a huge fan of Daylight Savings Time, really, but I do love when the days get long like this. Cool in the morning, hot in the afternoon. That’s just one of the reasons I love Indiana.” If she filled every second with chatter, he wouldn’t have time to talk, and she wouldn’t have to feel awkward asking him, “Excuse me? What was that? Can you please repeat that, Johnny?”

The problem, though, was that the line behind Johnny was getting long, and the college blondes were giggling at ear-splitting decibels. Angelique could feel the anxiety rising as she attempted to wind things down with Johnny. She’d been running short-staffed for the last two months. It seemed no one wanted to work for their paycheck these days. Regardless, she had several interviews set up over the next three days. She pushed a receipt across the counter to Johnny, avoiding direct eye contact, still chattering like a magpie, but to no avail. Johnny spoke, his words tumbling out sloppy and indistinct, “I need napkins please,” and spittle drooled out the corner of his mouth as if from the sheer effort of pushing his words out of his lips. Out of options now, and without excuse, Angelique looked Johnny in the eye and said, “Did you say you needed another napkin, Johnny?” Johnny nodded vehemently and smiled the smile of a much younger man. Every time Angelique looked at him, she was surprised. His cornflower blue eyes twinkled and crinkled around the edges and reminded her of a red-haired neighbor boy she’d known in the fourth grade. Poor Albert, with his freckled arms and face and legs. All he’d ever asked for in life was for his classmates to call him Al…and for Angelique to wear the bracelet he’d made or found or bought or stolen for her. Every time she looked at Johnny Draw, she remembered Albert and her cheeks flushed. Why couldn’t she have done just that much for him? They’d moved away the next year before she got to tell Al she’d worn his bracelet once. But, as Al always used to tell her, “Things have a way of working out.” In retrospect, as an adult looking back, she thought that seemed an awfully grown-up thing for a fourth grader to say. But she’d found it to be true time and again. Things have a way of working out. That, they did. Angelique tried hard to ignore Johnny’s spittle, and, looking at him directly in his Albert-blue eyes now, smiled her very best, most convincing smile. For Al, she thought, placing three additional napkins directly into Johnny’s grimy hand. Her fingers touched his for a moment, and she willed her hand to stay put, not to pull away. She wanted to tell Johnny he had nice eyes, but she couldn’t. Instead, she said, “You go ahead, Johnny. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.” She looked away but heard his guttural voice piecing together a sentence, “Thanks. You’s an angel.” Involuntarily, her head jerked around toward Johnny again. He was still smiling. The remainder of the rush cleared out quickly, and the college girls only changed drink orders three times, so the timing was good when Johnny’s coffee came up. Angelique stirred in creamer, and carried the coffee out to him, along with three extra-extra napkins. That big blue-eyed smile engulfed him again, as he said once more, “Thanks, Angel.” No one had called her Angel since fourth grade. That last year at Monte Bravard Elementary, her friends had called her Angel. Al called her that too, but the thing was, he called her that because he was of the honest opinion that Angelique was, indeed, truly and actually an angel. Angelique chuckled dryly. If only he knew how far from the truth that was. Angelique had no idea where Johnny lived or how he got to and from Perk-Up every day, and, until today, she’d never thought to wonder. But today she wondered. Each time she was ready to ask him, another customer came in or her attention was diverted. But when Johnny had been there almost an hour, the most remarkable thing happened. A very young woman carrying a toddler on one hip strode through the front door and approached the counter with the decisive air of one chained to a hurried schedule. Angelique could tell the young woman intended to look business-like, but the little fellow clinging tight to her wasn’t having any of it. The young woman’s top was coming untucked from her slacks, and wrinkles were imprinting themselves into her cotton suit faster than she could smooth them out. The buttons on her top ascended at a precarious angle until Angelique wondered if they were evenly buttoned. The young woman, Yvette, gave her name to the barista in a stilted, hurried, French accent. Angelique had thought this young woman might be her next interview, but the name didn’t sound familiar. Her small black coffee order underway and paid for, Yvette plopped right down at Johnny’s table and began a visible summation of the patrons in the coffee shop, as if looking for someone. Apparently not finding them, she grabbed her phone out of her purse and texted.  She wasn’t sharing the table with Johnny as much as she was pirating it. She wasn’t minimizing Johnny as much as she was simply unaware he was there. But the toddler was immediately smitten, smiling and reaching for Johnny. It only took seconds for Peter to land squarely and smoothly in Johnny’s lap. It was clear for everyone to see that a love affair was beginning. Some seconds into this love affair, Yvette looked up to see her little boy reaching, and her eyes met Johnny’s, ever so briefly. Unable to meet his gaze, she looked away, but her eyes kept returning to Johnny’s face, the drool slipping from the corner of his lips, his grayish curly hair and sideburns, his hands, and his army-green canvas jacket and pants. “Peter,” she whispered to the little tyke, “leave this man alone.” Peter’s blue eyes were merry, and he giggled and turned back to reach again for something shiny on Johnny’s lapel. “Peter,” his mother spoke more firmly this time, but still the little boy paid no attention. Johnny looked at Peter’s mother, and spoke quietly, “Sorry. I can leave now.” He reached down to Peter, still on his lap, and gave him a quick squeeze before attempting to boost him back up on the table. He whispered in Peter’s ear, “Youse got to git up now.” But Peter clung to Johnny, and when Johnny pried himself away, Peter’s tears started in earnest. Johnny leaned close to Peter’s face and whispered, “Ole Johnny be back tomorry. See Peter then,” and to Peter’s great delight, and Yvette’s great chagrin, Johnny kissed the top of Peter’s curly red head. If Johnny drooled on Peter, neither of them noticed or cared. “Bye-bye, Johnny, bye-bye,” Peter was waving furiously with one hand, the other tightly grasping something tiny. The door banged after Johnny when he left. “Peter, what is it? What’s in your hand?” Yvette asked, prying open the little fist. “No, Mommy. Mine,” Peter whimpered, to no avail, “mine, Mommy! No, mine!” Yvette pulled the object from her son’s tiny hand and looked closely at it. It was a medal. A Gulf War Desert Storm medal, about an inch in diameter, in which an eagle, wings fully extended, was set against an American flag shield, and backed in a mother-of-pearl material. “Oh, Peter! We must give this back to Johnny right away!” “Johnny…” Peter repeated, “Johnny.” “I’ll be right back,” Yvette told the barista, scooping up Peter, and running to the door Johnny had just exited. She stood and looked, but Johnny was nowhere to be found. Yvette stepped back into the coffee shop, looking as if the weight of all the world were laid at her doorstep for her to carry. She reached out to give Angelique the pin but something inside Angelique restrained her from accepting the pin for safekeeping. She looked at Peter’s blue eyes and red hair and thought she might well have been looking at Albert reincarnated. How many people in this world could have eyes like those eyes? Eyes that crinkled and twinkled and smiled? Eyes that summed you up and encouraged you to feel successful and empowered and appreciated? “He’ll be back here tomorrow at this time. He comes here every day. Why don’t you just meet him here tomorrow and give it to him yourself?” Angelique said. Then more softly, “What’s your name, dear?” Yvette was rocking Peter, who was holding Johnny’s medal tightly to his chest. “I’m Yvette.” “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you looked like you were headed somewhere important. I hope we didn’t hold you up?” Angelique said. “No. It was nothing.” That beautiful French accent. “Now, I’ve been around long enough to know when something is nothing or when it is something. This something was something, I’m pretty sure.” Angelique normally wasn’t this pushy but something compelled her to speak, to keep Yvette engaged. “Yes, the bank, they were having open interviews today, and my friend was supposed to meet me here to take Peter so I could go. But I’m afraid she is often forgetful, and she did not show up.” “You never know, things have a way of working out,” Angelique said. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow and see Johnny?” But Yvette seemed hesitant to go. Finally, she spoke again, “This man, Johnny. Do you know him?” she asked. “Not so much, I guess. He’s been coming here for years, and I always have just known him as Johnny Draw. I didn’t even know for sure he was in the service until this,” Angelique said, motioning toward the medal Peter still held. “He…Johnny’s eyes. They remind me of my husband’s,” Yvette said, “I’ll show you. My husband was an artist. That’s how he came to be in Paris, and how we met. This is my favorite picture of him, a self-portrait in pencil.” And Yvette pulled out a folded 9X13 page bearing the likeness of a young man. “You’re right – his eyes,” Angelique remarked, studying the sketch, “They are amazing. I can see why Johnny’s eyes reminded you of him. And little Peter looks like them both.” “Peter will never know his family. My husband and his father died in a crash last year. My husband’s grandfather served in the war and came home, but he never returned to his family.” Angelique stood and put her arms around Yvette quickly and said, “I’ll be right back.” Thirty seconds later, she returned from the employee lounge with $45. She tucked it into Yvette’s hand, and said simply, “Get yourself some dinner. You owe me nothing. Come back and see us tomorrow." Yvette nodded amid tears, packed up Peter and his precious medal, and paused to wave to Angelique from the door. Angelique opened Perk-Up at 6 a.m. the next day, the same as every other day, but today she had a spring in her step and a light in her eyes. Something good was going to happen today, she was sure of it. Things usually did have a way of working out. The big clock over the register showed 8:40 a.m., and Angelique felt a stab of worry. Was he going to show? Would this be the first time in years that he hadn’t shown up? And what about Yvette? Surely she would come back with Johnny’s medal. 9:00 a.m. came, bringing Yvette and Peter with it, Peter beaming ear to ear, and calling out, “Hey, Johnny! John-ny! Hey!” Angelique looked again at the clock, then at Yvette and Peter. The clock read 9:35, and Peter had settled quietly into his mother’s lap. For her part, Yvette had a sad and settled air about her, as she drank the last of her black coffee. The door opened just after she swallowed her last sip, and it was a good thing because she might have choked on it. Johnny Draw sat on his wheelchair, piloting it through the door frame and coming to a stop at Yvette’s table. Was it really Johnny? This man with the cleanly washed and trimmed hair, and the clean hands? This man with a cleanly shaven face and a crisp black shirt? This man with medals upon medals displayed on his shirt? “Johnny?” Yvette asked as Angelique watched in rapt attention. “Yez ma’am, at your service,” and Johnny gave a snappy salute and wiped the corner of his mouth with a clean handkerchief peeking from the corner of his breast pocket. “Johnny,” Yvette said again. Meantime, Peter had snuggled onto Johnny’s lap. “I got sumpin’ for the boy here,” Johnny said to Yvette. Turning his attention to Peter, he said, “youse go sit right there and hold real still for a while, and I got you a surprise. Cain’t you do that for me, young’un?” Peter nodded and sat where Johnny indicated he should. Johnny pulled a 9x13 sketch pad and a pencil from the pocket in the side of his wheelchair and began to sketch. “This gonna be you in a bit, boy. They didn’t call me Johnny Draw fer nothin’ now, did they?” “Things sure do have a way of working out,” Angelique thought once more.


As true as it is, I’ve always hated the line, “all good things must come to an end.” It has never made sense to me. What am I supposed to do when it all ends? ‘The End’ has never considered how it would impact me. What about my emotions? All that time I spent investing my thoughts and feelings only to find out that it would come to an end.

Seated on the floor, I leaned my back against the wall and started conversing with an old friend. Timor (footnote: Timor is Latin for fear ) sits and listens to what I say, holding my hands in his cold ones. Timor has always listened to me. Even when I have nothing to say, Timor stays by my side. I’ve known Timor for three years now but Timor has known me for longer.

But I’ve been caught in a circle. Crawling somewhere - anywhere… but I always end up at the start, with scars fresh and tenfold more painful. Unable to achieve anything and move onwards in life. At this point, I’ve stopped trying. My mind has gone blank - thoughts are foreign. Expressing my emotions into understandable words is too much effort. I don’t even know what to say, so what is the point?

Three years ago, everything had changed. I was okay with changes but this was different. Now, I’m more comfortable in my bedroom, without the lights on, with the curtains closed, and lying still on my bed. I desired nothing. And in that dark place, Timor always waited for me and again, I found myself in Timor’s embrace, scared and crying.

I attempted to regain myself through watching Youtube that would supposedly help but I found myself caught in the same circle. The more I tried to help it the faster I started to fall.

*** “What happened to you three years ago…” Timor’s question rang in my mind and the day started the resurface again.

The sky’s usually blue and white palette had changed to shades of grey. The sound of crashing rain on the black concrete and the muffled sounds of cries surrounded me. A crowd of people dressed in black walked past me, each saying something. Some hugged me. A few walked away quickly trying to not cry in front of me. All because you had gone.

Your photo was placed on top of the black box. Whilst everyone was crying, you were smiling. The twinkle in your eyes and the happiness and peace on your face, I couldn’t remember. You hadn’t smiled brightly for six months. The past six months I only saw pain on your face. But now, you’re at ease. So I wanted to send you off with a smile, but I couldn’t. I was reminded of all our memories. My young self in your healthy arms and the times you picked me up from school on rainy days. The meals filled of love that you prepared for me, regardless of how rude I was to you.

Our past that I wished so desperately was still our present. I couldn’t imagine a future without you. But that future was now my present. *** The three years that I couldn’t see my mother's face felt like a tidal wave against my sandcastle of memories of her. Since the day I was forced to say goodbye, I wasn’t the same. I had lost all my passion and desire. I was falling and crumbling and I couldn’t get back on my feet. Whenever I was upset, I would sit on my mother’s sofa and she would hold me tight, comforting me. But she was gone. Timor had taken her seat. He held me in his cold embrace whilst I cried through the night, falling deeper into a dark void.

“Do you want to try writing music?” she asked. Soft sunlight came through the window revealing the face I longed for the most. Held in my mothers embrace, I stared into her eyes trying to grasp the situation. She sat next to me, with a smile on her face. The warm yellow lamp next to her chair made her eyes twinkle. “You don’t have to explain anything to anyone. Whatever pain you're feeling right now, right it down. Write and forget. Let all your painful memories get blown away by the wind.”

As the wind blew through the big windows, the big white curtains were pushed forward, gently caressing my hand before they returned to their position. As my eyes followed the curtains, I saw a Jacaranda Tree ( footnote: Jacaranda Trees represent rebirth) outside the window - much like the one my mother waited for me under as I returned home. It’s beautiful violet flowers against the sunset looked like a sight only seen in fiction. Even though those violet flowers grow to fall, they grow every season without fail. And they look beautiful regardless of being on the floor or on the branches.

Can I be like that?

“Yes, I’ll try writing music,” I told her. The first time in three years, I had said ‘yes’. I didn’t know how far it would go but I wanted to try. Even though I didn’t have any passion for anything for the past three years - “I want to forget.” Lead by a broken compass I walked My legs gave up and I fell to the floor I couldn’t remember the time, I last saw your face Happy; I long for that again

I questioned the meaning of it all Desire and passion I had no more I wanted to run but I was stuck in one place Caught in a cycle of pain Dark clouds were over my head

Couldn’t see the end But you held my hand and told me It’s okay to cry just pick yourself up and hold your ground Your smile, oh the twinkle in your eyes

Reminds me of the time where I was alive And now a small spark lights up a fire in my heart Regardless of the season, I want to keep fighting Even if I lose a hundred times

I will pick myself up and hold my ground Writers Note First off, thank you for reading my story. I wanted to encourage readers that even if they had something bad happen to them, that as long as they try, nothing can get in the way of their happiness. You might not be going through a loss like my character is, however just like my character, you don't need a huge life changing situation to realise that you can be happy. So just a reminder, whatever is holding you down is not nearly as big as the happiness and blessings that your life holds. Life is a gift so enjoy it. And if your A-okay, then good on you for bringing that happiness not only in your life but others lives as well. Thank you.


Thirty-four-year-old Danielle yanked open the kitchen drawer and began rooting around amongst the motley collection of batteries, utensils, creased envelopes, and sandwich bags, until at the bottom, below the crumbs, paper clips, and tweezers she found what she was looking for. Triumphantly, she pulled out the Chinese takeaway menu. Twenty-four minutes earlier, she had tumbled in her front door. Laptop bag in one hand, keys in the other, handbag over her shoulder. As she did so, her fourteen-year-old son, Matt, slunk downstairs. ‘What’s for dinner?’ ‘Oh hello, Mum…How’re you? …What sort of a day have you had?... Would you like a cup of tea?’ ‘Hungry.’ ‘Yes, so am I…tired and stressed too.’ ‘You bring something in?’ ‘Do you see anything?… Go and see what you can find in the freezer.’ As she slid her shoes off, Matt shoved past her, down the shabby hall with its dated, grimy wallpaper, through the kitchen, and out to the garage. She followed him as far as the kitchen, took the kettle filled it, and switched it on. Then, through to the living room where she dumped her bags. When the kettle had boiled, she poured hot water into her mug, and Matt reappeared. ‘S’nothing in there.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous, course there’s something in there.’ ‘Nothing…‘cept next door’s cat.’ ‘I’m not in the mood, Matt…get back out there and find something.’ He stood in the doorway, glaring at her back as she took milk from the fridge and added it to her drink. Without turning, she said, ‘I mean it…if I have to go and do it, I’ll ground you.’ With an exaggerated sigh, Matt disappeared again and Danielle moved to the dishwasher and started to unload it. Minutes later, he returned. ‘Still nothing.’ ‘There must be!’ ‘I’m not lying…only Boots…frozen solid.’ ‘Matt…I’m warning you.’ Danielle gave in. She knew her son when he was in this mood. There was no use arguing and threatening, she may as well admit defeat now and go and look herself. Out into the damp dark evening, into the garage, she flicked on the light switch. She stood for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. She heard the familiar buzz of the fluorescent lighting tubes and glanced round at the jumble of her son’s bike, garden chairs, lawn mower, and other outdoor paraphernalia. She heaved open the chest freezer’s lid. The immediate cold blast made her hold her breath and blink, and then she peered in. Startled, she dropped the lid shut again. Matt had been telling the truth. Amongst a few frozen peas, the odd chip and a dried-out beefburger lay next door’s cat, Boots. He was in a curled position, eyes closed with a light frosting of ice covering the tips of his ears and whiskers. A slight noise behind her made Danielle turn. Matt had followed her out to the garage. ‘How did that happen?’ ‘What?’ ‘Don’t!…you know full well what I mean…How did Boots come to be in our freezer?’ ‘I put him in there.’ ‘Oh my God…’ Danielle’s hand shot up over her mouth. ‘No…no…He was already dead…I went in to feed him…he was lying on the sofa…I thought he was asleep, but when he didn’t move…I went over to stroke him…and he was dead.’ Danielle notices a tear escape from the corner of her son’s eye. Immediately, she crossed the few paces between them and wrapped him in her arms. She kissed the top of his head, inhaling the smell of unwashed hair, with a slight underlying aroma of body odour. ‘Are you sure he was dead?’ ‘Yeah…he was all stiff and cold.’ ‘But why’d you put him in the freezer?’ At this point, Danielle felt her son’s body begin to shudder with sobs. He may be almost as tall as her, but inside he was still a toddler. ‘Because that’s what happens when the police find a body…and I thought Pete and Mike might want to bury him…have a little funeral service or something when they come home.’ Matt had reluctantly agreed to feed their neighbours’ beloved pet, whilst they were on holiday – for a fee, of course!

‘Oh Matt…why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘You went to work before I got up…then you were late home…and I sort of forgot.’ She wanted to say ‘too busy on the PlayStation more like.’, but realised that now was not the time. ‘What’re you going to do?’ ‘We’re going to go in and order a takeaway…and I’ll have a think.’ Whilst they waited for their set meal for two to be delivered, Danielle considered her options. She had Pete and Mike’s phone number, ‘in case of emergencies.’, but it seemed a shame to ruin their holiday with bad news. After all, Boots had already been dead for more than a day. Matt appeared calmer now, he was moodily flicking through tv channels.            ‘You did remember to feed Boots, didn’t you?’            ‘Yes…went in every morning…gave him a pouch and some dried stuff.’            ‘Did he seem ill at all?’            ‘Nope…just how he always is.’ Danielle decided that she could wait until Pete and Mike returned before telling them of Boot’s death. Meanwhile, she needed to determine what to do with the cat’s body. In some ways, Matt had been right. Boot’s owners might have a special place in the garden where they wanted to bury him. But she couldn’t leave the corpse in her freezer until Saturday week when they were due home. She opted to call the local vet’s            ‘Good evening, Watt’s veterinary surgery.’            ‘Erm…hello…I wonder if you can help me?’            ‘I’ll try.’            ‘Bit of a strange question…my neighbours are on holiday and their cat’s died…’            ‘Mhmm?’            ‘Well…would you be able to store its body for me…until they come back?’            ‘We could put it in our freezer for you…there would be a charge.’            ‘How much?’ ‘It’s a daily rate of fifteen pounds.’ Blimey, ten days at fifteen pounds a day. That’s one hundred and fifty pounds. ‘I see…Thank you for your help…bye’ Replacing her phone onto the kitchen worktop, Danielle turns to Matt. ‘After dinner, there’s a job we need to do.’ ‘What?’ ‘We need to get Boots out of the freezer and wrap him up in a bin bag.’ ‘Eh…gross!’ ‘I know…but it needs doing.’ ‘Let’s do it now…get it over and done with.’ As Matt, enthusiastically ladled seconds of chicken chow mein, prawn balls, and special fried rice, he asked,            ‘They will still pay me, won’t they?’            ‘What?’            ‘Pete and Mike, they will still pay me for looking after Boots?’

*** On the day that Pete and Mike were due to return, Danielle kept an eye out for them. When she saw their car on the drive, she immediately went out.            ‘Good holiday?’            ‘Fantastic.’            ‘I’m sorry to ruin it …Boots died while you were away.’ Both men were upset. Danielle explained the circumstances, and where their pet’s body currently was. Pete said that he would pop round later to collect it. Conscious of the jumbled mess in the garage, Danielle led Pete through the gloom to the freezer. She opened it, and they were hit by the escaping sheet of cold air. Leaning over and reaching in, she pulled out the crispy plastic bag containing Boots and handed it to Pete. The thin film of ice on the inside of the bag began to rapidly thaw.

           ‘That’s not Boots.’            ‘Sorry?’            ‘It’s not Boots…He has a white patch on the top of his head…this isn’t him.’            ‘It must be…he was in your house…asleep on your settee.’            ‘Must’ve come in through the cat flap…taken advantage of our absence…Another cat was being a bit of a nuisance before we went away.’ And then, Mike appears in the garage doorway, cuddling a purring black and white cat.            ‘He just came in…miaowing like mad.’            ‘He’s not even thin…’            ‘Reckon someone else has been feeding him.’ Pete shoved the bin bag parcel of frozen cat back at Danielle.            ‘What am I supposed to do with it?!’            ‘Dunno…bury it.’            ‘What if its owners come looking for it?’            ‘Haven’t so far.’ Mike came to the rescue, passing the now struggling Boots to Pete, he said,            ‘Give it to me, I’ll sort it.’ Later, as Danielle hands Matt his twenty-pound cat sitting fees, she says,            ‘Made a change from last year’s popsicles laying around in the freezer.’ Mother and son catch each other’s eyes and begin to laugh.


A classic restaurant, big candles on the tables, soft lights, and high ceiling with huge chandeliers. Many suits and dresses surrounding the circular tables. A lot of waiters moving here and there, no music, just the noise sound of people talking at the same time, when you look at the scene you realize that no one is listening, everyone just talk, literally everyone ... except these two, they are sitting on two nearby tables, staring at each other’s eyes without even a blink. It seems that they don’t hear anything around them. It’s like they’re sitting in an empty place, just looking towards each other in a mixed felling appeared on their faces, it seems like they are both blaming each other on something they know. Jenny is 60 years old, randy is 62. Classic black suit and an elegant tie matching with his shining black shoes and a soft grey hair. And on the other side a woman with long off-white dress and 3-cm heels sitting like a queen ..but without her king, the king is waiting beside her for his beloved queen to crown him again. A long moment of staring towards each other without noticing of anyone around them. They were busy talking and filling up their stomachs. In fact, they were all there celebrating the engagement of Randy’s grandson Rob and sandy. It was there first time they see each other after so many years. Randy’s wife died 5 years ago, and it was the last time he saw jenny in 30 years when she consoled him for his loss.

Rob decided to interrupt this moment, he whispered in Randy’s ears: ‘I think you should invite her to our table, but I think that the man beside her can prevent this’ rob laughed. -

What? Who?! Randy asked nervously. ‘the woman you are looking at since we entered here’ rob replied. -

‘Ahh .. no, she is just like an old friend’. Randy answered him. He got embarrassed and asked a cup of orange juice with a loud voice, he wanted her to listen, they used to drink it in the past. He knew that she would still order the same until now. He never liked orange but he never told her that. Jenny smiled when she heard him, she remembered the old days, it doesn’t matter how many years it still feels like yesterday.

Rob and his fiancée were happy that night, sandy was delighted as she was waiting for this although they didn’t know each other for a longtime, it’s been only 6 months, they were working together for a newspaper, when they started to like each other, she worked before him in the newspaper and he was a clever journalist, at first he seemed uncomfortable to the place but by time he got familiar with people there. They dealed with each other a lot, discussing some essays and ideas, she believed that he would be a great journalist one day. Day after day and month after month she got attracted to him, she started to have some feelings towards him, but he seemed normal, until one day she confessed her love to him, he looked a little bit hesitated, he liked her also but not as much as she felt for him. He told her that he loves her at that moment, she was funny, responsible, and beautiful so he had no reason to block her, he thought of his last hesitation, he remembered his decision not to think too much in things again. Gazes turned into quick glimpses because some started to notice, especially her husband beside her, she loves him, or she started to love him after what randy did to her. She memorized all of things between them at that night and he also remember what made him do that. -

You were such a coward randy. -

I wasn’t sure of your love, but you were so rapid you betrayed me, you knew that I loved you. -

I wanted to have a family and you didn’t I still remember our talks. -

Wrong decisions can exist. -

I wanted that safety, that stability in my life, life is not for that type of persons randy, I needed you to be braver and you weren’t. A conversation that was in jenny’s mind, all of what she wanted to tell him about and there was no chance. Randy was that kind who fears from any commitment on him, he didn’t want any responsibility, he loved his job, so he was good at it and he loved jenny, but it wasn’t enough, he didn’t prove it and that was his fault. Laughs and smiles were on the faces of the two families of rob and sandy except his grandfather who was like regretting all the things he had done in the past. He wanted to return back home, every single moment in that place was as painful as someone who is whipped for a crime he didn’t do. Rob noticed his reactions, so he excused and took him to talk privately outside the restaurant. He wanted to know if something upset him, but randy replied that everything is okay, but he needs to rest only. Rob asked him about the woman he was looking at inside the restaurant and if she was the reason of all of this. Randy denied that she has any relation with this, and he only said that he wants to rest. He said goodbye to his grandchild and ordered a taxi back home. Rob was confused but he went back in and told them that randy is just tired. Rob continued his night out and it was great, they all had fun and they expected a perfect marriage soon as they seemed happy. Everything was good until that day, the day that rob decided to go to book a reservation for his honeymoon with sandy, the day that he faced the consequences of the influence of his grandfather on him. He went to an office that he knew from a friend where he met Lisa!! Lisa and rob is the parallel story of randy and jenny but in the present, rob loved her so much, he tried so hard to impress her in all ways, they were friends but he never told her anything and he never knew her feelings towards him, she got married and he knew nothing about her since then, and he meets her now, what should he say, should he tell her and take the chance or it’s too late, she is married and he is going to be soon. All these ideas in his head were vanished when she saw him, -

Ohh his rob it’s been a long time. -

Hi Lisa, yes so long time, how are you? He never wanted to ask about her health he wanted to ask her about her marriage, he wanted to know if there was a chance. -

I am good, I am working here, I am the manager of this department after jack departure, and you? -

I am still a journalist as you know, whose jack, do you mean your husband? Rob asked with hope. -

yes, he left the office after we broke up, so I got his place. there was a great joy inside him and a shock, what? Are you telling me this now! He was standing in confusion, it was the chance that he was looking for, that he wasted in the past, she was Infront of him again but, wait.. the weeding is within a week, what about sandy, she was nice to me, rob said in his mind. She loved him more than anything in her life.! -

Do you wanna book a trip, don’t you? She asked. -

No, I was just asking about some prices and costs, just a curiosity. He didn’t tell her that he was planning to book a flight to travel with his future wife, he kept his chances alive that time. -

What about you rob are you married? Another bullet, he didn’t know what to say. -

No, not yet…but maybe soon. He is in a critical situation now, but a man like rob can handle himself well. Rob decided to go to randy, he needed some advice from an expert. -

Look son, you remind me of myself, and I regret all of this now, and I can’t help you in this, you should decide you had put yourself in the worst situation that even the best solution will be bad. -

I invited her to dinner with her mother this night in my house. -

 I can’t encourage you to leave sandy for your old love and I can’t tell you to live with someone you don’t want to live with. I was wrong when I did that in the past, but I gave up my old love to live with your grandmother, I loved her but as I loved the first. -

She was the one in the restaurant that night. wasn’t she? Rob asked. -

  Yes, but look I want you to choose the best for you and your family and to bear your decisions. Rob left that day without a specific decision, but he called a friend to book a flight for two anyway, it could be for sandy as he planned or Lisa as he wished. …………………………………………………………………………………………….. It’s October 10 th , the day of the weeding, sandy was preparing herself with her family, she was delighted, she loved him, and he was nice to her. She called him in the morning, but he didn’t answer. It was weird as he should be awake. She tried another time but still no answer, she was worried, she waited and tried third and fourth and tenth time, but he didn’t answer, what was happening? In fact, he will not answer, because he is with me Maya, we are on the best place in the Maldives. Maya was his first love, but they argued about many things in the past and they broke up then he saw Lisa, but five days ago he met Maya again and immediately proposed to her and she accepted. -

Randy are you hungry. His wife asked. Randy also met an old friend and he married her, he will never get old, he will never get bored of new adventures. Rob is the same as randy, they both love to live freely, to do anything at any time. Maybe maya is not the last one and may be randy can have a new adventure but you will never know what goes in their minds. It’s me who writes this, Ashley, Rob’s wife.


Take a slight right in 2 miles. Dan loved his new car. And although it wasn’t brand new, it was new to him. A 2018 Volvo sedan, “best car in its class.” However, despite being the “best” technologically at the time, Dan still used the GPS on his phone, which protruded proudly from his dash via a connector he bought from Walmart.            “What the hell does ‘slight right’ mean?” Jack sat up in the back seat, his new girlfriend sliding off his shoulder like a loose sleeve. Dan heard her head hit the leather seat with a soft thud.            “I know, right?” Dan said a little too loud, glad that someone was awake. He looked back and forth from the road to Jack in the rearview mirror like an eager dog wanting a treat. Sarah, Dan’s sixth-month girlfriend, hated that and watched with disdain as the man in the back woke up and Dan’s personality disappeared. Sarah had been awake the whole time, staring down at her phone and purposely ignoring Dan.

           “How far we got to go?” Jack’s girlfriend sat up. Dan loved hearing her voice. It was soft, but her tone was direct, as if she were really talking to just you.

           “About two hours. That’s if we don’t stop again for piss-breaks.” He looked tauntingly over at Sarah, only to find a middle finger floating in the air beside him.            They drove on. In three-quarters of a mile, take a slight right on to interstate 419. “I think ‘slight right’ means it’s not a direct turn, y’know?” Dan explained as if he had been thinking about Jack’s question for five minutes. Sarah decided to play along and, in the same volume as Dan, she said, “I don’t know, Dan, I think a ‘slight right’ still means right, so it’s still a turn.” She watched his uncomfortable eyes dart back at Jack.            Dan breathed, “Whatever, Sarah.”            “Yeah, you’ll think ‘whatever’ tonight, driver boy,” she said and then made a sad face for a Snapchat picture.            Dan looked at her with a frowned brow, “What’s wrong with you?”            Sarah felt useless and bored and said, “Better not miss your turn, driver boy…” Turn Now.

“Shit!” Dan exclaimed as he drove a little too fast into the turn, and Sarah laughed a little too loud.            “Heh, heh, sorry ’bout that, guys,” Dan said.            “Those ‘slight rights’ are harder than ya think, huh?” Jack’s girlfriend was fully awake and looking forward, as if watching for another turn.            “They’re a riot,” Sarah said, never looking up from her phone.            Stay on 419 for 93 miles.

“Alright,” Dan yelled, “ninety-three miles free of the GPS bitch.”            “That’s weird to say,” Jack’s girlfriend said thoughtfully. Dan was the only one who seemed to hear her. Jack was still looking out the window, imagining himself in a red truck, and Sarah was beyond his sarcasm, looking at her phone that was displaying memes of sarcasm.            “Why weird?” Dan asked, actually curious, and sadly endeared because someone was listening.            “I always thought of the GPS as sincere and honest. She – it is always trying to find the best route for wherever you are headed at the time.”            “I guess you’re right. Never thought about it like that, never appreciated it.” Dan smiled, looking at his phone stuck to the dash where the GPS voice emerged from.            “Maybe you should give it a name,” Sarah chimed in. Her voice held the sticky drip of ridicule. She had been listening. She was always listening, even when she wasn’t. Dan thought at that moment that Sarah might hate him and knew at least, she did not like him.            “Vicky. Let’s call her Vicky!” Jack’s girl said eagerly from the back.            “Heh, she sounds like a Vicky,” Dan said, hoping this pissed Sarah off, who did indeed smirk in disgust.

In one mile turn left on Van Buren Road.

Dan looked perplexed. He looked at Sarah and said, “I thought it said we were going to be on 419 for the next ninety-three miles.”            “Maybe it’s a detour. Just to be safe, better take it. There might be a wreck on 419 or some construction.”            “Seems like it would have considered that before.”            “Unless it is a wreck and just happened.” Sarah spoke the whole time without looking up from her phone.            “Vicky wouldn’t lie to us, Dan,” said Jack’s girlfriend. Dan smiled at her through the rearview.

Take the next left onto Van Buren Road.            “ Okay, Vicky,” Dan said jokingly.

Stay on Van Buren Road for two miles.

“How much farther until we hit Florida?” Jack asked from the back.            “I think about an hour,” Dan said.

Take a left in one mile on Irwin Street.

This bothered Dan, but he refused to voice his concern again. Another left would take them away from the original route even more.

Stay on Irwin Street for 22 miles.

About ten miles in, Dan said, “This seems really out of the way. I mean look at these houses. This is not a main road.”

           “Hmm,” Sarah replied.            Jack was dozing again, but his girl leaned forward and rested her face on her arms on the back of the front seat. Dan could see her round face framed by her long black hair in his peripheral vision. She smelled like soap, and it was mixed with the sweet smell of bubblegum as she breathed, “I think these side roads are interesting. It’s like glimpsing a hidden world. It’s like going back to nature.” Dan was nodding in agreement.            “Whoa! Watch the road, driver boy!” Sarah put her hand on the dash as Dan slightly swerved back onto the road.

Take the next left on Chapel Street.

“What? By my calculations we still have about five miles on this road…”            “Better listen to her, Danny-boy,” Jack croaked from the back.

Turn now.

“Okay,” Dan said doubtfully, and eased into the turn.

Stay on Chapel Street for 1.2 miles.

The road was a single lane road with no divider lines. Dan’s eyes were wide as he observed the green, Southern foliage closing in upon him.            “This is exciting.” Jack’s girlfriend giggled as she nudged up under Jack’s arm like a cat. Dan could not remember the last time Sarah had done something like that.            “Yeah, if you like getting lost,” Dan countered, a little beyond appreciating her enthusiasm.

Take the next right on King’s Street North… Dan.            “ What? Did you guys hear that? It said my name. The GPS said my name!” He plucked his phone off the dash and looked at it. He looked at Sarah. “Did you hear that?”            “Yeah, take the next right,” she said.            “No, it said my name! The GPS said, ‘Dan’.” He held the phone in front of her as if that would prove something.            “Is Vicky talking to you directly now, Dan?” Jack’s girlfriend teased. Dan began to wonder if he just imagined the GPS saying his name and decided to drop it.

You are still on the fastest route.

“See there, Danny-boy, a little reassurance. Just listen to… what did you call her? Vicky?” Jack had become suddenly preoccupied with his backseat friend, so Dan did not comment. He simply drove.

Turn right on King’s Street North now.

Dan slowed, turned, and was surprised to find the road was unpaved. “What the hell? Where is this thing taking us? Sarah, will you double check the destination?”            “I already did while you and nature girl were looking at houses,” she lied. “It’s fine. Just keep going. I’m sure this road will turn back onto blacktop soon.”

Remain on King’s Street North for seven miles.

The trees and undergrowth were even closer and, in some instances, brushed the side of the Volvo, making Dan cringe.            After about ten minutes, Dan could not stand it anymore. He blurted out, “This can’t be right. I think the GPS has gotten us turned around somehow.”

You are still on the quickest route… Dan.

Everyone in the car sat up.

           “Did you hear it? Did you hear it that time?” Dan almost screamed.            Sarah picked up Dan’s phone and looked at it inquisitively. “Do you have some weird maps app that listens to you and personalizes information?” She turned it in her hand.            “No. Just maps. Came with the phone.” Dan was looking back and forth between everyone in the car and the road. He felt vindicated and relieved.            Jack’s girlfriend spoke up, “Vicky, can you hear us?” Nothing. However, they all were curious to see if her experiment would work.            Jack still sat at attention, looking forward. He flinched as a branch hit his side of the window, then said, “I wonder if it’s something new Google is doing. Y’know, they take all our information and use it for whatever they want.”            Take the next left on Yellow Springs Road, Dan.            “Man, that’s weird.” It even unnerved Sarah. Sarah, whom Dan was going to break up with when they got back from Florida.            “I think we should turn around,” Dan muttered.            You are still on the quickest route. Turn now.            Dan obediently turned. He was surprised the road could get any narrower, but it did. A heavy silence ensued, and the Volvo rolled on down another dirt road.

Turn right now.

Dan turned again, thinking the road looked more like a driveway than a road. He also noted that Vicky was not listing road names anymore. No one spoke. Even the love birds in the back seat looked around as if they were on a daunting carnival ride.

Stay on this road for 27 miles.            Dan sighed. The trees had become increasingly close to the car and shut out the sun with a dark canopy of brown and black. Dan felt as if his vehicle were sliding down into some fathomless depth, and he could not come back to the surface.            They drove on in silence.            Forty minutes passed before Vicky spoke again.

Take the next right.

Dan slowed into the turn and again felt as if he were entering a long driveway. Eventually, they came to a bridge.

Cross the bridge.            He crossed a wooden bridge that spanned a rather deep creek, and everyone looked over the edge to see the water rushing beneath them. The Volvo eased off the wood with a creak and back on to the grind of the dirt road.

There is a house 1000 feet ahead. This is your destination.

“Okay, that’s it. We have to turn around. This is getting way too strange.”            “Just keep going, man,” Jack said from the back. “Let’s see what’s ahead. You can’t turn around here anyway.”            “That’s fine, but as soon as I see a spot, I’m turning around.”

You are still on the quickest route, Dan.

“Oh, shut the hell up, Vicky!”            The house had been obscured by the trees, but soon came into view as Dan eased his car down the lane. It was a single-story unit with dirty white siding. There was a small porch on the front, flaking paint and littered with car parts and what looked like an ancient washing machine. Several chairs of different kinds were strewn about on the lawn. Some were kitchen chairs, some were lawn chairs, some were broken and in pieces. In the center of the yard, there stood a soiled, yellow kitchen table with several bottles and containers of different color resting on it.            As Dan pulled up, Vicky spoke.

Turn off the car and go inside the house, Dan.

Dan stopped the car, but did not turn it off and, for one brief moment, thought he was getting pranked. However, he realized that no one in the car cared enough about him to go to such lengths.

           He looked at the others in the car, who were looking back at him. They were waiting to see what he was going to do, then advise him.            “You gonna go in, man?” Jack’s voice was quiet.            “I’m going to try and turn around and back-track our route. That’s what I’m going to do.” Dan felt shocked at Jack for even asking.            “At least go in. I mean Vicky said to go in,” Sarah said, looking at the house.            “Are you nuts? That could be a murder house. Why the hell would I go in?”            Sarah retorted, “I doubt maps would be allowed to take you someplace that would do you harm. I think it will be fine.”            From the back, Jack’s girlfriend blatantly said, “Hell, I’ll go in.”            “Wait!” was all Dan could say before she was out of the car, a hot breath of air rushing in to take her place. Once outside, she stretched and let out a long squeal. “God, it feels good to stand!”            “Jack, stop her, man!” Dan pleaded.            “Dude, she’ll be fine,” Jack said, not moving from his seat. “The GPS said to go in.”            Sarah was on her phone, and said, “Did you know sometimes bees sting other bees?” She then proceeded to take a Snapchat picture of herself fake laughing at the random fact. Dan shook his head in disbelief, and wanted to ask Sarah again, “What’s wrong with you?” But he knew the reason for his alarm would not register. He opened his door and stood by the sedan with his hand on the hood.            “You need to come back to the car!” he yelled, but she was already on the porch. Randomly, she picked up what looked like a metal box from the top of the old washer, and screws and nails fell out at her sandaled feet. She looked back at the car, shrugged her shoulders and laughed, then put the box back.            They all watched as she knocked on the door, her jean cut-offs just high enough to see the bend in her cheeks as she stood on her tiptoes to look through the door’s high window. She knocked again and then tried the doorknob.            It opened.            She looked back and waved with a smile, then walked in.            “What the hell!” Dan felt helpless and walked toward the house, but then came back and sat down in the car. He left his door open, and that was how they heard the scream.            All three passengers in the car looked at the house, but did not move.            “Oh shit. Jack. Did you hear that, Jack?” Dan’s voice was a careful whisper, as if awaiting another scream.            Jack did not say anything. Sarah was holding her phone up, recording the front of the house where nothing was happening.            “Jack, you gotta go get her, man. Go see if she’s okay.”            “I’m not going in there!” Jack said defensively.            “She’s your girlfriend!”            “She’s not my girlfriend. I just met her. She got in the car when you guys picked me up at Fort Hood.”            “She’s your girlfriend. You two have been fooling around all the way here.”            “Dude, she came on to me. I thought she was with you guys.” Jack always said “dude” when he was serious, as if it made him sound more sincere or credible. Dan decided he did not like it.            “We thought she was with you.” Dan tried to think, tried to remember when she got into the car. It was just before Jack got in the car.            “Dude, I don’t even know her name.”

I know her name.

Dan grabbed his phone from its perch on the dash and turned it off. He looked at Sarah, but she was on her phone again. Dan could not imagine what she was looking at. She looked up and saw his outraged countenance and angrily responded, “I was looking to see if there were any strange murders in this part of the state.”

           “And what part of the state are we in, Sarah? Where the hell are we?” Dan closed his door and put the car in reverse.            “I don’t know what part of the state we are in, Dan. You turned off your maps!”            He stopped the car and seriously imagined opening her door and putting his foot against her hip and pushing her out. Instead, he finished turning and headed out of the drive with a little more gusto than he drove in with, eventually crossing the bridge. None of them looked over the edge this time. He did not worry about the trees brushing against his car or the wide narrow creek as he splashed through it.            Once on the blacktop again, it seemed like only moments before they were back on 419. After driving on the main road for a while, Dan pulled over at a diner, took Sarah’s phone out of her hand, and called the police.            Sadly, as they sat there in the parking lot of the restaurant, Dan and his cohorts could not give the police the girl’s name, only a description.  Jack and Sarah only shrugged at questions when Dan asked for help remembering something. Dan finally got out of the car and leaned back against his Volvo as cars whizzed by.

           The lack of details surprised the official, and Dan’s entourage was asked to come into the local precinct to make a statement, but honestly, even Dan was afraid to go. Instead, he hung up in frustration, and they all walked into the roadside dive, aptly named Debbie’s Diner.            Later, when he crossed into the Everglade State, Dan was glad that Jack and Sarah were not with him. He left them at the diner, sitting there in a booth, looking down at their drinks. Dead to him.            In the fading light, as Dan drove down a long stretch of wide Florida road lined with indifferent palm trees, his phone came on by itself. He had put it back on its perch, and now watched it curiously as twilight made the sky pink in front of him.             He calmly said, “Vicky?”

Yes, Dan?


“Can you keep a secret?” asked Mr. Macado Greere of his bulldog, Fairy. The dog stretched her back out and groaned. Her nails scratched on the kitchen floor. Mr. Greere pulled a crystal glass out of a kitchen cabinet above the counter and set it down. Fairy settled and put her nose on her paws. “The annual Bibury Garden Fair is coming up,” Mr. Greere continued. He put a slotted absinthe spoon over his glass and balanced three sugar cubes on top. “With Mrs. Estes dead, I aim to win first prize with my vegetable marrows. They are massive this year.” Fairy opened one golden brown eye incredulously. Mr. Greere pulled a tall green bottle toward him on the counter and uncorked it. The sweet smell of licorice and anise seed perfumed the small kitchen and gathered near the window above the sink as Mr. Greere poured the green liquid over the sugar cubes, dissolving them through the slotted spoon into the glass underneath. As ice cold water splashed into the glass next, the liquid turned pea green. “You may laugh now, Fairy,” Mr. Greere said, as he recorked the absinthe and tasted his mix with a pleased sigh. “But the secret is I bought a new fertilizer. See for yourself how marvelously big my marrows are. Amazing what the right stuff will do for a marrow.” He opened the kitchen door and walked out into a walled garden. Plentiful rose bushes and shrubs hid the raised marrow bed from any eyes that might peep over the brick wall, and the marrows were thriving. The long, green vegetables were fat and long and shiny in the afternoon sun. Mr. Greere regarded them proudly standing on the stone path. He leaned down to scratch Fairy’s wrinkled head. “They are beauties, old girl, and the biggest I have ever grown. Not a word about my new fertilizer! I am bound to win, bound to. It is about time a real man won the garden fair, not some old lady without any balls to go alongside her marrows!” He snorted. Fairy tilted her head at the marrows before she whined. Quite near, the train whistle went up, marking the arrival of the 1:15 and Mr. Greere agreed, “Time for our walk, old girl.” He left his empty glass in the kitchen and donned his hat and coat in the hall. He took up his cane as he went out the front door and locked it behind him. Out through the white front gate and he walked jauntily into the street. The walk to the woody park at the heart of the village was short, but Mr. Greere passed through the village on the main road. He tipped his hat to the few ladies left strolling the street near the Bibury Tea Parlor and soon approached the station. Mr. Greere almost stopped as he saw a lady standing alone on the platform with her white suitcase at her feet. She held a map upside-down and looked confused. “Madame,” Mr. Greere tipped his hat to her. “You look lost; may I assist you?” “Why!” cried the female with big blue eyes and massive golden curls under her tiny hat. “I am lost. Sadly lost. I am looking for the cottage of Mrs. Agnes Estes. I am her niece, you know, and I have just been told I inherited her place.” Mr. Greere tipped his head back and hid his satisfaction at the old lady’s passing. “Pray do allow me to accompany you safely to the cottage as I am passing that way. Allow me to take your case, Miss Estes.” The girl fluttered her hand as Mr. Greere took up her suitcase and tucked his cane under his arm. “I am indebted to you, Mr.. . ?” “Macado Greere,” said the gentleman. “Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?” “Pinkola Estes,” said the girl. She stepped down onto the street in her delicate blue hells, holding her purse with both gloved hands. “Mrs. Estes was a sad loss to our little village,” said Mr. Greere. “She was a dear lady and never failed to spice up the annual fair by winning first place with her vegetable marrows. The fair will not be the same without her.” Pinkola laughed. “They say we have green thumbs in my family. I am afraid I am the black sheep; cannot grow a thing without killing it.” “Indeed!” said Mr. Greere. “Tell me,” said Pinkola. “Who is this darling dog?” “This,” said Mr. Greere. “Is Fairy.” Pinkola paused to lean down and pet the doggie before she resumed walking. “Tell me about the garden fair. My aunt often wrote to me about it. I understand you gave her stiff competition with your marrows.” Mr. Greere smiled. “Why, yes, I always did try for that red ribbon. The fair is annual, you know, with plenty of flowers and pigs to go round, but I am rather proud of my marrows, if I do say so myself. Good seeds, that is the secret.” Pinkola laughed again. “I grew up in a village quite like this one, you know, before I went to London. I remember my brother raised a pig once and won first prize.” Mr. Greere dismissed the pigs. “We take pride in our roses and marrows here in Bibury.” “Huge, ugly things are marrows,” Pinkola remarked. She sighed. “Except for some. I have seen some marvelous marrows in my time.” “Here we are, my dear,” Mr. Greere said. He stopped at a gate in need of paint off the village road leading into the country. Pinkola stared at the overgrown garden that pushed and shoved at the surrounding picket fence and nearly hid the stone cottage from view. “My! It is quite overgrown.” “A solid piece of property all around, I assure you,” Mr. Greere said. “We are proud to house Evan, the best handyman for miles around, right here in Bibury. He will fix you up in no time.” Mr. Greere opened the front gate and used his cane to clear weeds off the path leading to the house so Pinkola might reach the door untroubled. She dug in her purse for a key and unlocked the front door. She sniffed as she entered the foyer. “My! It is dusty in here.” She turned to Mr. Greere. “I do thank you, Mr. Greere, for your kind assistance and company.” Mr. Greere set down her suitcase and tipped his hat. “A pleasure, Miss Estes. Good afternoon.” He went out through the front gate and walked briskly down the lane homeward. Fairy bounded beside him. “A nice girl, Pinkola,” Mr. Greere said. “How splendid her aunt is dead; I do look forward to hanging something other then refried dreams on my trophy wall.” He passed the Tea Parlor on his way home; the Ladies’ Society was gathered there so engrossed in counting sugar cubes into their day, they did not notice him tip his hat. The next day after a careful watering of his vegetable marrows and his daily dose of absinthe, Mr. Greere ventured forth into the village again, promising Fairy, “We did not make it to the park yesterday, girl, but we will today.” The Ladies’ Society was gathered early at the Tea Parlor, their white hats and veils fluttering and teacups clattering. He smelled scones and heard fragments of a debate as to who was to preside over the tea tent and who was to tell fortunes at the fair as he passed. A great white pavilion was set up in the park as he walked around it. People clustered, assembling booths and arranging benches. Mr. Greere looked onto the pavilion at the rows of tables and pig pens and anticipated a prime spot for his marrows on that big table near the entrance to the tent. As he neared Pinkola’s cottage, he passed Evan, the handyman, coming out the front gate. It was freshly painted, and Evan wore his painting smock. “Quite a mess the young miss has on her hands,” Evan remarked. “Back garden is as overgrown as the front, so I have got to make a dash home for the loppers. See you at the fair, Mr. Greere!” He smirked. Mr. Greere found Pinkola on her knees with a wide straw hat and gardening gloves in the front garden, planting asters. He took off his hat as he peered over the fence at her. “I do hope you can forgive me for calling at this hour, but I simply had to check in on you.” Pinkola put down her trowel and flung off her gloves before she opened the gate. “Not at all, not at all! Do come in. I have something to show you!” She led him around the house on a cleared path to the back garden, where hard work had been done to restore order around a single raised bed. Mr. Greere’s heart sank at the sight of it. “There!” said Pinkola proudly. “Just look at that. My aunt must have been growing them when she died, and they are simply huge now.” Mr. Greere stared at the huge vegetable marrows filling the garden bed and the memory of his seemed small now. “I wonder, Miss Estes, if you have a use for them?” “I thought not at first,” Pinkola admitted. “But then Evan suggested I enter them in the fair as a final remembrance of my aunt, you know, and I have decided I will.” Pinkola clapped her hands. “I have decided to move here, and the fair will be such a lovely place to meet everyone.” “Splendid!” said Mr. Greere faintly. “But you must come in for some tea!” Pinkola exclaimed. She flung open the back door into the kitchen. “Just sit right up while I put on the kettle.” After a cup of tea and scones, Mr. Greere walked home slowly. He passed the Ladies’ Society in the street, gorged on tea, and the women surrounded him like moths. “Well, hello, Mr. Greere! We hear you intend to enter your marrows into our charming little fair again. Maybe this time you will win!” The women tittered and fluttered their eyelashes. “Oo, you know we just love men with big marrows and yours are—ah—simply lovely.” “Ladies,” said Mr. Greere. Not married, not a single one of them. He escaped with a tip of his hat. Back at home, Mr. Greere hung up his hat and coat and put his cane in the stand in the hall. He clasped his hands behind his back as he walked through the parlor into his bedroom and stared at the wall beside the door. So many second-place ribbons. How had Agnes Estes stolen first prize from him so many times? The day before the fair, Mr. Greere picked his marrows and piled the dear things in a basket ready to take to fair after his drink. As he prepared the absinthe, pounding on his front door upset Mr. Greere and he spilled some of the green liquid on the counter. Before he could make it to the door, Pinkola burst into his kitchen and nearly trampled him. “Oh, Mr. Greere, it is simply dreadful, really dreadful, too dreadful for words!” She glanced about her and grabbed up the absinthe. Mr. Greere held up a hand, but she had already downed the drink. “My, that helps settle my nerves. But, oh, it is dreadful! I went to pick my marrows and deliver them to the fair and the whole plant came up and there were bones !” “Bones?” said Mr. Greere. “Bones!” Pinkola shrieked. “My aunt has been growing her marrows all this time out of a cat graveyard, and I even found her chopper! She killed the poor dears and buried them in the garden bed!” Mr. Greere guided her into the parlor. She sank into his easy chair while he went into the kitchen to pour her a little brandy. Fairy ran in circles and barked as the girl downed the brandy and wiped at her eyes with her damp handkerchief. “What shall I do?” Pinkola gasped. “I love cats, I do. I left mine in London.” Tears welled in her blue eyes again and Mr. Greere offered her his silk handkerchief. Pinkola took it. “I do not have any marrows to enter in the fair and I promised the Ladies’ Society my biggest,” Pinkola went on. “I chopped up my aunt’s horrid things the minute I saw the bones. What will I tell them?” “Intimidating, the ladies of the Society,” Mr. Greere said thoughtfully. Pinkola sniffed. “They like big marrows, though.” “I should be glad,” Mr. Greere said. “To give you my marrows to enter in the fair.” “I could not possibly!” Pinkola gasped, but she clutched her handkerchief tighter in her gloved hand. “I insist,” Mr. Greere said. “I should be glad to accompany you to the fair. Perhaps you will consider dining with me one night?” Pinkola stood and pressed her hand to her heart. “Why! You are the dearest man. And, if I do win first place, think how proud of me my fiancé will be! He is coming down on the train tomorrow, you know. Goodbye, Mr. Greere!” She caught up the basket of marrows in the kitchen and danced down the hall out the front door. “Fiancé?” Mr. Greere whispered. His smile faded as he sat down weakly in his easy chair and Fairy jumped into his lap. “Fiancé’! Talk about refried dreams, old girl.” When he rose, Mr. Greere discovered Pinkola’s handkerchief scrunched into a ball in the corner of the seat. He took it up and walked into his bedroom. He opened his dresser drawer; a pile of women’s handkerchief’s, neatly folded, occupied the top drawer. Mr. Greere looked at Fairy. “Keep a secret, old girl. Do not tell Pinkola where this is.” He put the handkerchief into the drawer and shut it. As he walked back into the kitchen to prepare himself a drink, he mused, “I dare say no one will be coming by to admire my marrows or ask for seeds this year.”


For the first time, the introspection paid its dividends, as the evening clouds slid, much like some butter in the heavens godly pan, radiating the crimson polish of the day’s contraction. In the opposing sky, the intangible black threatens its reveal. This threat usually would hasten Opie’s promenade, but his newfound enlightenment through divulging in long, drawn out, self-reporting, and armchair-esque philosophical thought has caused a longer-than-usual exploration. His pace along the street swayed and lurched, consistently inconsistent, tantalized by the shifting weight to correct and compensate; this being a repeated cycle of shifting and compensating in a general forward direction, making good pace along the sidewalk. I must look dazed , he thought, I must look unwell, they will think I’m sick, they won’t believe me. Opie had just moments ago found something resting against the curb, completing his thoughts. In his hands he cupped a metal marble, glimmering in an almost perfect atomic sphere, catering itself to the ridges of Opie’s hands, rolling, bouncing, vibrating with each of his unplanned wobbles and sways. His eyes locked on, and intent on placing the final pieces together as to how this marble fits into reality, or vice versa. They will not believe, how could they? Answers to questions that began with the great Thales proclaiming the ultimate substance, I will be praised for this find, rightfully, praised. He would have salivated if these thoughts were projected into the ether. To him, speaking these thoughts would solidify them as truth, as they would assume some higher area of the corporeal plain, tangible to those listening. Although, he knew the importance of holding it in. All it takes is one daring klepto to steal and themselves claim to have discovered the fundamental idea of creation. Just ten millimeters maximum across, no obtainable points of reference on this foreign sphere. For example, a door hinge has crevasses and bends, scratches and smudges from use. This has none, with the circumference from any angle, fading off, like some oblivious and constant tug. Am I holding oblivion? No, of course not. Just a part. Like a sculptor took the void and chiseled himself a slice. Or more geometrically related, some ice cream parlor employee scooped it out. That which lurks to the peripheral of human perception just now has been viewed, the thing-in-itself. In reference to me, I must be two-thousand things-in-itself. Unrelenting thoughts seemed to dance forward of his brow and involved unimaginable depth or assumed unimaginable depth. These thoughts opined on its ‘self’ and conversed, encouraging its own essence. Opie took credit for his thought’s materialism, yet the thoughts almost had a life of their own, disconnected from the graspable yet representing a deeper consciousness. Like endless rain into a paper cup, thank you fab four. This is beyond Kantian ideas, this is impossible to him, yet here is human perception perceiving the self-described thing. It isn’t some structural essence or reason flowing through all. Is this Schopenhauer’s Will? No. That indeterminate oxymoronic being, some existentialist Taoist expression of the truth. Uptight yet so blatant in his misguided thought. I would spit on him. I can’t touch Will if it is the thing-in-itself, why can I touch this? The thing-in-itself is physical. Maybe cryogenic dark matter. “I can’t imag…” I can’t imagine what makes up the space smaller the ten millimeters. Obviously spinning. He cupped the marble in one hand, and prodded with the other, feeling the coldness of his index finger. Taking closer looks, searching for points or markers of the marble being other than what he thought. He saw the transition of light from one position to the other reflect off the marble as well as the environment’s parallaxes being warped and exaggerated. It was inviting due to its familiarity. Of course. A reflection of reality. What is smaller than ten millimeters is also larger than ten millimeters, or exactly what is larger than ten millimeters. Everything is a fractal of itself from the base point of this thing-in-itself, ten millimeters. Maybe it is cryogenic dark matter? The more I think of it, I can’t sway this cryogenic dark matter idea. Ok, this is definitely cryogenic dark matter in my hand, and its most important quality is that it reflects the universe. This is potent in intellect. “Everything is r-reflected, including…” Including the place I live, the place I walk, and I myself. It is all reflected at the ten-millimeter point. How are three dimensional shapes reflected within space? Must be that three-dimensional shapes are to be reflected anywhere at their edges of course, but I feel I would have noticed it, the reflection of third dimensions within my three-dimensional home. No, the walls are filled. Someone must have known this information already as they fill the walls of houses with insulation foam. This prevents reflection. Of course, if reflection isn’t prevented you are doomed to the same pain infinitely, the pain of life. Schopenhauer got that right, “about all he’s worth.” A young woman was walking her own straight and narrow way opposite of Opie, across and parallel to the road, remaining clutched to a teal leash, holding back a dog of proportional size to Opie’s idea of two-hundred things-in-itself. Her steps ricocheted off the town houses, paginated to Opie, and given enveloping dominance over the setting. The evening was shifting to night at an unapologetic pace, something Opie only noticed when he broke concentration off the marble to look at the young woman across the street. He smiled a full teethed smile. “Best head home! The dark is unforgiving! Also, cryogenic dark matter could be the thing-in-itself so make sure you have foam insulation in your walls!” She gave a fake laugh, half ignoring and half misunderstanding the importance of Opie’s message as they passed each other. A fool. “ A dumb enigma of social impotence… ” mama was right, I do tend to over share. What if someone heard? What if she understands the implications of what I behold in my left hand? Never speaking would be the safer choice. Never give the dullard a chance to share. Even if it is about the necessity for foam insulation within our walls. But I am no dullard, I discovered the universe. I will get back to this. His prodding became more aggressive, volatile, trying to peak deeper into the marble. Opie would rub it between his hands then release, halting himself where he stood to inspect, imagining the hand ridges like rivers and the marble flowing down them. He also listened to the marble to see if the self-describing material explains itself auditorily. His limping frolic would continue as he began rubbing again, not much different from an addict at a craps table. No smudges, “impossible for something that is itself…” Sounds like the world around. Of course. It reflects the universe, so noise is reflected too. “I am reflected…” , so my voice is also reflected, but if I’m being reflected, that’s why I can’t hear the reflection of my speech. Have I been speaking? Just in case, “Speaking…” yes hypothesis holds true. Am I supposed to be speaking? “Yes, because I’m not a dullard.” Wait, how interesting, my own reflection does speak back. Like a snake greeting its own tail. “Hello tail…” so interesting, my tail, I should write about my tail to share this conversing with myself in the reflection of the universe. “Incredible…the p-poster child for the axiomatic material is a reflection…” only ten-millimeters of space occupied. “ My own didactic principles spouted back at me as truths! ” Like Descartes wax, except I got it on my first meditation. My own voice is truth, the only truth that is necessary, a reason for this to be bestowed upon me. “T-the poster child for axiomatic material! Int-t-tangible but not for me, I am discoverer of the ten-millimeter reflection! I am safe with my thoughts and with my foam insulation! How could a d-dullard speak to his own universal reflection! A tail! My wax!” For safe keeping, Opie placed the marble in an empty bottle of loxapine and continued to rave and rant along the forgotten promenade through the dead evening. The streetlamps would soon come alive, erasing their long and dull shadows. Vision will be that of a sonogram to give Opie a stretched metaphorical conclusion of rebirth.


My name is Ahtlanta (pronounced Ought-Lawn-Tuh). I am your reality guide, teacher, revealer, fellow traveler on these life meridians. Just as Einstein said there is a space-time continuum not separate space and time, so is the Realituum which some call might call the multiverse. At least two realities always exist side by side in time space. There are many tools to see these truths, these alternate realities. Your vision focuses through your mind not through your eyes. Lifeforce controls your mind not logic. Logic can help but when presented with two realities you must choose. Only one reality exists for beings like you. Nadine read this passage aloud to Jeremy. Jeremy knew Nadine since they were three. His best friend always led Jeremy to interesting ‘places’. He did not exactly follow her like a puppy dog. She did not deliberately train him ever. But her voice demanded in pitch and quality without being demanding that he follow. So when Nadine told Jeremy that if he wants to understand her he should join her at this reality gathering, finding, searching as she called it. He did. “The challenge, my friend. Control your reality”, Matt said. Matt, an expert with pendulums, swung it in front of the class. “The pendulum if properly prepared will allow you to spiritually enter those places that you need when most needed” “Repeat this: The swing energy, gives your life energy…”, he implored to the class-gathering. “The swing energy, gives your life energy…” After a short pause, “The swing energy, gives your life energy…” “The reality moves if you let it, if you allow the multiple realities to be seen.” The pendulum with an endearing, charming teardrop shape and a deep tourmaline color forced the eyes to follow. The pendulum appeared to move without any visible force. As the pendulum swung, Matt continued with his sonorous voice. The students were encouraged to mouth quietly the pendulum mantra. It spun around and around and around. It seemed to go faster and faster, yet no movement of the hand could be seen of professor Matt. Jeremy knew Matt spoke directly to him even though an entire large group stared as well. The images of the pendulum began to blur for Jeremy. Jeremy thought, perhaps I am easily influenced, but I do feel energetic, like floating on a cloud. Yet he still wondered, silently, is this a waste of my time? Then suddenly Jeremy began seeing them. He was not sure what they were. Funny little swirls all around the room. They marched near his eyes. He wondered is anyone else could see this. Suddenly Jeremy, stood high on a mountain completely disoriented. Breezes bringing in an aroma of cinnamon and perhaps sage. A man stood in front of him and offered him a deep purple liquid. He offered Jeremy a pillow to sit on. He sat on the large green yellow paisley patterned pillow. He asked Jeremy what he most desired. Jeremy did not answer. A large dust devil began swirling near him. Jeremy still did not know what to say. He was afraid that if he said anything he might never leave this place where-when-how-ever this place, this reality existed. Suddenly Jeremy once again found himself seated at one of the desks next to Nadine. The professor droned on talking about how to cleanse the pendulum so that it will not be contaminated with negative energy. He stated before you prepare to use your pendulum for the first time remember to do the cleansing process. You must give proper respect to your pendulum. After cleansing it, you must find a proper storage vehicle. Then finally, create a sacred space. By respecting your pendulum in these ways and using it in your sacred space you will create your own reality. The professor said homework for this week: 1. Cleanse your pendulum of negative energy 2. Create a proper storage space for your pendulum 3. Create a sacred space to use your pendulum As Jeremy rode home with Nadine seated behind him, he felt whatever he experienced in the class it could not be real. He felt he must have dozed off, dreamed it. He thought truth is stranger than fiction because this would be horrible fiction. There are no rules, there are no whys, there is no good beginning or ending to explain what he saw. He had only gone to this class because Nadine had insisted that if they were to stay friends then he needed to take this class. It being necessary so that they could be on the same wavelength. But now, Jeremy hesitated to speak about this. He could not believe that Nadine could have experienced this without telling him. Wouldn’t she have mentioned her own reality trip or asked him if he experienced anything. But no, she quietly jumped on the back of the seat and entangled herself with him. They sped off together to her abode. Nadine may have been telling him about alternate realities for a while. But really he felt that the only reality that must be true was her reality. Nadine he knew, knew that Jeremy was conflict adverse. So a lot of times he simply followed whatever she wanted him to. She kind of hated this and kind of loved it. She always with aplomb encouraged him to find his own reality. She told him grab that journey, take that wild ride wherever it takes you! When they got to Nadine’s purple cottage in the woods, she told Jeremy that she had to get up early tomorrow. She also told him that she was suddenly not feeling well and so she would have to say au revoir. Unlike other times she wished him goodnight without a friendly hug. After the reality event, Jeremy decided that maybe it was not a good idea to do the homework. He thought that he might be stuck in that other reality. But at 2 a.m. he woke from a strange frightening dream sweating. His pulse it was out of control. Weirdly he could not remember the dream other than that Nadine and professor Matt and him stood in a totally colorless classroom. He saw the pendulum and thought, why not. Maybe the dream told him that his reality could only be controlled, if he controlled it. Rather than be at the mercy of whatever alternate realities there may be, he decided to take charge. He first prepared the pendulum by burning incense and silently meditating. He had his sacred place laid out with a fringed oval bright, muted yellow with small green spirals of various sizes. Yellow among other qualities was the color of creativity, green had qualities of healing and balance. He began repeating the energy mantra: “The swing energy, gives your life energy…” He cleared his mind and purified the pendulum by breathing in white light. He began to feel his whole body lighter, freer. He had forgotten what this felt like. He was remembering. The time seemed just right, he carefully pulled open the lid of the onyx colored box that contained his precious purple pendulum. Nadine and he both thought purple was the perfect color. It was the color of royalty. It is known to protect and to bring wisdom. He gently held the golden chain attached to the pendulum between his index and thumb. The pendulum began to move. He tried not to think of anything. He focused only on the movement of the pendulum. Whenever his mind drifted the pendulum boomeranged his focus back to it. It took longer, but just as suddenly he again found himself on top of the mountain. This time Nadine sat next to the strange man and professor Matt was there also. He noticed his clothing had changed and he wore gloves. Nadine told him, she loved him. This shocked him because he always thought they were just friends. She moved closer and started to hug him like he had never been hugged by her or anyone. Suddenly, he was alone again, the pendulum swinging gently in front of his face. He looked around for Nadine, and professor Matt and the strange man. None of them were there. The cinnamon incense infused the room. He thought he must have dozed off while sitting up. Maybe these incense had gone bad on him. Maybe he should open the window and get some fresh air. He thought dreams are like a different reality but he had never had such real dreams, ever. He kept on emphasizing to himself that it must be a dream. When the incense finished burning, he decided to hit the sack. But he could not sleep, he kept thinking about what Nadine had said in his dream. He worried that the dream world of his subconscious expressed secret feelings that he never knew he harbored. His closeness with Nadine could be ruined if he ever told her about the dream. He thought and felt it could be disastrous. He as far as he could remember Nadine had never expressed any romantic feelings towards him. And neither had he towards her. They had in fact encouraged each other to find that romance. But neither of them found any lasting romances. In fact they decided that since they had no one special to go to their high school prom with, they should go together. He enjoyed dancing with Nadine that night. Afterwards they had snuck a few puffs on a doobee together. Then Jeremy’s mom picked them both up. She dropped Nadine off first. Jeremy walked her to the front door and hugged her goodnight. His mom mentioned on the way home that Nadine had such a good head on her and was so nice. Jeremy turned several shades of red. He said nothing to his mom. That was five years ago. They both went to the same college and afterward both found jobs in the same home city. Jeremy had an apartment closer to the city center. Every week they got together and discussed their life plans and life situations with each other. Sometimes they completed each others sentences. And yet Jeremy loved his friendship with Nadine. He never, she never, asked for more. Jeremy thought about going out on his motorcycle, but he was afraid he might doze off and go into one of these strange realities. Finally he tried taking three very deep breaths, counting up and down to ten three times and as he counted down he felt sleepy laid down and fell into a deep sleep. The next morning Jeremy woke refreshed. The phone rang right after he showered and still had ten minutes before he needed to go to work. Suddenly a call rang,it was from Nadine. He thought about letting it go to voicemail but he knew that sooner or later he would reveal all to her. So he took the call. Nadine spoke clearly and deliberately,”You are hard to reach”. Jeremy responded,” What do you mean I answered your call on the second ring”? “Think about it Jeremy, Don’t you get it”, Nadine spoke quietly? “Nade”, he only responded like that when he was clueless. “Okay, let me spell it out for you. Do you not understand English? I need to know because I have done everything to make it clear”, she said. Finally she asked him why did he not understand that they were on the same wavelength, literally. “That is why she told him, you could see me in that other reality.”, she said. “You seem afraid”, she said. “Will Nade, I am not sure that I am ready for this”, he slurred. “I know it came as surprise to me too. But I knew when you showed up at the mountain top with me and professor Matt, and Ahtlanta, I knew that we were on the same wavelength. It’s time to admit what are to one another and that we will not find it anywhere else. It’s time to take a chance”, she said. Jeremy was afraid, but he decided to live with his uncertainty. “Yes”, he responded.


I know what this is. This whole “life” thing. Great thinkers around the world have dedicated their lives to the question. What is the meaning of life? Or they ponder “why are we here?” Well, I will tell you why. I’ve recently been having those dreams again. The ones my mother would tell me to keep to myself.  “People would think you were crazy!” She’d tell me, as if being crazy is some awful thing. If being crazy means knowing the truth to our existence then go ahead and call me crazy. I’m proud to be one of the few that have discovered that our reality is nothing but a role. I am the protagonist. You are the protagonist. Each and every one of our tales is a fabrication to which we all are the stars. It makes me laugh. All my life I’ve wanted to be famous, and now I know. I was born famous. You’re probably wondering what I’m blathering on about. Well, to make things clear and concise, YOU A WORK OF FICTION. This is indicative of a few things: You do not have free will Nothing is matters Nothing is real You are not A sentient Being. Gloomy, isn’t it? I thought so too. When I first dreamed this dream, I fell into despair. My dreams have never been wrong. I dreamed of the fall of the towers two weeks before I watched them burn. I dreamed of the virus that would plague the world, and I dreamed of how to survive it. I survived that, of course. I’m a survivor. At my age, I’ve seen it all. I’m glad I learned this final lesson when I did, as opposed to back in the day when my joints didn’t hurt. When I had ambitions, friends, and lovers. The rest of my days, of which there aren’t many, will be spent in pure despondency. I can at least say I enjoyed most of the time I’ve had. If there’s one piece of advice I have to give the young ones of this day, it’s that you must enjoy your life as much as you can. Cherish your youth and never take your life for granted. At least, while you still can. There was a girl named Sylvia, back when I still thought I was real. I sure thought she was real. A real good person, and a real fine lady. She liked me back for a little while. You know how things go. You have friends in school, then you graduate. See each other less. You might talk a little, but not much. Before you know it, you just forget each other exist. Or at least you no longer exist in each other’s world, though you think about them every once in a while, wondering why you don’t reach out. She always understood me. Either that or she was the best damned actress in the world. I told her about my dreams, and she didn’t look at me with those concerned, judging eyes. I don’t know why I didn’t marry her. Mother told me not to tell anyone, but I told Sylvia. She thought I had the most interesting mind. A mind that comes up with such fascinating ideas. Sure, she didn’t believe my dreams, but she didn’t scorn me for them either. She didn’t think it absurd when I said my  that dreams foretold the future. Maybe she was just being polite. But she realized. She must have realized when my dream occurred in real life, or what I once thought was real life. The fires. It was the fires. She didn’t know me when my first prediction came true as a child.I told her about it, but she couldn’t truly believe, for she had not witnessed it. But when one dream I had told her about finally happened, she must have realized. I’ll bet you a million bucks it scared her. I could tell the future. So, what else could I do? Was I dangerous? Powerful? I don’t blame her for creating distance between us. But I do want her back. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll believe me. You know what they say; misery loves company. I would love her company right about now. Maybe she would make this pretend life better. Maybe if we both know it’s an illusion, it’ll cancel out. Life could feel real again. Or at least, I’d enjoy it for a little while longer. I decide to find her. When I find her number I hesitate to call. I start typing the numbers, but can’t finish typing. When I finish typing her number I can’t bring myself to press send. Based on how my life has been directed thus far, seldom will I get what I want. Why would this go my way? She could even be dead for all I know. I type the number. I press send. “He-hello?” a quivering voice stuttered. I hear Sylvia’s voice for the first time in 45 years. It’s not the voice I remember, but I know it’s hers. “Sylvia?” I ask. “Yes?” she answers. I feel tears brimming in my saggy eyelids. Things go uphill from there. Now Sylvia is in my home. I’m no baker, but I made her some blueberry scones, knowing she would like that sort of thing. I was right about that. When I tell her my revelation, she doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy. She smiles at me, nodding. “I have come to learn the same thing recently.” She says. “Yet you are smiling!” I exclaim. “We have different perspectives on this.” She says. “I don’t see it as a horrible thing. My life feels so much more relaxing. No more pressure to succeed.” I hadn’t thought of it that way. It doesn’t matter though. “But I have already succeeded. And now I’m retired. I’m just trying to enjoy my last days.” “Who’s to say you can’t enjoy them?” She asks. “How can I? There’s no point to anything.” “You didn’t feel that way all those years. You enjoyed your life. Clearly, you can be no more than a fictional character and still enjoy your life.” Says Lydia, ever wise. “But I don’t have free will. Someone else makes my every decision.” I say. “Who cares? You went your whole life without knowing that and it was fine. Why should it make a difference now?” She is right. And I am feeling bold all of the sudden. “Will you marry me?” I say, seated on my couch since I am not physically capable of getting down on one knee. “I have nothing to lose. Yes.” Suddenly, I don’t care if this is all a hallucination. I’m the happiest man in the world. I have Sylvia. We could live in a ditch together and it wouldn’t matter. We both know the truth. Nothing matters. Nothing’s real. It's all good.


User 1 You only wanted me for my money and that was clear from the start. I could see straight through and the ugly was showing. I kept on giving and you kept on taking. I couldn't stand you and your simpering ways. The pleadings and sighs made me feel cold. When I was hungry, you refused to feed me- yet I fed you. User 2 You only wanted me for my body and that was plain to see. Everything was cheap with you. I remember some kindnesses but you were my enemy all the way along. There was the pretence of keeping costs down at any length. Even your car was cheap. I hated your touch- it left me cold. Now I was free I was happy. I could go where I wish and do as I pleased. After time wasted on you, I felt my cup over brimming with joy. The anger wouldn't subside. The door mat syndrome was gone and I had awoken from a deep sleep. Like an automaton that did as it was told- I was yours for a time. Life was easier without you. My heart had hardened against you. I wished awful things but kept my mouth sewn for fear of a backlash. What goes around, comes around and yours was coming. User 1 How did you sleep at night? Didn't your conscience bother you? Your arrogance and selfishness bordered on the psychopathic. You kept on coming for me like a B52 bomber. I couldn't take it. You thought me rich. I was sympathetic and kind- but no longer. I was putting my foot down. I was relishing the rolls of time. I was defending myself- the defenseless. Barriers were being erected for security in my heart. I would not allow you to replace me like a one-use item. I was going to stick around. This quiet determination of mine was making me feel very good indeed. Your control over me was vanishing. You would never have me and it made you very angry indeed. I flattered you to make you feel secure. I sometimes meant it but you still failed to move me. Your act had become apparent. Why should I give up everything for you. Why should I sacrifice? What did you ever do for me in return except expect me to make you cups of coffee and do things for you for free. Remember when I was hungry and you refused to feed me? I had a word for you then and it remains true. Whilst I had a good heart yours was rotten to the core. I knew that, but awoke slowly from the spell that you had cast on me. None of us are without faults but yours were showing all the more. You said that you wanted to move to a country house somewhere. You even wanted to move in with me. Never. Not on your mother or father's life was that going to happen. I know the tricks you played. The slurs you delivered. You were trying to break me, shake me, overtake me but I wasn't going to give in. The sun was shining on my contempt for you. How would it end? I don't know. The build up had come slow and painfully. I was sick at being walked on. You wanted me to serve you again and again without reward. I disliked you severely for it and you never had a clue. You still came to me like a bee to honey. You You were like a fresh breath of air. Good looking, tall- a dream boat. Nothing was happening between us and nothing ever would, but the tantalising element of both of us together had crossed my mind. Like the lost loved for longing I lounged around hoping for a cure. I knew that I was sick from the start, and even the attempt at life would make me even more sick I knew that I'd be forgotten like everything else. Swept away in a cloud of dust, filed away somewhere until I disappear. Only being dragged up when required and the story changed to meet the user. The history books always lie. The truth is always somewhere in between. But you, you were worth the wait so far. I was happy to keep you at a distance, my heart dangling dangerously in the dungeon of my soul. I could not escape defeat, even when I won. The temptation to fool myself that everything was fine was there. Lurking, like some lovesick lost soul, I lingered. We were both problems waiting to happen. Two whirlwinds competing against each other until they caused even more destruction. The ruining of my soul was coming and I was unprepared. Looks don't mean a thing when you're packed full of sin. Evil to evil only brings more evil I had found out at my peril. The only thing left for me was to mourn the dead. They couldn't harm you. I get done to you what you let others do to you. She wanted to fight and fight until the last round. Never give up or give in. She was fighting on all sides. Had her time come? It was unknown. That decision was in her makers hands. Her heart was subsiding. She wanted to forgive and calm down. She didn't want a heart attack. We are near the end The traffic went by in its usual fashion. Around and around. Where she was was quiet and she liked it that way. Occasionally she wanted some interruptions, but not too many. Control is what she wanted- but there wasn't any deep down really. She secretly laughed when a passer by was laughing. A window pane had separated them both, so they were unaware of each other. She saw many people that way, secretly, silently. There wasn't any point in revenge now. There were so many things to do. She was struggling just to stay alive. Like a juggler using as many different objects as possible, she had to stay alert just to survive. She did not want recognition- merely justice. Even if she didn't see it in her lifetime. Her weaknesses were showing and she didn't know what to do or where to go. She called upon her ancestors and they answered her quietly and carefully. Maybe they wanted to minimise the damage done or let her go- she was unsure. The taste of freedom had her hustling for more. If her feathers were cut and ccurtailed anymore, she would not be able to fly. And fly she did.