Here we go again, Matthew murmured as he entered the manor house a few hours after they received the call this morning. It was another typical day at the office. When the phone started to ring frantically at this early time, it was a sign that something big has happened. And when the person on the other end of the line was screaming that he found the lifeless body of Timothy Rogan, the world-famous solar energy businessman, the whole precinct was up in the air. Matthew hated rich people. Most of the time the police department had to cover for their stupidity in causing scandals and deal with the tabloid journalists who waited for hours outside the precinct for a piece of information that would give them the exclusive they so desperately needed. But this time he braced himself that it will not be like any other time. It would be much worse. Timothy Rogan was not just a celebrity or a pretty face that sold copies of gossip magazines like crazy. He was a business tycoon, one that belonged among the three richest persons in the world. His presence in the business industry was so heavy that with the slightest wrong move he could affect entire governments or cause stock markets to collapse in a single day. Letting out a heavy sigh, Matthew put on his dark grey coat and grabbed his car keys from the drawer of his desk before he exits the precinct. The air was extremely chilly, he felt his face freeze the moment he stepped outside. He cursed under his breath as he passed the cars parked outside. There were only a couple of police cars and some fancy saloon ones of his superiors. His car was far on the opposite side of the ‘presentable’ scale, as the captain had once commented. So, he had to park in the other parking, hidden behind a row of tall buildings, two blocks from there. After two failed attempts the engine was brought to life. The lucky third one. He drove out of the parking lot and took the road heading to Ruda – the ‘paradise on Earth’ as many in town were referring to. It was a long road with fancy houses and villas, destined for the elite of the elite. When he reached the large golden gates the crowd of reporters with mics at hand and cameras flashing were already outside, pushing against each other to get closer in desperate need to manage to enter the property. When one of them spotted his car he shouted something incomprehensible to his ears and the crowd drifted its attention to him. Within seconds, the reporters scrambled around his car, shouting questions. Matthew just shook lightly his head sideways and pulled out his badge, holding it high in his hand so the guards at the gate could see it. A small team of guards approaches the gate in order to keep the media away as the doors open slowly to let the car enter. *** The forensics van was already there the moment his car stopped in front of the house. Matthew got out of his car and stood for a moment, looking at the exterior of the house. The man knew for sure to appreciate the classic beauty of the countryside. The building was so grand and imposing on the outside, Matthew was sure that it matched perfectly with Timothy Rogan’s character.

The huge door opens with a light creak and the form of a tall slender man, dressed in a dark uniform appears in the door frame. He looks sleepless, with huge bags under his eyes and wrinkles that expand across his face. Matthew thought he was way past the retirement age and wondered since when this man was under Rogan’s employment. “Good morning sir, I’m Peter Gevraux, Mr Rogan’s butler.” He said with a cold tone in his voice, like a talking robot. Matthew wondered how many times he said this phrase. “They wait for you inside.” Matthew gave a nod to the butler and stepped inside. Most probably everyone who’s seen Timothy Rogan for the past forty-eight hours was informed and gathered to get interviewed. His mouth fell slightly open when he saw the décor of the great hall extending in front of him. The decorations around the borders on the ceiling contained lines of gold and Matthew thought that it was definitely gold leaves up there. The antiques that were filling this huge space could easily be in museums. Peter the butler waited patiently for Matthew to end admiring the area until his face fell on him and motioned Matthew to follow. He followed the butler, crossing a hall that seemed not able to see its end until they turned and bright light strikes him. It must be a ballroom, that was Matthew’s first impression. And he was right. The room lacked furniture – apart from a piano – but the walls were filled with various paintings of different sizes. Except for one large area with high arched windows that expanded to the side the fourth wall would be. The room was sparkling as the sun was hitting on the massive chandelier decorated with numerous crystals that made the room more bright than the day outside. Under the chandelier, there was a large dark bag, probably containing the lifeless body of Timothy Rogan while the forensics team was scattered around, some taking photos of the evidence found while others were getting samples for further tests in the lab. “What’s the weapon this time?” Matthew asks Danielle Robertson as she approaches his side. “Surprise me,” she replies writing something on her notepad.

Matthew took a brief look around. “I’d say… knife.” Danielle’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Not bad, not bad…” she smirked. “Letter opener to be more precise. Multiple stabs and cuts on his torso and neck.” “Any guess on who’s the killer?” Matthew turned to her, taking already his pen and notepad out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “Oh no!” Danielle backs off lifting her hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “I leave the good part at you. They are all gathered in the orchard and are ready to eat each other! Good luck with those.” She pats him on the back as she leaves to continue her job. It is then that Matthew notices voices, coming from afar. Probably arguing. He turned around and followed the voices, moving across the ballroom until he went out from one of the large arched windows that led towards the orchard. The view was magical. The orange trees had started to flower and a thin coat of snow had covered the bushes around, forming some sort of maze. And when Matthew turned to the left – behind some trees – there was chaos. At first glance, they all reminded Matthew of characters from Cluedo his favourite board game as a child. A priest, a couple – with glasses and briefcases on their hands – and a young woman around her thirties with multiple visits to the plastic surgeon. They were all talking together shooting death glares at each other. When Matthew approached close enough and they spotted him, the noises suddenly vanished. “Hello everyone.” He decided to say eventually. Good morning would be far too oxymoron. “I’m detective Matthew Karamanides. So, shall we begin? Who will be the first?” Everyone stares at him blinking. Matthew scans their expressions in case he notices something out of the ordinary. “We can start together if you want.” The priest finally breaks the sudden silence fallen to the crowd. “Yes, come with me Father…?” “Langley,” the priest says calmly. “Father Langley.” The two men walk further away, where a patio is. They could also go inside but Matthew wanted to keep an eye on the rest of the company as well while he was interviewing each member. If they went inside, someone might attempt to eavesdrop. “So, where were you exactly at the time of the murder?” Matthew asks with a low voice as he takes a seat on the bench placed on it. The pen flips between his fingers as he waits for Father Langley’s answer. “I was at the church, making preparations for a wedding we have tomorrow. As you can see the people residing in these areas are quite selective with their ceremonies and everything has to be put in order. They don’t accept anything less than perfection.” “Do you have anyone to confirm this?” Matthew continued taking a quick note on his notepad. “Yes, the wedding planner was there with a small team of his associates.” Matthew took a thorough look that the priest before spitting his next question. Father Langley seemed quite calm and composed personality. If it was him who did it, he could easily conceal it. “And when did you meet with Mr Rogan?” Father Langley took a deep breath. “We met yesterday, early morning. Mr Rogan jogs before sunrise and sometimes I jog too before I start the morning mass.” “I’m sorry to ask this and if you want you can answer my question,” Matthew said trying to appear as discreet “but did you know if Mr Rogan was having problems with someone? Has anything come to your attention?” Father Langley sighed, his index finger tapping quickly on his lap. “Look son, some things are shared with me during confessions. And this is a very private discussion so I cannot disclose any information on the matter.” “I understand father, but this is a murder case and I’m sure Mr Rogan is not available at the moment. I’m sure solving his murder would provide a piece to his soul.” Father Langley’s posture changes slightly. His shoulders got down in relief. Matthew-Father 1-0. “If you put it that way. I guess you’re right. Well, recently he was having trouble with young miss Darma – the lady in the red dress. They were having an affair that must be kept secret at all costs until her parents learnt about it and came to have a heated discussion with Mr Rogan. When they left, miss Darma screamed at him that he ruined her life and swore to make him pay. That’s all he told me.” *** “Who do you think did it?” Miss Darma said letting a large ball of smoke as she dragged the cigarette out of her mouth. “The Jacomets did it! Timothy had told me that they came the day before yesterday to his office and tried to sell him a patent, something they’d invented. But it was not worth it at all. Timothy rejected their proposal and they got mad!” “And how was your relationship with the victim?” Matthew continued. “Well, we had some ups and downs. Maybe more downs now that I remember. We had some big fights but in the end, we seem to get along well. When my parents found out about our relationship, there was a possibility that I would be pregnant. We came all here and the fight started. I was coming today to tell him the news that thankfully, I’m not pregnant when my phone rang and Mr Gevreaux informed me of Timothy’s loss.” Her voice cracks with emotion as she finishes the sentence. *** “We are scientists sir, we’re not some cold-blood murderers!” Alec Jacomet spits as he stands up from his seat and starts pacing up and down. “We believed that Mr Rogan was a man that would appreciate an innovative idea. We run many tests with my wife Patricia and we were a hundred per cent sure that this will be a winner. But when Mr Rogan rejected us, my blood boiled. We’ve been given years of our lives in research and development of this and he dismissed us so quickly as we sell him air!” “I know you also leave in the area. Any idea about an incident or who might have done it?” Patricia and Alec both looked at each other like they knew something. Finally Patricia decided to speak. “There were rumours about a video that circulated in some blogs about Mr Rogan and Father Langley in… intimate moments.” When Father Langley came to see Mr Rogan, I’m pretty sure the whole valley could hear their voices. At least, we could hear them and we leave on the other end of the road.” Matthew rubbed his temples when the interview was over. This is a nightmare , he thought. So, who do you think did it?


Derek was snoring when I crept in into his bedroom a bit before 8 am. His sandy hair had tousled itself into one big cowlick. His eyelids clamped shut, fighting to keep the day at a distance.  “I’m going to look at your sketchbook, ready or not,” I announced loud enough for him to stir. He had sat past midnight on the floor in his room, scribbling on 15 by 15 sheets of paper. The oversized tablet and one black pencil laid on the floor next to his bed. He always refused to sit at a table. He drew, watched movies, and ate on the floor. Often all at once. I picked it off the floor and took a deep breath, dreading what I expected. The first page rendered a pudgy barista. She wore a heart pendant around her neck, a foolishly small boating atop her frizzy hair, and a coffee stain shaped like China on her light t-shirt. The second presented a rickety old man, standing at a near 90 degree angle while leaning on a cane. I remembered his painful shuffle as he passed us on the street. I didn’t notice Derek even looking at him. The third was a tall woman with regal posture and perfect hair. She carefully checked her reflection in store windows as she walked. Derek’s self-soothing guttural shriek scared her into a brisker pace. And on and on, page after page. Each drawing was as exact as a photograph, capturing minute details – an unruly swish of hair, a baggy polo shirt pulled taut by a bulging gut, even blemishes on hands. Yet each omitted one thing: a face. Below the hairline, above the neck, between their ears, there was nothing but blank white paper. I watched him wrestling with his blankets, hoping to return to slumber before I could grill him. His two-month-old hobby of drawing portraits stunned and unsettled me. First, he never seemed to look at anyone for more than two seconds. He hasn’t since diagnosed with severe autism 27 years ago. He rarely looks at me and I am with him all day, every day. Yet those two-second glances were all he need to absorb their features, even their essence. Derek was 3 when his language turned to mush and then disappeared. He stopped pointing and gesturing. Then he stopped looking us in the eyes. That’s when he became unmoored. Over decades, his mom and I chased every therapeutic lead from rote matching to electronic impulses, from mainstream to Hail Mary with no success. He’s 30 now and still doesn’t speak. His form and level of autism is severe and isolating, an amalgamation of befuddling quirks. Second, I didn’t even know until a few weeks ago that he could draw. Someone on an autism support group suggested I try to give Derek an outlet that connected him to others. He had never shown interest in drawing or anything else for that matter. The void, the vacuum, the black hole. His mother would use all these terms to recognize the disconnect between what he demanded and what he gave back. Until one day, a year ago, she left us. “I’m dying in slow motion, every day,” was about the last thing she said to me. And lastly, where were the faces? How could someone leave out the first thing most of us look at, the most connective aspects of a person? Raising him involved detective work, looking for clues. Why he did this or that, what is he thinking, where is he hurting? But this was a whole another thing. Did he not see the faces or were they just unimportant? He is a fulltime job and I have multiple sclerosis, which is akin to carrying around bags of sand. I have nobody to watch him, so I began looking to him for a group home. “Quite a pair, aren’t we,” I said to him, this time much louder. “It’s time to get up. The doctor Harris is coming to visit you.” He rustled, turned, stretched his neck, and rubbed his eyes. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer me. I figured the more I talked to him and greater chance he might one day respond. I got him a squeeze bottle of water. “Time for the bathroom,” Derek. “Got to get going.” He sat up, still slumped and dazed. “Bathroom,” I commanded He followed me, the plastic diaper he wore to bed was plump with urine. He knew the drill, emptying his bladder, washing his hands, putting on a fresh pullup. He turned to leave when I put my arm on the door frame of the bathroom, blocking his exit. “Derek, I need you to look in the mirror.” He didn’t move at first. Then he tried to edge past me. “The mirrrrr-orrr,” I said. I rapped one of my knuckles against the cabinet mirror above the sink. He didn’t look. I grabbed both his shoulders, turned his body, and pushed up his chin until he faced the mirror. Derek is 6’4 and more than 200 lbs. He leaned on me to clear a path out. “C’mon Derek, can you see your face?” I watched his eyes, searching for a glint of recognition. It struck me at that moment that I had never seen his look in a mirror or linger on any photographs of himself or his mother. “That’s you, Derek!” I touch his face and then the image peering back at us. He looked toward ceiling. I grabbed his left hand, placed it on his face and then stretched the hand to the mirror. “That’s you! That’s your face!” He jostled his way past me and into the kitchen, meaning he was hungry and wanted to change the subject. “What’s with you? Why no faces? C’mon, help me understand.” He sensed my rising irritation and kept his eyes trained on the floor. He was never a performer. Decades ago, before he was a toddler, he walked up to a piano in an old bookstore and, instead of banging on the played like most 7-year-olds, played a lovely, lilting melody. Everyone in the shop stopped, rapt by his music. As soon as I stood over him, he jumped off the bench and never again touched a keyboard (even after I bought for him). Dr. Harris, an expert in autism at the local university, arrived early. She was striking. Tall and pretty despite oversized glasses dominating her prim features. I imagined her faceless portrait. She declined my coffee and knocked on the open door of Derek’s room. He watched an animated video while eating cut-up waffles. The drawing tablet sat nearby him. “Hi Derek!” She sounded like a long-lost friend. He glanced over his shoulder and turned back to the video. “Can I look at your drawings?” He didn’t move, so I grabbed the tablet and led her into the living room. She examined each portrait, shaking her head in amazement. “Have you ever heard of prosopagnosia?” I asked, her, knowing she did. But I pressed on. “Some people call it face blindness. About 40 percent of people with autism have it to a degree. They can recognize shades of colors, identify patterns, and see most things correctly, “just not faces.” “I think he’s the opposite,” she said. “Our faces bring expectations, unpredictability, and real life, like sadness and anger or deception. I think Derek feels the power of a look more than anyone.” She asked about Derek’s mother. How she related to him and why she left. “She was absorbed and obsessed by him,” I said. “She was his lifeline, but he wore her down. She just wanted… I don’t know… she would have settled for a second glance; an acknowledgement would have meant everything.” She looked down at the tablet and rifled through all the pages. “Notice that he doesn’t draw scenes or things?” she asked. “It’s always people and they jump off the page. He’s involved. I think faces pressure him. Being mute, he has few if any options to change a person’s mind.” “So, I’m not supposed to look at him?” She glanced at him sitting on the floor in his room. I often forget that he hears and understands everything. His silence made me sell him short. “Look, this is easy for me to say, but I suggest you appreciate his gift,” Harris said. “He is not trying to upset or unsettle you. He is communicating. After a few more minutes, she handed me his tablet, headed for the door, and just before leaving, said, “think I can get my portrait if he draws one?” After she left, I went to Derek’s room. I got on my knees and hugged him from behind. My eyes watered with each blink. I placed a photograph of his mother on the tablet. “Can you draw her?”


Manor, manor here I come.

I repeat the phrase in my head, preparing myself for what was ahead.

The line seemed to be something taken out of a children’s rhymes book, I thought with a chuckle. I struggled my luggage out of the adorable yellow auto with an “oomph,” and placed my suitcase on the path.

I opened my mouth to bid the driver farewell, but the young man didn’t seem to care much for formalities.

Having enough of my tardiness, he pulled the reins and trotted past me on his horse. The next thing I know, there are muddy splatters all over my mint green button-up tailcoat. And my tie!

I gasped,

it’s ruined.

The once multi-colored tie is now coated with a layer of brown.

The horror! It a futile attempt to avenge my clothes, I turned around and swung one of my hands up “Hey!” I called out. “Watch where you’re riding mister!” The auto just sped on, showing no signs of having heard my words. I stomped my foot in frustration, which didn’t do me any good.

The mud puddles - formed due to yesterday’s heavy shower – were most definitely keen on following Newton’s Laws of Motion. The fluid sprung up leaving me with messy, wet socks and a pout on my lips.

So much for ‘it’s a new day!’

Finding the urge to look a lest bit presentable before arriving at my destination, I dug both of my hand into my pockets. Nope. No convenient handkerchiefs there.

I took a step forward huffing, with my hands still in my pockets - hoping for a cloth to miraculously appear.

It was a miracle that I wished for, but what I got

was nothing short of a disaster. The movement of my legs caused a shift in the puddles. The slush of the mud threw my suitcase up.

I watched sullenly as all my belongings slid down the hill and into the bushes.

I peered at the freakishly large towers beside me - gray, dusty towers that guarded the doors. I considered telling them that I’m retiring for the day.

Wait… no.

Glancing at the horizon, you could see the various shades of sunrise. More like: I’m retiring for the

dawn

rather than

day . I

could  claim to be tired from the nights long travel. I frowned at the obvious lie.

In reality, I had arrived at the nearest hotel yesterday by midday. Waking up early and hauling a auto for a ten-minute drive was all I had done. Begrudgingly, I strutted down the hill to look for my luggage… for the next few hours. It will all be worth it. *** Knock, knock.

Normally, I wouldn’t prefer to show up in such an attire. Any sane person could tell at first glance that the building was far too intimidating to brave unless you are a notch up from your very best. I - who looked like I had been driven over by a truck and dragged into various bushes - was not even close to adequate, much less at my best! The twig tangled into my hair stood as proof. But I could not give up now. Definitely not! After all that money and time I spent on my travels, I’d be a fool to let it all go down the drain! You can do this , I motivated myself.

It will all be worth it.

I rehearsed my plan in a quiet whisper. “You just have to get in there, introduce yourself, and ask permission to be allowed to take a photo. Finally, roam around the place - which is not creepy,  at all

- for a good measure .”

Unintentionally, I let my eyes stray across the hefty doors. Just

looking  at those bulky wooden blocks is enough to make me shudder. A cold breeze whooshed past me. The howling of the wind which then played in the background,

now

became louder. “A-an-and then…” I trailed off. A chill rose up my back causing me to shudder again. Darn it.

This place is getting to me.

There is nothing orthodox about this manor, Nothing!

I reminded the small part of myself - which dared to feel ‘fear’!

I was about to continue when a creak sounded. It came from the entrance, one of its doors was pushed slightly ajar.

When no one opened it further I knocked it again.

All

that  did was widen the gap further. I took a deep breath. It’s time to execute my plan. Step one: go inside.

Check . Step two: introduce yourself.

“Hello? My name is Gale. I am so glad to meet you. I-” I stopped talking; letting my mouth hang open. Seriously?! Was I just talking to thin air? Who opened the door? I looked around for any sign of living organisms. There; I could spot a - sorry,

many -

spiders spinning their respective webs. But humans? Not a single hint of those rebellious creatures. Darn it. There you go, insulting yourself.

But who says that I am not rebellious myself?

But all in all? I seemed to be the only human insight. I realized that I should be outside; like a polite guest - waiting for someone to greet me. Even as the sour thought patiently waited for me to consider it, I blandly ignored it. I decided that the Lord of the manor is at fault in this circumstance, he should have been there to welcome me into his humble abode. I heard from terrorized gossipers that this manor is most certainly haunted and its Lord is very much jobless.

And this very statement is the reason for my presence. As a journalist, I took it as my job to prove that this plot is occupied by a pleasant man who lives in a nice, dandy ‘house’ - cough, cough - I mean

manor . Finally! With the abolition of censorship, I now have the rights to publish whatever I want! I squinted my eye, straining to capture my vision. And my very first attempt will be on this place. Oh, and I will will not rest until it is quite remarkable. “Hello?” I called out. “Anybody here?” The sound resonated through the dark hollow hall.

The sight of homely decor would have given me comfort and something to write about. Emphasis on

would . But this is certainly not the case. For the most part, the walls were lacking ornamentation. And as for the decorations that were present - they couldn’t possibly be described as… homely. “Lord Eugene?” If my memory served me right, that would be the name of the Lord of the manor; I heard that he had a title too. My reply came in form of an echo given by the emptiness. A gust of gale blew;

how fitting,  I snickered. It lifted a wisp of hair towards the direction of the harsh wind. Oddly, it felt like a warning. A slight panic rose up form inside me, but I dismissed it.

It will all be worth it. With all the rumors following this building, my article would top the trending. It would give me immense pride to show that there is nothing to be afraid of. Why! I might even get promoted!

Now that the Declaration of Rights of Men and Citizen proclaimed freedom of speech and expression to be a natural right, journalists like myself are now finally free to write what ever they wanted. All I need is a picture as proof. Luckily, I didn’t lose my camera with my luggage. All this time it was slung across my shoulder.

There seems to be no one here. But that is no reason to waste time!

I assembled my camera and set a timer. I clicked the button at the top and ran to stand in position – which was right in front of the lens. I smiled as the camera flashed, symbolizing the photo being taken. After the notable click, I rushed to look at my work. As I gawked at the photo, I was a little less enthusiastic. My emotions rather fell into the horrified category. There, in the black and white photo, sat a boy right beside me. He looks malnourished, his clothes had fairly large holes in them. The Cheshire grin on his face promised trouble. I couldn't stomach the fact that... He was missing an eye. Which was frankly gruesome to look at. I blinked. There was another thing I couldn't digest.  Who…?

The last I checked I was alone. When I looked at the camera to double-check, the photo disappeared – as if it were never there. I was probably a figment of my imagination. And I left it at that, nothing more nothing less. After all, ghosts weren’t real, were they? Perhaps I hadn’t taken the photo at all. To mend that, I posed for another photo. When I checked this time, the boy was surely present.

There he was: in this photo, he stood with his frail hand squeezing my shoulder in a somewhat uncomfortable way. That grin, that grin…

Oof.

My chest squeezed. Ghosts aren’t real. It will all be worth it. It will all be worth it. Within a moment the captured scene disappeared, just like the previous one. I smacked my head. Am I becoming delusional? I repeated the procedure, only to get the same results yet again. Are my comprehension skills deficient? Mad . I am going

mad.

In utter disbelief, I imitated my actions – again and again. It will all be worth it.

Somehow, I don’t believe that anymore.

An evil crackle reached my ears. Ghosts aren’t real.

Is it?

It will all be worth it.

Will it? Then suddenly: “You may turn around,” said a grainy voice from behind me. One which I could imagine would belong to the boy. “I am here, may you not feel any alarm.”

I felt funny.

“Oh, ” I exclaimed with a slight slur in my words. “I may, may I?” Enthralled and in a daze, I put an effort to turn around. Because

it will all be worth it.

«THE END» [A/N: thank you so much for reading! It had been a pleasure. I really appreciate this platform _Love, from Serious Sri]


The bell finally rang, pulling me out of my staring trance. I’ been looking out the window for about three minutes without actually seeing anything. I’d finished my final test fifteen minutes before but didn’t hand it in. I wanted to be the last to walk out. I needed to tell him what I’d been keeping from him these past few months. Mr. Pollar had taken his glasses off, his weary eyes too old for his thirty-something face. Three years I had been obsessing over those deep brown eyes that tell a million stories when they look at you. And right now they were telling me he knew I had something to say. “I have to sub for Collins today, so I need to get going. But walk with me.” His tone was kind and inviting and it almost made me give up on my resolve. But there was no going back. He waited by the door for me, one hand holding his brown bag and the other on the door nob so he could close it after us. We walked in silence for a few seconds until he strated asking what plans I had for the break. Was I looking foward to my 21st birthday? When I didn’t say anything he looked at me worried. “Is everything alright, Isla? Was it the test? Have I finally succeeded in making a test difficult enough for you?” “I’m moving.” I blurted out instead of the clever comeback he’d be expecting. He stopped walking and I turned to look at him. His whole body frozen in place while he thought of something to say. I could read him better than I could anyone. Was I serious? He knew I was. Why? Was he ready for that answer? In the end he settled for: “When?” “I’ve made arrangements with my sister in the capital. I’m transferring to UFMG. I’m moving in with her on Saturday.” “That’s in three days.” I didn’t reply, I didn’t know what to say. I had gone through this moment in my head countless painful times only to come up blank in front of him. The next bell rang, reminding him he had to get to Mr. Renner’s class. The desperation settling in his eyes now mirrowed mine. We stood like that for long seconds, neither knowing what would come next. “Do I dare ask why?” He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled as if in pain. This was why I’d waited so long to tell him, I knew it would hurt him as much as it did me. “You know why.” I comfirmed. My eyes were watering already, I had no hope of getting through this without crying. He nodded a few times as if acknowledging for the first time what had been going between us. Kindred souls was what I called us in my mind. “I thought we had more time.” He said defeated. Students walked past us and even some of the teachers were eyeing our strange exchange. But we were past the point of caring. “You’ll be late.’ He looked confused at my words. “For your class.” I reminded him. “Mr. Renner.” “Isla…” he started. “Isla, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I just shook my head. He knew what I’d say to that. There was no need for him to apologise. “I let it go too far.” “Too far.” I repeated with a laugh. And then I sniffed wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. “We’ve never been close to going to far. We didn’t do anything.” That would be true for the outside observer. But not to us who saw inside our hearts. “We’re just very good friends who like to talk. I bore your ears off about my book writing while you grade papers and sip that horrendous coffee you can’t live without. Right?” “You’re right.” He said. “We didn’t go too far. We came too close.” Always the poetic mind. I loved that, his words. I could listen to him talk for hours and still ask for more. “You don’t have to move, Isla. We can go back to what we were in the beginning of your course. If this is hurting you we could stop being friends.” “Could you?” “I would for you.” “And erase three years of the best friendship I’ve ever had like it was nothing? I can’t live around you every day for the next year and not be drawn to you like a magnet, Kyle.” He looked at me surprised I had used his name. Something we’d established I wouldn’t do. Like that would keep some kind of bareer between us. Like that would keep me from falling in love with him. “It’s settled then. You won’t change your mind.” His voice sounded emotionless. “I can’t.” “I understand.” But he looked like he didn’t, like he thought I was making a mistake. Do you think I’m making a mistake?” “I want to tell you ‘yes, I do.’ But I know you’re right. I’ve seen it coming and I knew I couldn’t keep you, I just…” his voice broke as he closed his eyes for a moment. “I thought we had more time.” I swallowed and tried to go for something lighter. “I’m starting a new job on Monday on an ice cream shop. I’m sure it’ll be fun. It’s the summer so it’ll be full of people and I’m hoping for some free ice cream now and then.’ I tried to smile but just started crying harder. Suddenly he was hugging me. He was hugging me and I could feel him for the first time. His arms were like a soft blanket around me and his scent was the air I’d have to learn to breathe without. He brought his hand to my hair, soothing. I heard a sniff and knew he was crying too. I never imagined I’d see him cry. He let me go all to soon and I wished he had never hugged me. At least I wouldn’t have known what I’ll miss for the rest of my life. “I would leave her, you know.” His voice was low and heavy with shame. “No.” I shook my head. “It’s more than that.” We had never talked about this, about our connection, about his marriage. About the future. We only lived in the present, both wary of when the future would come for us. It finally had. “It hurts as much as I expected it would.” He said. His eyes were mostly dry now but still red. “I want you to be happy, kyle. I want you to see your daughter grow and to hear your grandkids call you papaw, and you’ll love it. I want you to love life and remember it was good. We were good.” He ran his hands through his hair and looked around taking deep breaths. “I need to tell you, Isla, if this is the last-” he hesitated. “The last time I see you.” Those words grounded me and pierced through my heart like a hundred knives. “I have to tell you that for the best part of the past year I’ve been happy. I have loved life and I have loved you.” More tears were rolling down my face. Was it too late to reconsider? “I love you, kyle.” I took a deep breath. Then I looked at him, memorizing every trace. His hair, his broad shoulders. His beautiful hands. His eyes. God, his eyes. Then I stated walking backwards as he held himself in place. A tear rolled down his cheek and to his throat. “We’ll be alright, right, Mr. Pollar?” I asked as I retreated. “Yes.” he smiled sadly. “Yes, we’ll be alright.” He lied.


The grandson was looking out of the window, down at the woods that ran through his wildest imaginations. "Hey!" a voice shouts from behind him. He turns to see his grandpa standing in the doorway. "What are you doing up this late at night?" Grandpa questioned. "I can't fall asleep, can you tell me a story?" the grandson asked. “There once was a great shining knight…” Grandpa started before being interrupted by his grandson. “I’ve already heard this story before, can you tell a different one this time, Grandpa?” the grandson pleaded with beading eyes.

“Alright,” Grandpa said before putting down the book, “I have a special story for you.” “Where’s the book?” the grandson questioned, sitting up from his bed to look at Grandpa’s hands. “There is no book for this one, this is from the heart.” “But how will I read this story again?” the boy continuing with his everlasting questions. “Whenever you’re sitting in your bed, just like now, and you need something to entertain yourself, just think to yourself, and the story will come to you,” Grandpa explained. “But…” the grandson began before Grandpa coaxed him to pull up his covers and get comfortable. “This story is about a kid, just like you,” Grandpa pointed to the grandson, “and how he and his friend went on an adventure in the wilderness, just them two, no adults, no supervision.” Grandpa continued, “Are you ready?” The grandson replied with a simple nod. Sam was walking down the streets of Decatur, Tennessee, a small town of two hundred people right outside Knoxville. He walked into the small convenience store, picked out a Coke, put a nickel on the counter, and left. He continued his stroll through the town, passing by his school, which filled all the kids of the town, including his best friend, Dew. Sam has known Dew since before they could even remember anything. 10 years later, they were still as close as anyone could be.

Sam, now remembering about Dew, ran like a gazelle to his house. He leaped over fences, ran through bushes, and eventually arrived at Dew’s house. Dew’s family lived in a simple, 1-story house that you could tell they’ve tried keeping up, but have let go over the last few years. They had a large field in their backyard that led to the woods where Sam and Dewey would spend their adventures. However, they had never gone past the creek that marked the boundary between Dew’s backyard and the unknown, respectively called “The Damned Creek”. They’ve always dared each other to go over the creek, but the farthest anyone’s made it was a simple hop, and then a hop back-

“Wait, they were scared of the woods?” the grandson interrupted. “Yes, and they had a very good reason to,” Grandpa cheerfully replied. The grandson sat in silence for a minute, pondering.

“Well I wouldn’t be scared of no woods, even if I was just a baby,” the grandson finally stated. “Oh grandson, you still are just a baby. Now settle down and let’s finish this story.” Summer had just started, so Sam had a plan in mind for the boys. Sam knocked on the wooden door and promptly opened it and entered the room. Dew’s family had treated Sam as one of their own, so they didn’t mind. Sam ran through the dusty, ragged house, each stomp feeling it might pummel through the creaking floorboards. He saw Dew in the old rocking chair in the living room. “Hey Dew!” Sam blurted out the second he entered the room. “Hey Sam!” Dew ecstatically responded.

“I have an idea,” Sam left Dew wondering. “What’s the idea?” Dew questioned. Sam took the old walking stick by the front door and pointed towards the backyard with it, “We’re going to where no man has ever gone before!” he exclaimed.

“We- We’re going to th- the woods?” Dew stuttered.

“We are going to fully explore the other side of The Damned Creek, and there is nothing and no one who is going to stop us,” Sam proudly said with his fists on his hips. “But how will we ever get back?” Dew nervously responded. Sam sensed Dew’s apprehensiveness, and comforted him, “Don’t worry Dew, we’re just gonna go over to the other side, look around, and then come back.” “That’s it?” Dew, still nervous, but feeling slightly better. “That’s it, now let’s pack our essentials and leave after the sun dips below the tip of that tree,” Sam pointed to the large apple tree residing in the backyard.

Dew nodded and went into his bedroom to pack. The boys walked with their backpacks full of food and tools such as knives, apples, and even hammers. They were unsure of the frontier, but Sam was ready to enter and Dew was still apprehensive, but was mostly ready. They encountered the fresh-water creek that divided the two lands from each other. The two boys looked at each other, giving each other the go-ahead signal to enter the unexplored territory, and suddenly, they jumped together. Birds flew out of the area, heading towards the heavens as the boys trekked along the frontier. They hacked and slashed through the shrubbery which crowded the forest floor with Sam’s homemade pocket-knife. Dew had his father’s binoculars out, hoping to see a rare species of birds fluttering about. The sun shone through the forest top, breaking through pockets of space, revealing the numerous leaves around.

Sam took out his compass and asked Dew, “Do you remember what direction your house is in?” Dew looked around, but was confused as all the directions looked the same, “I’m not sure…” Dew said apprehensively.

Sam looked down at the compass, in which the needle was pointing west. “It says that we are going west, so I guess your house is in the East,” Sam concluded. “No… no, that can’t be right because the forest is to the right of my house,” Dew worriedly cried. “Well then how are we going towards your house if we’ve been traveling in the same direction for the past 30 minutes?” Sam questioned. “I don’t know, but I think we should go back--” Right on cue, as if God was watching from above, clouds surrounded the sky, and lightning struck, sending the boys into panic. They frantically ran in a direction, much less worried about being lost, and more worried about the imminent threat of weather. The boys jumped and ducked and weaved their way through branches, shrubs, and trees. Out of breath, they stopped to catch their breath, panting like a dog who had been running for hours.

“Hey, what direction did we run in now?” Dew asked Sam. Sam put his hands in his pockets when he didn’t feel anything. He then put his hand in his backpack to locate the compass. He didn’t feel anything either. A sudden sense of fear and panic struck Sam like a train and he didn’t feel too good. “Dew, I… I think I need to--”

Sam woke up in a rush. “Woah, woah, woah, you need to stay down there buddy,” Dew coaxed Sam, “You were out a little while, it’s almost sunfall, we need to get out of here now.” Sam looked around to see the orange reflection of the sun bounce off the leaves of the trees. He got himself up and studied the area once again. He noticed the way the shadows were casted.

“Look,” Sam pointed to the base of the trees, “See how the shadow is pointing that way (he pointed towards the right of the tree).”

Dew nodded. “That means the sun must be in the opposite direction of the shadows,” Sam exclaimed, “And since the sun always sets in the West, we must follow it to your house. The boys excitedly picked up their stuff to head back home when they suddenly heard a growl from nearby. Dew and Sam simultaneously turned their heads in the direction of the noise and saw a large gray wolf. Its beady yellow eyes stared into the flesh of the boys, giving its signal that it wants to have dinner. “Um, Sam, we should... you know… run” Dew mentioned to Sam. Sam motioned his finger to his mouth as a way of telling Dew to shut up. Sam picked up a rock from next to his foot. “The second this rock hits that tree, we run,” Sam told Dew, who nodded in agreement. Sam wound up his arm, and looked at Dew for a second, and launched the rock. It made a large cracking sound as it hit the bark. The wolf turned its attention to the noise as the boys took off. They ran and ran, harder than ever before. They felt like cheetahs as the trees and grounds whipped past them as they chased the sun. The sun was glowing through the sky, giving Earth its goodbye, as the boys hurried towards the house. They did not look back to see if the wolf was chasing them or not. They just ran. Sam looked ahead and saw a tiny dip in the land, it must have been the creek he thought. Sam took off faster now. Dew, though, could not see the creek and was almost depleted of any energy. Sam took one graceful leap across the creek, and made it safely to homeland. Dew staggered behind, panting. Sam also panted, but from the safety of the known land. Sam laughed and turned around to head home when he heard a shrilling scream. He looked back at Dew to see the wolf had, indeed, caught up to them and was mere feets away from Dew. Dew’s back was to Sam, and Sam could not do anything to disturb the wolf. He simply must spectate his friend’s situation. The sun had fallen from the sky, giving way to darkness in the world. Dew slowly stepped back away from the wolf, inching closer and closer to the creek. The wolf’s fangs were glaring, even to the point where Sam could see its whiteness cut through the dark. Sam knew that Dew must act fast, or else it would not be good news. He had one solution. He took his backpack off and started running towards the wolf. Dew heard rapid footsteps approaching behind him and yelled. Sam jumped and threw his backpack at the wolf, knocking it down and grabbed Dew with him. They ran back, through the field, and finally, into the house. “Geez boys, I haven’t seen you all day and you just run into my house like that?” Dew’s mama exclaimed. “Oh you wouldn’t know the half of it Mama,” Dew sighed. “Alrighty then, get y’allselves cleaned, I have supper ready for you,” Dew’s mama smirked. The boys looked at each other one last time, and headed to the bathroom laughing about the events that had unfolded that day. “The End.” Grandpa sighed. “So that’s it?” the grandson questioned. “That’s it.” “But what about--” Grandpa cut him off before he could finish the sentence. “I think it’s time for bed now, not time for buts and what ifs,” Grandpa said as he tucked his grandson to bed.


It seemed to take forever to arrive at my new home. It had been a long, hot ride with no air conditioning in the cab of a pickup truck. Who makes cars without air conditioning, anyway? I slept as much as I could to keep my mind off the unbearable heat of the south. I did occasionally find myself daydreaming of my new home. I believe it had to be better than the place I had been, a large household of about 20 others living there. Don’t get me wrong: I had left behind some acquaintances and while I might miss them, I knew I was going to a better place.

We finally drove up and I saw the most beautiful house I had ever seen. It must be a mansion. There was a yard with grass and trees. I could see and hear birds, squirrels, and all the sights and sounds of nature. I could only imagine what the inside must look like.  As we walked in the door, my new roommate, Judy, pointed out the living room, bedroom, kitchen and such. This was incredible!

As I stood there taking it all in, I was taken off guard by the worst sight imaginable: Running towards me at great speed was a huge, black dog! To add insult to injury, he started licking me. I AM NOT a dog type and to me nothing was worse than the slobbering spit of a dog. YUCK! What’s worse is that this was to be MY new home. I hadn’t heard anything in the terms about a dog.

There was only one thing to do. I let Judy know that this simply would not do and we needed to remedy the situation post haste! She put the dog in the backyard, not exactly what I had in mind, but temporarily this got him out of the way. Now, it was time to discuss living quarters and the rights of each roommate. There was plenty of space and furniture so this should be easily decided. At least, that was what I thought.

It became ultimately clear over the first week that I was being treated as a guest in my own house, and not a cherished guest. There was no spirit of “Be Our Guest” as heard many times over. It seems I was stepping on a few toes. If I sat somewhere, I was told that was not allowed. Rooms were shut off from me and I was not allowed to eat as I pleased. I was offered food, but it was not what she was having. Apparently, I was there just as a warm body and not as an equal owner of this property as I had been led to believe.

Remember the dog? Oh, he was not sent away. He remained and seemed to receive better treatment than I. On top of that, Judy seemed determined that he and I needed to become friends. I tried to tell her more than once that this was not an option, but it fell on deaf ears. Obviously, this situation was not going to work out.

That night, I decided it was time to go. It shouldn’t be too hard to find my way to the road. Maybe I could get a ride somewhere and find a new place. I waited until I was sure no one would hear me and snuck out the side door. I didn’t want to have to answer any questions. Naturally, I tried to be quiet, but it seemed as if every sound was amplified 10 times! In spite of that, I made it out undetected by Judy or the dog.

I didn’t drive, so walking was my only option. I quickly made my way to the end of the street. Now what? Which way had we come in? I had no idea about the streets here.  I would just have to use my best instincts at navigating. I went this way and that, hoping to find a familiar place or something the least bit recognizable. All the houses and buildings looked the same. Cars went rushing by. No one was stopping.  I began to think it might be better if I went back to the house and would try again another day, but which way was the house?

 I was getting a little bit scared, but I knew I could do this, when all of a sudden, “Ba-boomb!” This was followed by a huge flash of light. “WHAT IN THE WORLD WAS THAT?!”  Suddenly, rain was falling on me and almost blinding me. I ducked under the first place I could find to get away from the rain.  I was hopelessly lost in a thunderstorm, and no one even knew I had left. I suddenly felt so alone, and I started to cry. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but at some point I fell asleep. I had dreams of people yelling at me, cars going by, loud noises and of being soaking wet.

It was then that I heard a familiar voice crying, “Cocoa, where are you?” I was still trying to comprehend all of it when I felt the ever familiar feeling of a dog slobbering on me…THE dog from the house. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t care for dogs licking me, but I decided this time I could handle it, since he is the one who found me!

You see, I am a cat and we …well…we just do things differently than dogs; however, I must say this is one time I was glad to be slobbered on and to hear my name being called. I was going home. All those demands I wanted to make no longer mattered, (well, maybe a little.) As it turns out, Judy was so glad to see me, too, and we have kind of come to a mutual understanding. I am now allowed on the couch and sometimes in her bedroom. She even has opened some of the doors for me.

When we got home, I got a huge can of yummy tuna. I guess we both were upset at the possibility of me being lost. Oh, and the dog, well I guess we came to an understanding as well. We tolerate each other, and sometimes I will even snuggle up next to him when I am really tired, but I have made it clear…no dog slobber…well, maybe a little now and again won’t hurt.


“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.” mocked Mandy with a tone of dominance in her proud voice. “We’ll see about that, considering my bestie has true talent unlike you.” Samara said, defending Chloe. “Oh really … ha ha ha! All the worst to you.” Mandy muttered as she walked away with her snobby friends. “Aaaaah. I hate her.” low-screamed Chloe as she threw dirty looks at Mandy. “I can’t let her take my role this time.”

“It’s fine, I know you can do it.” said Samara encouragingly.

“Oh my goodness, only half an hour left, I’m so freaking out for this audition!” exclaimed Chloe. “Is my hair alright? What about my makeup? Is it perfect? Wait, how’s my costume?” “You seriously need to stop worrying too much Chloe. This is not the most important thing, it’s just a play and I’m sure you’ll get the role” said Samara, seeing her friend get overdramatic.

“Just a play huh? That’s how you term a determined fight against Mandy, the worst beauty-queen ever! It’s my firm decision to beat Mandy and get the role of Princess Eliza and I so very hope she, a.k.a Mandy gets the role of the pauper girl, but yet again, that too would be a huge disgrace for me letting her act in the play I’ll be starring. Well, since I’m known to be super-sweet, I might as well give her the role-” started blabbering Chloe non-stop. “You know what, ju-just keep worrying. But never open your mouth again.” sighed Samara as she said this. “Fine.” sulked Chloe and started rehearsing again. “Miss Hilton, your audition starts in a couple of minutes, head to the backstage.” announced Professor Daniel in his usual French accent. “Chloe, you have to go now, everything is perfect. Good luck!” said Samara. “Merci.” said Chloe gracefully, “That’s how I’ll end my lines.” Samara replied “Great!”. “Oh no, it’s alright.” panted Chloe, her heart beating fast every step she took towards the stage.

“You may begin your audition, Miss Hilton.” said Professor Daniel. “Laissez-la passer les portes … échangeons des vies … la vie est vraiment dure ici …” she was doing the audition great. Samara was proud of her friend.

She quickly glanced around to check whether Mandy was enjoying this too. There she was, at the far end of the auditorium, with fierce jealousy in her eyes. Samara couldn’t resist a chuckle.

A minute later, Mandy wasn’t there. “Odd.” thought Samara. But there was something more than ‘odd’ going on. She roamed the whole auditorium trying to spot Mandy, probably planning something to ruin the perfect audition. Even though this feared Samara, she was overjoyed to see Chloe concluding her audition gracefully as she’d commenced, “La pauvreté doit être bannie du pays … merci.” Chloe bowed elegantly and walked down the stage with her cheeks flushing with color as Samara flung her arms around her and hugged her. “You rocked Chloe. I distinctively saw Professor Daniel pleased with your performance.” said Samara, smiling. “I think so too. Seeing Mandy so furious gave me the spirit.” confessed Chloe.

“Speaking of Mandy, where is she anyway?” asked Chloe looking around. “Dunno. Saw her, and then after a minute or so she disappeared. I was worried she’d ruin your audition.” explained Samara. “Well, she can’t be gone for long ‘cause her audition starts right after mine.” said Chloe thoughtfully. “Wanna go get some ice cream?” suggested Samara. “D’love to.” said Chloe with a grin as they went towards the lifts. “Chloe, you were spectacular on the stage.” complimented Harry, their close friend, who’d been waiting for the lift to arrive. “Thank you!” blushed Chloe as she said this, “Are you coming with us to get some ice cream?”.

“I’m ‘fraid I can’t, I’ve got soccer practice.” “Oh right. We too are in a hurry. We wanna see how Mandy performs.” replied Samara. “Oh, she?” asked Harry. “Yup.” said Chloe “She.” The lift arrived and the three got in, fully aware only the school staff were permitted to use them. They reached the ground floor and parted ways. “See you later girls!” Harry said as he ruffled his untidy, black hair. Samara and Chloe waved and were soon found walking back to the lifts with their almost-finished ice cream cones. They were astonished to see, not even a single soul was in the auditorium except the janitor. “Hey, where is everybody ?” asked Chloe as she scanned the place for Professor Daniel. Samara, followed by Chloe, walked up to the janitor and asked, “Excuse me ma’am, but do you know where everyone is?” “Some purposeful accident there-” started saying the janitor pointing towards the nearest lobby, but abruptly stopped when she noticed the name ‘Chloe’ on Chloe’s identity card. “You Chloe?” asked the janitor with a clearly not-so-pleased expression. “People are waiting for you there …” saying this, she continued to mop the floor. “Oh me?” replied Chloe wondering what on earth the janitor was talking about. Both of them sprinted towards the lobby to see a huge crowd gathered around a girl who was now, made to sit on a chair. Her frantically bleeding head and badly bruised arms were being bandaged insecurely by one of her snobby friends. Samara was astounded to identify the girl on the chair. She nudged Chloe as she gasped in horror recognizing the familiar black eyes and blonde hair. “MANDY!” she shrieked. “Ah, here comes our innocent assailant.” they heard Professor Daniel say, eyeing Chloe accusingly. “Professor me? B..but I-” started Chloe but was interrupted by Professor Daniel’s words, “Now, now. Don’t try to cover up Miss Hilton. It’s very best if you confess your wrongdoing, er … right now and right here.” “But she has done nothing wrong to confess Professor.” said Samara fiercely. “Oh, are you her accomplice then, Miss Rodrigues?” interrogated Professor Daniel in his usual French accent. “Professor, we truly do not know what you’re talking about.” said Samara, this time even more confidently.

Professor Daniel got up from his armchair and asked loudly yet patiently, “Then who else should I be blaming for this young girl’s tragedy of being pushed down from the stairs.” “Stairs?” asked Samara unsure. Professor Daniel turned his head towards Mandy and spoke “Dear, let’s have it all explained one more time so that these innocent-acting girls become fully guilty of their own deeds.” “Very well Professor.” said Mandy with colorless, clear liquid filled in her eyes. “I was rehearsing my play when I suddenly remembered that I had left one of my props in my classroom which was on the second floor. I was walking briskly to the stairs when I saw Chloe following me. I asked her if her audition was over and she said it just got over … and, and the next thing I knew was kneeling on the stairs with blood all over my head and hands.” sobbed Mandy. “You liarrrrr!” screamed Chloe with utmost hatred towards Mandy. “Is there anything you girls have to say now?” asked Professor Daniel. Moments of awkward silence filled the atmosphere and Professor Daniel begins to speak again “Well, since you-”. His words were cut off by Samara’s, “Yes, Professor, I certainly have a few things to say.” Professor Daniel looked confused and so did Chloe, Mandy and the others who were around. Chloe nudged Samara but she just nodded as though meaning to say, ‘I know what I’m doing’. Samara was in a dilemma. She had to help her friend out of this fake accusation. But that would mean admitting one of their flaws. Anyway, she decided to go for it. “You see Professor,” began Samara with fierce confidence in her voice, “as soon as Chloe’s audition got over, we went down to the school cafeteria, through the el….elevators.”. She paused to analyze the professor’s reaction; she was merely surprised to see him nodding eagerly to know what happened next. “Er..yeah as I was saying, we went down to the cafeteria and in the same way came up to the auditorium through the elevators to find no one but the janitor here.” She finished the sentence quickly as though not to highlight ‘elevators’. “And what makes you think I would believe these events, Miss Rodrigues?” asked Professor Daniel questioningly in his usual French accent. “A witness.” came the quick-witted reply.

It was now Chloe realized what her friend was actually doing. She glanced at Mandy to see her slightly taken aback with this news.

“Who is the witness?” demanded Professor Daniel. “If you would accompany me to the school ground, I might as well be able to justify myself.” Samara answered relentlessly. “Well, take me there.” said the professor. “Er … professor, may I come too?” asked Mandy clumsily. “No dear, I think it’s high time you should rest.” said the confused professor.

Chloe and Samara led the professor to the school ground where the soccer team was practicing. Once they got there, Samara yelled “HARRY” and a figure with ruffled, untidy black hair froze on the ground and came running towards them,“Hi Samara. Hey Chloe. Good morning Professor Daniel.” “Well, I have a few things to clear so would you mind telling me a little bit of truth …” said Professor Daniel. “Er…truth… yeah.. I won’t mind at all” replied Harry perplexed. “Good.” muttered the professor. “Now, is it true that these girls came down to the cafeteria through the elevators at around twenty minutes ago?” questioned Professor Daniel in his usual French accent. “Tell the truth Harry.” whispered Chloe. “We’re sorry professor, it is true we three, came down through the elevators and it was only because we were in a hurry. Professor, we are extremely sorry. See professor, I had soccer practice and well I decided to use the lift and met Samara and Chloe. Chloe had just finished her audition and needless to say, it was amazing …and we apologize great …” he did not seem to end his apologies.

“Well, I’m sorry I doubted you girls.” said Professor Daniel smiling, “I still do wonder, how Mandy, would’ve got blood over her-”

“Hahahahaahha … Professor, I’m sorry to interfere but I saw her taking red liquid from her bag.” said Harry smirking. “Well, I surely need to get my spectacles changes, don’t I girls?” They all burst into a fit of laughter as they walked back to the auditorium deciding what punishment Mandy deserved. “I think you ought to give her detention professor.” suggested Samara. “Or maybe give Chloe the role of Princess Eliza sir.” Chloe blushed and Professor Daniel said “Maybe.” in his usual French accent, this time with a warm smile.


Newspapers are very handy. You can do a lot with such a humble item: 1. Reading: Of course, you can read them – if you’re that way inclined. Personally, I've never found the appeal of sitting on your backside all day and shuffling through just to make unsolicited commentary especially about people’s lives, and things that aren’t your business or in your control. But I digress... 2. Pack delicate items: I may not read the paper for news, but I do watch the local news channel every day at every interval. I don’t read the paper because these days, most of the content is unnecessary, and by the time I’ve purchased one, everything inside is irrelevant. Things and news move fast. And if you don’t keep up or even get ahead, you’ll be left in the dust. I can’t afford to not be “in the know”. I also don’t have time to read – I need to be moving, I need to be quick. So, I flick on the set instead and allow the newscasters to relay so that if I need to pivot, I can without wasting time and energy trying to find the right information for myself. It is 6.03pm and I am scoffing half a frozen bagel, whilst knotting another stuffed black bag. I need the extra calories; I’ve been packing since the early morning news bulletin. I kick the bag underneath the table to collect later. Trip hazard – never a good thing, I can’t endanger myself. Last time I tripped over a box I’d foolishly left in the hallway and woken up hours later in a panic that I’d been foiled. But it was pure luck we’d both been in the basement at the time of the raid. I cannot and will not make that mistake again. There’s a loud crash behind me, which snuffs out the weather woman - heavily pregnant in a dress that makes her boobs look like water balloons – reporting that tonight’s weather will be dry but cold. I take a mental note before turning towards where the noise came from. I can guess that the culprit is one of two beings – the inherited but unwanted cat or my housemate. It’s the housemate. I should have known. As I slide through the doorway, she makes haste to drop forward and gather the items rolling around on the vinyl floor. Thankfully, they are only replicas of my Polish Grandmother's china babushka. I would never entrust such precious items to a careless individual. She is terribly clumsy, my housemate. Even without trying, she manages to create more mess and bother than she means to. I’ve just learned I must make extra provisions to keep her clumsiness in check. Which is why she occupies this contained box room, where the only things she can disturb have no real value. I watch her and fold my arms disappointedly. She works faster, shaky fingers clawing at the numerous cups of brightly decorated women. She doesn’t look at me as she attempts to rebuild the babushka, but she is clumsy and hopeless with dexterity. I wonder why I thought it was a good idea to get her involved in the packing. I sigh loudly and step into the tiny space to take over. This is why I normally work alone. Less stress, less hassle, less clean up. Too many hands, too many delays, too many mistakes. She cowers immediately as I reach down and pluck the baby babushka from the floor. The object must have bounced furthest because it’s the lightest. In all fairness, she can’t reach it, it has landed outside of her permitted boundary. She dares to glance at me as I slowly stand. “Is it broken?” she stutters. I inspect the baby knowingly. The baby is fine because it’s not real china. “How would you pay for it if it was?” I tease her, “I don’t think you have anything to exchange that’s of any value to me if it were broken. And so, what do you think that would mean for you, huh?” Her eyes grow wide and her face white. “I was careful,” She insists and shakes her hands at the other women, gathered in a heap at her scabby knees. I notice a new patch of wounds, which means she’s still crawling around in here. Even after I told her to stretch her legs because weak legs are useless if we need to move fast. You see, she creates mess and is beginning to be mess than her worth… She apologises repeatedly when I indicate for her to hand me the other little women. She scoops them up and tries to pass them from where she is kneeling, but I am still outside of her boundary. “Stand up”, I say. But her face immediately starts to crumble. “Use your legs.” “I can’t”, her whine is pathetic. I scoff. She is just lazy. “You can. I told you to get up and walk. Why are you still scratching around on this floor? I gave you slack, like you wanted, and for what?” “I tried, but it’s -it’s been so long,” she moans and rubs her exposed thighs and kneecaps “It hurts to stand. I can’t, can’t feel my feet anymore”. “So how did you reach the babushka?” I question her suspiciously. The stacked ladies live on a level on the wall. “That’s what I mean,” she says to her shaking hands, “I tried to stand just now but I couldn’t. I think I hit them off the shelf when I fell.” Plausible, I think. The explanation is plausible for now. The women were placed on the level initially because I knew she wouldn’t be able to reach them whilst her chain kept her movements small and low-level. But now, after her whining drove me insane, I have granted her a wider range and she can at least pace in an arc. “Then you are lucky they are still intact,” I tell her spitefully, “You better start getting those legs working, girl. I haven’t got time for your excuses, especially not today. We gotta move.” I scan the room for a random black bag, but seeing none, push my useless housemate aside. I see she has made a bed with the pile of old newspapers I left out for her waste. I can’t help sneering as I destroy the abode by grabbing a handful of sheets. She only slaps at her legs whimpering as though willing them to suddenly work so she can defend her property. But it seems she was telling the truth. I press the babushka into the sheets, roll, and twist the ends with ease. “There, you see, “I shake the mummified women at her, “It’s easy. Pick and pack. Done and dusted. Can’t you even do that without making a scene?”. She is smart to stay silent as she sinks away. I re-enter the main room and toss the wrapped replica into an empty black sack. Truthfully, though it is not broken, it belongs in the trash. Along with all the other dead weight accumulating around me. “You need to pack lighter,” I tell myself just as the news roundup flashes across the TV screen. It ends with the final mention of the story I am most interested in; their developing breaking news story: Police are investigating a new lead into the disappearance of a 24-year-old woman who has been missing for more than a year. They believe she is still alive and may be held against her will. The search will move to the Kelvingrove area of Glasgow after an anonymous tip. Police are urging the locals to be cooperative, vigilant, and wary as they explore the possibilities… I must leave this house tonight. It’s time to relocate. 3.  Wrap up broken items The car is packed with all the essentials. The clutter, the non-essentials, and the dead weight will have to stay, including that blessed cat (no apologies to my Polish Grandma).  There’s nothing really to incriminate me. All the evidence has been or will be disposed of discreetly. I find her in the same position I left her in; kneeling back on her shins, head down, defeated. This time, she does not respond as I stride towards her. Her head is hanging down against her chest. “Come on,” I give her a nudge, hard enough to wake her from her slumber. - She’s been sleeping a lot lately. The first three months after I brought her home, she was like a newborn baby. She cried incessantly for everything; attention, feeding, more blankets, interaction – anything she could squeeze out of me. The newborn phase was traumatising for her and exhausting for me. I was no rookie, but she wasn’t like the others. I wrongly assumed they’d all act and respond identically to the situation. The others quickly got through the newborn phase and became more feisty as the days passed by (One of them, whom I called “Jaws”, tried to bite me). But this one is different. She’s a load alright – a load of emotions. I can handle the fighters - they’ll always be physically disadvantaged, no matter how hard they try to overpower me. But this one, I call her “Mood”, to her own credit has made this past year insightful. I’ve learned more about the womankind through her than through any of the others. She has proven to be a worthy specimen for my study. But I must admit, I think I have observed and extracted all I can from her, the sudden changes in her are becoming undesirable. Her incredible sleeping habits are the reason I no longer bother to lock her in. I can turn my back, get on with things, and live comfortably without being concerned that she’ll escape. I only keep an eye open when she is awake – more so because of her clumsiness rather than her alertness. But now that she’s sleeping most of the time, why continue to allow her to be a drain on my resources? Death is inevitable here anyway. - The initial nudge has no effect. So, I try again, this time jabbing my fingers into her shoulder with force. Nothing. Honestly, I have not fed her for some time, preoccupied with boxing everything up and figuring out the best route to take to avoid any unnecessary stops. Perhaps she has passed out with hunger. In an uncharacteristic haste, I reach down, press her face between my hands, and jerk it up towards me. Suddenly there’s a loud cracking sound and her stretched neck renders loose in my grasp. I almost let go in shock as her upturned face, eyes closed and mouth parted, becomes a bowling ball between my hands. I’m surprised by the gurgle of my stomach and the tingle of nausea bubbling inside of me. I am no rookie, but this has never happened before. I told you “Mood” is different. I told you “Mood” is messy. Or should I say was …. I will remember you for certain now; I think. I literally shiver at her face fixated forever in its lifeless expression. She has somehow affected me more than I realised. She has somehow managed to infiltrate me and pass on her messiness. I am careful. But for the first time, though death was inevitable for “Mood”, my meticulous hands have performed an accidental demise. She dives like an anchor when I release her. I stand over her fragmented frame and marvel at the impact that such an impulsive moment has on the rest of my thoughtful plan. The car is packed tight, with space only for two vertical objects. The driver and his housemate. I had not foreseen carrying a body this early in the move. I hear the familiar jingle of the 10pm news from the living room and realise I am now behind schedule. I need to move fast. The box room is void of any clutter and non-essentials, void of anything useful to clear this dead weight. Apart, of course, from the newspaper bed dismantled in the corner. So, I wrap her in her own wastepaper, I have no choice. I cocoon her broken body, in preparation for the trash. It is a great shame. I had wonderful plans for her body, to keep it, memorialise it like the others. But I don’t accommodate dead weight, I don’t keep broken things. My cadavers are my pride and joy. My cadavers are only valuable to me when they are perfect, when they are whole and intact. It’s no different to receiving a faulty gift at Christmas. Who can treasure, take pride in, or be happy with a misshapen or deformed prize?


You have to see it to believe it.

The romantic postcards make it look larger than life, but the Eiffel Tower isn’t all that.

In fact when I saw it, I could easily believe it. It teeters off into the sky like match-stick spider-web scaffolding. It’s got fussily intricate swirls and whorls like a geometric tree that didn’t know when to stop growing.

It might have been less disappointing if I hadn’t had the poster. My Mum brought it home for me one night when she was working at the travel agent’s—selling holidays she could never afford to people she would never see again. My Mum always said you should take what you can get. And in her case it was ballpoint pens and old promotional posters.

‘ Visit romantic Paris ’ the poster implored, in spangled word art that was already dated by the time the printer spat it out. Fortunately, I had scissors.

Carefully, tongue poking out the side of my mouth, I trimmed off the offending slogan so all that remained was the glimmering tower, a park, a sunset, and some elegant flowers peeking up from the bottom of the picture. Perfect. I rushed downstairs to fumble through what my Mum affectionately referred to as the ‘shit draw’ for a wad of blu-tack to stick the poster to my ceiling. And there I was, sprawled out on the bed, staring wistfully at that celebrity structure as I drifted off to sleep every night in my box room.

I dreamt about Paris then. Strolling up to the tower at dusk and throwing out a checked picnic blanket. Opening a hinged-lid basket stuffed with cheeses, grapes, and baguette.

Sometimes I was alone, sometimes draped around a handsome Parisian who had swept me off my feet. Either way, I was immersed in the climactic scene of my very own movie. Either way, I’d always wake up before taking the first bite of my picnic. Before that all-important first kiss. By the time I was 18 I was desperate to see Paris, and the summer before I started uni seemed like the perfect time. Exams done, copious volumes of beer consumed, I was ready for a little culture.

In a childish attempt to live out the movie in my head I’d crammed brie, grapes, and baguette into my backpack when I visited. Squished bread. Sour grapes. Slightly leaky brie, and a bottle filled with lukewarm tap water.

Not a feast to be recommended. It was a grey June evening, but mild enough. I plonked myself down on the tourist-trodden lawn and ate as the Parisian traffic blared around me.

No sunset, no flowers, no romantic, swelling strings. Where was my wind machine, I wondered. Where was the rousing, full-orchestra recapitulation of my theme? It’s silly, I know, but my heart sank. For another hour, I waited. If I only stared at the tower long enough, I reasoned, maybe my third act would materialise.

I’d have my meet cute with the handsome stranger, perhaps—or spot a mysterious book that would lead me on a whirlwind adventure.

Maybe I’d at least feel a fraction of what I felt staring up at my ceiling every night back home. Nothing came. A cool numbness had begun to sweep over me.

At first, it was pins and needles in my legs, crushed beneath me on the hard earth for too long. Close on its heels was a numbness in my brain. It trickled through my synapses like cold water. As that inexplicable sadness descended, a new thought occurred. Maybe I was in a movie after all—just not in the genre I wanted. But the dramatic rain refused to fall. The mournful, solo piano line playing in my head soon evaporated. How could I be so underwhelmed? It’s not as if my poster had lied to me. The Eiffel tower was the exact shape, the exact size, the exact location it depicted.

Never meet you heroes, I guess.

Although when your hero’s a building, you expect a little more stability. And I wasn’t feeling so stable myself. The rest of my life stretched dizzyingly out before me, promising anticlimax after anticlimax. Things never feel like they do in the poster. In the cinema. In the books.

If this was the trip of a lifetime, what then? Staring into the non-future, my heart began to race, and the lawn started to spin. I found out later there’s a name for what I felt: Paris Syndrome.

It was coined to describe the crushing disappointment felt by waves of Japanese tourists who visited Paris in the ‘80s.

Expecting romantic, archaic, accordion-wielding, beret-wearing splendour, they were instead met with the cigarette smoke and hairspray of a modern city.

According to my research (read: Wikipedia) symptoms run the gamut from nausea and fainting spells to hallucinations.

I’ve no clue why Paris gets a proper syndrome when every other tourist trap has its own regiment disappointed visitors. Back home, London is no different. The iconic black cabs are always stuck in traffic, and anyway real Londoners use Uber now. The Rosetta stone is just an average-looking rock with writing on it. The diplodocus in the Natural History Museum looks bigger in the pictures. On top of that, the Greek columns in the V&A are only plaster casts. Only tourists shop in Harrods. No one speaks like a Jane Austen character. And I’m sure the Tower of London is a real treasure trove of disappointments.

So there I was, head tilted to one side as I stared at the disappointingly real Eiffel tower, periodically reaching down to rub feeling back into my legs. The throngs of tourists had begun to thin out, and dusk was descending. At least I think it was—someone had turned the dimmer switch from ‘grey’ to ‘darker grey’. I climbed unsteadily to my feet and turned around. After a few steps, on a whim, I glanced over my shoulder for one last look. Suddenly—instantly—a thousand white lights sprung to life.

They danced up and down the tower, and up and down again, like fireworks. My jaw dropped. The ice in my brain melted, flowed down my back in chills, seemed to settle on my arms, raising goosebumps. All the little match-stick pieces looked so different lit up. The shadows they cast seemed to tumble away into the night like smoke.

And it was better than a movie—so much better. No clichés, no corny dialogue, no overbearing orchestra, no unconvincing romantic subplot.

Just me. Standing exactly where I’d wanted to be for years. Widening my eyes so I could take in more of the scene. Gulping it down. Drowning in it. All it took was turning on the lights—I don’t understand why. But some things make no sense and I don’t think that matters. When I finally dragged myself away, I smiled all the way back to my hotel, all the way to the Eurostar the next day. All the way to uni. Maybe Paris syndrome has a cure.


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I’m Late By Merry Marcellino              The alarm wails and I jump from the bed! Today is the day! I must get moving! I only have an hour left! I hop into the shower tripping on the mat and falling against the wall. “Ow!” Pain radiates up my leg, but it’s not broken. Not letting it stop me, I shower getting soap in my eye. Looking in the mirror, my eye looks like a blood vessel burst! Grabbing eyedrops I almost stab my eye trying to get the moisture in. Waiting the barest second, I see the redness die down just a little.

 Limping to the bedroom to dress. Jeans, check, black boots, check.  Lacy pin bra, check, burnt orange sweater, check. Wait! Oh no! Huge hole in the sweater! I tear it off flinging the imperfect garment across the room.              “Shirt! Shirt!” Finding a T-shirt that’s clean, I toss it on getting it stuck while trying to shove my arms in the holes! Finally dressed, I slurp the last bit of coffee in my cup only to spill it down my shirt. Rolling my eyes I rush to the bedroom and Hallelujah! I find another clean shirt with no holes!

             Finally dressed, I rush out the door almost tripping down the stairs to the lower level of my apartment. The icy wind chills me in my light jacket and T-shirt, the only one I could find on short notice. Should have tried harder to find a sweater!

Snow flurries expected today. The low-level nimbostratus clouds above signal the oncoming white stuff. Gray skies hover as I hurry to my vehicle. Getting into my bright, blue car, I break a nail on the door frame. “Ouch!” More injuries! What else is new for Ms. Clumsy! Putting my finger in my mouth to calm the sting, I carefully close the door.              Jamming the key in the ignition I turn it rather vehemently to a whirring sound. “Oh no!” Trying again, to no avail. “Come on baby! Start!” No luck. “not today, please baby!” Guess I’m walking! Rather running!              Working night shift is for the birds. I’m not used to the hours. I can’t get any of my day errands done! My sleep pattern is off making it necessary to use an alarm. I need to get back to day shift. Four more weeks!              I hurry past people walking dogs, dancing around leashes. Jumping over a backpack on the ground I almost twist my ankle when I land. Can’t be late!

             “Excuse me Miss?” Oh no! A man is blocking my way. He’s tall, about fifty. Rather nice looking but I don’t have time. “Please can you help me?” I stop, what else can I do to a plea of assistance?              “Yes?” I’m hopping from one foot to the other, impatient to get moving.              “Can you tell me the time?” Really? Is no one else around? Where’s your cell? I think unkindly.

             “It’s 5:15pm.”              “Thank you.” I’m not listening. I’m off again!              I only have forty-five minutes left!              Once I hit Gerard Street, I’ll be home free! Almost there! Now what!? Gerard is closed off! Their repairing the sidewalk. Wet concrete! Can I jump it? No. Too wide. I can’t go that way! Now I have to go all the way around!              Sprinting across the street, I almost get hit by a car moving faster than the speed limit. Beeping at me they drive away. I almost gesture to them, but no. Just because they’re rude doesn’t mean I have to be. My heart is in my throat from the close encounter! Have to get my breathing under control after the scare.              If I cut through this building I can cut some time! It’s been abandoned for a while. Is it safe? The tall building looks sturdy. It was abandoned for something. It can’t be too bad. It hasn’t been knocked down yet, I reason with myself.

             Slipping under the tape on the door I squint to see in the darkness. “Hello. Anyone here?” Could be a homeless person sleeping here to hold off the coldness of the winter winds. Hearing a squeak I jump! Mouse? Rat? I don’t want to know!

             Pulling out my phone, I turn on the flashlight. Having to slow to step over broken pallets, is that a sleeping bag? I’m beginning to question my sanity, coming into a deserted building alone. Slowing, I creep along, shadows making me jump as I find another room. Smelling sweat, I turn to another door. I’m losing time having to move so slowly. I should have taken Branch Street. No time for regrets now.

             I hear footsteps above me and move a little faster. I’m going to have a heart attack before I get to my destination!              I see a light! Another door! Could this lead outside? Praying, I move as fast as I can around debris on the floor. Dust particles fall in my face and I cough. Almost to the door, I quicken my pace.

             Jumping back and falling when the door flies open, my hand flies to my chest. I’m almost hyperventilating!

             “Are you ok?” A police officer helps me to my feet. He’s really handsome. Dark hair curling under his hat. Blue eyes checking me over for injuries. A muscular arm around me when I almost fall over. Adrenaline is spiking and I am shaking. “You shouldn’t be in here. Vagrants use this place for shelter. You could have been hurt and the building isn’t safe by any means.”              We step out into the light and I’m so relieved I lean against Officer Cuteness.

             “Sorry. I was trying to get around the block on Gerard. Shortcut. It didn’t work out as I planned.”              “At least you’re not injured.” Sparkling eyes assess me and I notice he likes what he sees. “Maybe you could give me your number. You know. Just in case you’re not feeling well later. I can check up on you.”              “Oh sure.” I give him my number and my phone dings as he texts me so I have his. My face is flushed and he heads back to his duty.              Momentarily unmoving, happy with my luck, I watch him walk away.              Remembering my task, I mentally shake my head and get moving. I can see my destination up ahead but I still have a street to cross and its full of traffic. Coming to the crosswalk, I pause with everyone else. I’m dancing as I wait. When the light signals that we can walk, I move as quickly as I can in the crowd of people.

             Pushing the door open, I sidestep a woman moving a wheeled cart full of belongings.              I’m almost there. At the counter, I see two people in front of me. Tapping my foot impatiently on the tiled floor I can hear the staccato as one person leaves the line. Only one left. “Shhh!” A man whispers loudly as my foot continues to tap.

             “Sorry.” I hold my leg so I won’t start tapping again.              Finally, it’s my turn. “I’m returning this library book. Sorry it’s late.              “Oh Casey. It’s ok. You don’t have to pay the fee. You come here so much, and you never damage the books. Just mark your calendar next time.              “Thanks Mrs. Silver. You’re the best!”              The book is back where it belongs and I might have a date tonight! Things are looking up!