“Oh my god,” Izzy scolded the hot glue gun. “Why isn’t this working?” She threw down the gun onto the thinning carpet of her ancient dormitory. As the glue remained solid, she sobbed into her hands. Gasps and sniffles were the only sounds filling the space, all her roommates having already left for their own Halloween festivities. Here was Izzy: puffy face crying over not-yet-constructed cat ears.

“And, like, no one’s here to help me!” She whimpered to whichever god would pity her, and some spiritual being must’ve been attentive because, next, Izzy’s eyes lifted to look at the empty outlet. Her hand grabbed the glue gun’s plug as if coached by puppet strings. With plug in grapes, her tear-soaked hand hovered to the outlet as if magnetized. Upon contact, an electric shock as exciting as “The Bachelor” finale ripped through her, from right hand through heart and to left foot. It was obvious now that the spirit looking down on her was none other than the Grim Reaper. *** She opened her eyes with another whimper. “Where am I?” “Izzy, you’re in your dorm room,” said the strange woman sitting on her twin extra-long bed. She was pretty, like detective-pretty. “Oh my god. What did I do last night? Did we…,” Izzy stopped herself, taking pause to wrack her memory. “Oh my god! Did we? Blake’s gonna kill me!” She started crying again. “Izzy, I’m Deputy Quinn,” the strange woman said, as unshaken as a concrete pillar. “It is still Halloween night. We did not do whatever you think we might’ve done, and Blake cannot kill you.” “Thank god,” Izzy replied. “But I’m so late. I have no costume. I haven’t even started my make-up. And my hair! My hair!” “Izzy, you’re dead,” Quinn cut off her monologue.

“What?” “You died earlier tonight.” “Hm. What?” “You died trying to plug in your glue gun into that faulty outlet.” “You must be kidding me.” “I’m not.” “Seriously?” “Yes, I’m serious.” “Seriously though?” “Yes, seriously though.” “Oh my god.” The deputy’s news finally sunk in like when her favorite doctor on “Grey’s Anatomy” died. “I can’t be dead.” “You are,” the deputy confirmed. “I’m Deputy Quinn, a representative for the Grim Reaper, here to -- “ “Oh my god, the Grim Reaper’s a real thing?” “Yes.” “Oh my god! So I, like, know the Grim Reaper now!” She smiled at Quinn, looking for a bit of a social boost that Courtney never had. Suck it, Courtney. “No, you don’t,” Quinn cut off her dream. Izzy pouted. Focused on her mission like the laser of a pistol, Quinn continued, “I’m here to tell you your assignment.” “Oh my god. I’m dead and I still have homework?” Ignoring her questions, Quinn continued, “You must haunt your boyfriend Blake until he stops sleeping with Courtney.” “What?” Izzy questioned the plot twist of the century she was just thrown.

“Your boyfriend Blake is sleeping with your roommate Courtney.” “You must be kidding me.”

“I’m not kidding you. He’s been cheating on you for 32 days now.” “Seriously?” “Yes, seriously. Now, you have to haunt him well enough to make him stop.” Izzy had no reply.

“Once you complete this assignment,” Quinn continued. “You’ll be free to leave this earth.” Izzy’s eyes fixed on the outlet that screwed her over. She still had no reply. This news seemed to shake her more than her own death. “Let’s go,” Quinn said, still too narrow-minded to realize the very human thing happening before her. She turned around from her place at the dorm room’s entrance and looked down on the poor human. “Izzy.” She blinked. “Sorry.” “Let’s go.” *** She blinked again, and they were standing in the middle of one of her campus’s many Halloween parties for that night. This one wasn’t as intricately decorated and costumed as the theatre department’s, but it wasn’t as poorly attended as the event organized by the actual university. It was beige. Not one paper pumpkin on the walls. Not one costume that required more creativity than searching through one’s closet for something that resembled any basic idea. But they had lots of booze, and it was where Izzy was assigned to be. “Izzy,” Quinn started. “Find Blake, and get mad.” “Well, I’m already mad, so all we gotta do is, like, find him.” Izzy looked out at her acquaintances surrounding her. As they were poorly disguised as cowboys and tourists and cats, she was properly cloaked and made invisible as one of the dead. Even though they all had their lives to live, she at least had a purpose. “Can you find him for me?” “Really?” “Yeah, there are a lot of people here, and it’s, like, really hard to focus.” “Fine,” Quinn gave in. “Follow me.” Quinn walked through the table used for the beer pong tournament. “Oh my god, you can walk through stuff?” Izzy gawked. “Yes, you can too.” “No! Seriously?” “Seriously. Try it.” “Oh my god, this is so exciting!” Izzy jumped up and down as if possessed by a bogo stick and then walked through to the middle of the same table. She looked at Chad and Brad at one end and Sara and Tara at the other. As the ball passed through her, she gasped. “No way!” “Yes way,” Quinn confirmed, cheering her on like a monotonous sorority sister. As Izzy danced in the middle of the furniture, Quinn continued, “Come on.” They walked through body after body and hovered above the floor to avoid any spilled drinks. Quinn halted at the kitchen’s entrance. Izzy stopped beside her and looked out to see Blake with his arm around Courtney’s waist.

“Deputy Quinn,” Izzy started. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?” “I work for a spirit that knows all.” “Right.” Izzy shook her body from head to toe, to let go of all her nerves and to focus solely on getting mad. Once set, she pursed her lips, balled her fists, furrowed her brows, and grunted in Blake’s general direction. “What are you doing?” “Getting mad.” “Stop,” Quinn faced Izzy. She forgot her cartoon act and looked normal again. “Don’t try to get mad. Instead, wait until he does something that gets you mad.” “Okay.” Izzy breathed in, breathed out, and waited on her target. The group to her right shared a round of shots. The group to her left tapped the new keg. The group behind her finished the beer pong semifinals, and all of this happened before her purpose could be fulfilled. This dumb man cheated on her for 32 days, yet he didn’t do anything when she needed him to. Just then, Courtney directed Blake’s face toward her own and kissed him. “Oh my god.” Blake kissed her back. “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” The tub of jungle juice erupted like a geyser and crashed to its side to flood the kitchen like a tsunami. The handles of liquor exploded, glass shards scattering throughout the unkempt house. The kitchen cabinet doors clapped and pounded, as if driving the rhythm of the dead’s everlasting heartbeats. The rap music once booming through the overblown speakers was now conquered by a symphony of horror movie screams, nails dragged on chalkboards, and hissing snakes. Spiders crawled down from the ceiling. Rats crawled up from the floor. Windows shattered. The stove burst into flames, the heat pushing people out of the house. The party-goers screamed and scrammed. Izzy followed Blake and Courtney out of the house. Once outside, she saw them holding hands. “Oh. My. God!” The ground beneath them split to reveal a pool of fire erupting from the Earth’s core. To avoid dying, they ran their separate ways, letting go of the other. “Blake!” Courtney shouted across the way. She tried to shout again, but Izzy took her voice. Courtney continued her muted babbling like a fish out of water. “Courtney! What happened?” Blake shouted back. After this, he could never speak again without a worm crawling up his throat and shooting out of his mouth. Within thirty seconds, he had enough to take his dad and his three closest friends fishing for the weekend. Izzy breathed in, breathed out, and lowered her shoulders. “Did I complete my assignment?” she asked Quinn. “Yes,” she confirmed. “Good work. Now, you can move on from this life. I’ll clean up here.” Izzy started to walk away. “Deputy Quinn?” “Yes,” she answered as she mended the Earth’s floor. “Do I have to go right now? Like, go go?” “No, you go whenever you want.” “So I can go to, like, Tahiti?” “Yes.” “Seriously?” “Seriously though,” Quinn confirmed in Izzy’s native tongue. “This is gonna be fun.” Izzy smiled, leaving behind her plagued past.


The old witch must have died in her garden. The smell of pungent decay was snaking out from behind her house and resting bodily in the southern heat. The humidity did nothing to attenuate the issue. The stench had come suddenly at dawn and reached everybody in town simultaneously. Nobody was enthusiastic about the prospect of collecting the corpse. Outsiders deemed the townsfolk superstitious. The townsfolk deemed themselves sensibly cautious. They traipsed around the issue for hours until the stench got so bad, the men putting up the telegraph poles refused to go on working.

Behind the grates of the lone cell in the Sheriff’s office sat a man, licking his mustache. He did this deliberately and hopelessly like one might do when sealing an envelope containing their broken heart. The steel bars were cool and cumbersome in his flimsy grip. He let his hands go slack at his sides. Chinked out of the concrete wall there was a grated aperture that was supposed to be a window. It was set just above his eye-level so that he had to get on his toes to see through it. Outside, a bird sat on a crumbling well, just distinguishable through the suffocating mist. As soon as he looked at it, the bird twitched and vanished into oblivion. The mist was mousing its way into his cell.

His once-bristly mustache had wilted into a caterpillar by the time the Sheriff returned. “There’s something you’ve gotta tend to before you’re shipped off to the pen,” the Sheriff buzzed, “Somebody’s died. You're gonna bury the corpse.” “I didn’t realize I took up an apprenticeship with the undertaker,” the man retorted. “Shut up Dalton. You know more’n your share ‘bout death, I might remind you.”

“And don’t you forget it, old man. That bastard was asking for it. Now tell me why you want me to get my hands dirty.” “Well it’s that old hag that’s died, way out in the swamp.” “ ‘Course she did. Think I haven’t been smelling that rot all morning? That ain’t what a man ‘posed to smell before he’s executed. Ain’t a chance in hell I’m doing it. You can’t force a man to lose his soul to that rotten bitch before- before he-” “They gone commute your sentence, boy. If you do it.” “You saying I won’t fry?” “That’s the deal been struck up.” “By who?” “City council. Ran it by the state too. All hunky dory.” “Sounds like quite an imaginative deal. Mind if I get it in writing?” “You sure are a crafty bastard.” “A self preser-vating one.” “Well, wasn’t time to draft anything up, but I assure you we’ll have something written by the time you get back.” The witch’s old manor was sunk into a saturated hill guarded by beards of Spanish moss and mire. Down the bog from the house was the old cemetery where the inscription on every gravestone terminated in 1893. Another town had once thrived on the other side of the swamp until this marked year. This was the year everybody in that town had perished to some nebulous disease. This was the year their corpses were dragged out to the swamp for burial, one by one, to prevent contagion. This went on until everyone had dropped dead. The only woman from that town that lived to see the next year had settled down in that manor on the hill and had been plotting for decades. What she was plotting, no one knew, but she was plotting something. Everybody in the neighboring town knew she was culpable for the plague. She took everybody out in order to eke out her wretched existence peacefully in her contrived swamp-palace, growing mutant botany in her garden. Lord knows what sort of sorcery she invoked to bring forth their decline. Worse, she was proving to be just as odious in death as in life. The algae aggregating on the swamp-water’s surface was sheared by beating paddles. Men with guns were gliding across the stagnant water. One of these men seemed to have swapped his gun for chains, and his uniform for tattered pajamas. Alligators pooled by the banks, watching the scene unfold with skepticism.

Unchained, Dalton was prodded off a boat and onto not-so-dry land. The disintegrating palace, dressed in foliage, loomed overhead. Its whitewash was anything but; mainly yellow. The window panes were opaque with dust. The entire crumbling edifice was being consumed by the frenzied garden in the backyard. It seemed clear that the smell was coming from back there. It was impossible, though, to enter or even see through the thick sinewy vines that encompassed the backyard. He had to enter through the front.

Tetanus in mind, Dalton made sure his hand was unscathed before jingling the rusted doorknob. It opened without so much as a creak. He froze with his jaw hanging - not from instant lockjaw, but rather due to the sight of the interior; it was immaculate. Its waxed floors reflected yellow coruscation from the lamps lining the walls. There was not a speck of dust on the antiques. The glass cover shielding the china cabinet wasn’t blemished by so much as a thumbprint. But the stink was worse than ever. He could have been sharing a coffin with a months-dead gorilla drenched in spoiled milk.

The paintings hanging in the living room all decided upon flowers for their subject matter. The pillows on the sofa were neatly fluffed and he guessed that even the piano nestled in the corner was perfectly in tune, though he dared not touch it. A gleam of light suddenly swiped his eye. It came from a photograph hanging by the stairwell. Pictured were three rows of suited men with a lone woman hiding among their ranks. She was wearing a bashful smile. The entire group was wedged between two budding trees, the scene well lit by a beaming sun. A caption at their feet read “Graduation.” A date was scrawled beside it, though this was muddled to obscurity.

Then he heard the creaks. They were almost imperceptible, whispering to him from the second story. He suddenly remembered the ubiquitous stench of pure rot and propelled himself away from the stairs and straight toward the backdoor. He braced and burst it open.

His nostrils were plugged with melted rats but there was no corpse in sight outside. There was only a chaos of green and in the center of it all, a goliath flower of deep crimson. It was inundated with flies. He got the impression that somehow this was his culprit. Amazed, he stretched his arm to it when he heard a door click gently shut behind him. He turned. An ancient lady was scrutinizing him from two pearls hidden deep within the grottos of her eye sockets. Her puckered mouth smoothed itself into a smile.

“Hello Gabriel. Come to see Eleanor?”, she squawked.

“Pardon me?”, came the petrified response. “Oh isn’t it beautiful, the monstrosity?”

“I’m sorry?” “The titan. Titan arum, isn’t it?” “What is?” “Say, what sort of a lousy botanist are you anyway? The daggum Titan arum you were just gawking at. That’s the daggum stink plant you and your wife sowed in my garden ages ago.” “My wife?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your fiance.” “My fiance?” “Oh, you’re such a kidder, teasing an old lady like me. It’s a shame Eleanor’s gone out. It was her daggum idea to plant it, now it’s blooming and she’s gone out. Bet she’s glad she don’t have to smell the damn thing, at least.”

“Uh-huh.” “Gee, when did you get so talkative? Well come inside, Gabriel, the smell is just unbearable. Oh but it is so beautiful, isn’t it?”, she said, pointing at the plant. “Unbelievably so”, he rumbled. Once inside the house, the old lady hurried into the kitchen to prepare some tea and biscuits. Dalton was instructed to make himself at home, so he began snooping the instant she was out of sight. He scanned the cabinets, drawers, until his shrewd eye landed on an oblong vase resting on the mantel. It was cool and heavy in his hands and whispered with powder when he carefully shook it. He turned it until he came upon an inscription, one that had been facing the wall before he had inspected it. Eleanor Crosby, April 13th, 1894- September 8, 1931. He replaced the urn, careful to conserve its position, and went to close the drawers. A letter caught his eye. “It is my professional opinion that your mother’s dementia should be ameliorated-” he heard her coming. Shutting the drawer, he rushed to his seat on the sofa.

Shortly after, the old lady came bustling out of the kitchen, refreshments in hand.

He mulled over his cup of tea for a moment, then spoke, “I’m sorry to bring this up, but are you from that town that had that sickness come through?” “Don’t be sorry. Yes, I was.” “Did you have to bury all those people?” “Oh no. My husband, Nicky, was out there burying most everybody, till there wasn’t a soul left to bury. Then he died. He was the only one I had to bury.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “I’m sorry it happened, but that was all so long ago.” “And you were the only one that did survive the plague?” “Oh, I wasn’t the only one, dummy. I was already pregnant with Eleanor. Nicky would have loved her. Nicky loved plants too, so when she went to study them, I was just thrilled.” He thought for a while longer, then asked in a broken voice if she had anybody to care for her. “Eleanor’s always around, Gabriel, you know that. Though after the wedding, I suppose you’ll whisk her away. I’ll need to hire some help then.”

He gazed out the window and thought some more before declaring, “No. I’ll stay here and look after you. You oughta be accounted for.” “Oh Gabriel, you’re too sweet.” “I mean it. There’s just one thing.” “Oh?” “I have a friend named Dalton. He ran off to California not too long ago. Now, there’s some fellers in town, think he’s missing. I been tellin’ ‘em he’s left town but they just won’t believe me. They’re down by the swamp right now looking for him, matter of fact. Perhaps you might go outside and tell ‘em, real simple, ‘Dalton’s gone, y’all go home now.” Say it just like that. Straighten things out. I’m sure it’ll send ‘em packin’.”


The strange phenomenon started for Karley one day as she sat in her favorite spot in her garden with her journal in her lap contemplating what to write or draw. She loved this garden and cottage which she had called home for ten years now since her retirement decision to leave the city and move to a much more bucolic environment. It was an overcast day. She wished the sun would break through. It wasn’t exactly gloomy, just overcast, foretelling the coming of rain with thick clouds blocking the sun. The roses about her in the garden seemed downcast because of the lack of sunshine to spur their blooms into opening so they could spread their perfume into the air as was their job. She was contemplating all this when the opening for a story flitted through her mind once, twice, thrice as if to say, “Write me down.” So, Karley clicked open her trusty liquid gel ink pen and wrote: “Once upon a time in a gloomy land where roses could not thrive, a fairy maiden took pity on these magnificent flowers and called upon the sun to shine upon them that they might bloom.” She felt an unfamiliar tingle in her hands as the words flowed forth upon the page. It startled her and she dropped her pen into her lap. She looked up from her journal and blinked. She shifted her gaze to the sky. Rain-filled clouds were dissolving. Sunshine was filling the garden around her. Roses were opening up. The air was quickly becoming suffused with rose perfume and rainbow- colored butterflies were flitting about. She blinked again and saw more clearly. What she had thought were butterflies at first glance now showed themselves to be rainbow winged beings distinctly akin to fairies from stories of old. An unmistakable vibration of magic shook her. Was this happening a coincidence? She retrieved her pen and wrote more. “The rainbow winged beings transformed into butterflies.” She looked up again. The rainbow winged beings she had seen only moments before now were clearly butterflies. Karley gasped. She was excited, puzzled, and a bit unnerved by what she had just observed. She had no clue what was happening or why, but she was also intensely curious. Curiosity had been a key aspect of her life as a child and had remained so all seventy-five years up to this moment. She wrote: “A cat entered the garden and stretched itself out lolling upon bench where a young maiden sat writing in her journal.” That same and now less unfamiliar tingle struck her hands again. She looked at her hands and saw the tell-tale age lines fade from them. Then, she felt a purring presence sharing the bench with her. She stroked the cat and its purr rumbled with pleasure. She wrote: “The young maiden welcomed the cat’s company. It was a beautiful tortoise shell calico cat.” She looked down at the cat lolling beside her and its perfect tortoise shell markings came into focus. She clicked her pen closed. The cat did not disappear. Karley rose and went into her cottage. The cat followed her as she walked into her kitchen. Karley offered the cat a bowl of milk and pondered all that had just happened. If this magic of her written words becoming solidly real was a lasting gift, she needed to think deeply about the meaning and purpose of this gift coming to her here and now. She left her journal and pen on her kitchen table, went to her bathroom and drew herself a hot bath. The cat followed her, making himself at home, even giving himself a thorough licking as she stepped into her relaxing bath. “You need a name,” she said talking to the cat. “I know! I am going to call you Geni cause in the Aladdin story, a Genie appeared like magic when Aladdin rubbed an old lamp. My pen was rubbing the paper when I was writing and you appeared.” “Meow…purr…purr,” Geni responded. He left the bathroom and jumped up on Karley’s bed awaiting her to join him for a good sleep. Karley chuckled and said, “You are right, Geni, a good nap is exactly what I need now.” She fell asleep quickly and dreamed. Her dreams were filled with images showing her different scenarios of what having this strange power might mean, of what she could bring into being. She awoke more befuddled than ever. What she knew without a doubt was that whatever she wrote in her journal would come true, and so she knew that her writing would have consequences beyond here and now. It was a realization of an overwhelming responsibility, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that. Before the events in the garden, her writing had mostly been for her own pleasure or a way to process her own pain. For the next three days she pondered and prayed for guidance without writing a word. On the fourth day, she opened her journal and wrote: “I accept this is happening. I ask for divine guidance.” She waited in meditative silence. Then, like a telegram word by word in her mind she read, “Follow your heart one word at a time.” She nodded and wrote in her journal: “I know my childhood friend Cecelia has been ill, but now she will begin to heal from the inside out.” She closed her journal. Cecelia lived about an hour’s drive from her cottage. They usually communicated every few days by phone. Sometimes Karley would drive to Cecelia’s house and visit with her for an hour or so and then return home. After writing the entry in her journal about Cecelia, Karley made herself some coffee and an English muffin. She had no sooner finished this light breakfast when the phone rang. “Hello,” Karley answered. “Karley, it’s me,” Cecelia knew Karley would recognize her voice. “Yes, Celie, how are you this fine morning?” Karley asked using the nickname Celie she had given her friend when they were children. Cecelia giggled and poured out her news that she had never awakened that morning feeling so good. She invited Karley to come over and Karley happily agreed to do so in a day or two. “Take care of yourself,” Karley ended the call, “Love you.” “Me love you too,” Cecelia gave her regular response, and hung up. Karley waited a day and then drove to Celie’s house hoping to find her increasingly better, and she did. They had a lovely visit. About ten days later Celie called to tell Karley that her doctor had pronounced her cured. He didn’t know why or how, but all the tests that had previously showed malignancy had come back benign. Karley told her that she was so happy for her and they would see each other soon. Karley went into the garden and sat with her journal in her lap and her pen at the ready. She knew from experiences with the Guardians, invisible forces of the cosmos, which she began knowing in childhood that this gift of pen power as she called it had not been given lightly. She also knew that she absolutely couldn’t abuse it or seek to profit from it. She was being trusted to use it to make life better. She decided to start typing her words to see if the power remained as when she wrote by hand. She decided to start small with a local situation. Many people in her village wanted curbside pick-up of recyclables. However, there had been a faction on the village council who thought it wouldn’t work and so had not passed a resolution to even put a pilot program into place. Karley secretly thought the reticence came from those who wanted to profit personally from such a program and hadn’t yet figured out how to best work that out. She sat down at her computer and typed: “At the next village council meeting a resolution will be passed that starts a nonprofit, member supported, curbside pick-up program in our village. The members will pay a reasonable membership fee. Any villager may join. The members will meet and peacefully work out the practical details for the common good of the village.” She saved the piece in a folder on her hard drive. She picked up her journal and trusty pen and with a cup of coffee went out into the garden to enjoy the beauty. The next village council meeting was a few days hence. She would attend and see what happened. She drank her coffee and drew sketches of the flowers gracing her garden. The village council meeting was well attended. Their agenda was posted and the item of curb-side recycling was on that agenda. There was much discussion about that item and to Karley’s delight, a resolution for curb-side pick-up of recyclables was written, voted on, and passed with a majority of the council. Karley walked home that night with her mind buzzing about items she could quietly tackle where her words meant to serve the common good would come to life. She kept thinking about what she had been told about following her heart one word at a time. She thought about the imbalance she felt in the world beyond the borders of her village. Imbalance that had materialized in greed, lust for power, and tyrants who had not an ounce of concern about the common good. She thought about the need for more empathy, selflessness, cooperation, courage, and understanding among her fellow humans around the world. That night, all those thoughts were swirling relentlessly in her mind. She sat down at her computer, but couldn’t type. She dug in a drawer where she kept a supply of journals. She pulled them out and laid them down on the kitchen table. She sat down and meditated calming her heart and mind. Then, she stood and ran her hands in the air above the journals saying: “Choose, oh Divine Guardians, place my hand on the journal where I will use the gift of pen power you have granted me to write into being a better world to help the people of the world and enhance the common good for all.” She stood with eyes closed and waited. The vibrational tingling started in her toes and moved up through her whole body even unto her crown chakra and then ended in her hands. She opened her eyes and saw that she was touching a beautiful red leather journal she had been saving for years knowing it would be special. She smiled, picked it up and thanked the Divine Guardians. Again, like a telegram a message came into her mind. “Use this well. Always follow your heart and keep the common good of all the people everywhere in mind as you write. You will have time to do all that must be done using Pen Power in this journal. But the changes you write will not all happen at once. However, they will all happen. The timeline is beyond your life time. Have courage, be love, and be the change you wish to see in the world. Do you remember who said this?” “Do you mean about being the change I wish to see?” Karley asked mentally. “Yes,” came the answer. “I’ve always thought it was Mahatma Ghandi,” Karley answered. “Yes, perhaps some others also, but Ghandi got the most press about it, so we Guardians are happy to give him credit.” The Guardian paused and then continued, “Are you ready?” Karley nodded her assent. “Start small and work upward,” the Guardian advised and left. He was no longer connected up in her mind. That very night Karley began her work, writing in that beautiful red leather journal. She wrote: “Let the people of the world start listening to each other in order to understand each other’s needs and work toward making opportunities for those needs to be met peacefully.” About a month later she heard on the news that a peace accord was finally being successfully being worked out in the Middle East where wars had ravaged for centuries. It was called a miracle. Karley knew it was just a beginning of her work with Pen Power. Karley lived and wrote in that beautiful red journal and two others many years before her death. She had received a communication from the Guardians shortly before her death that the journals were to be ceremonially burned. Their writings were preserved in the great cosmic Akashic Library and their truths would continue working themselves out until all had become reality and balance amongst living beings was restored and planet earth healed and made whole again. She did as she was instructed. She knew only time would tell the when, where, and how the full reality would come to be. She died peacefully surrounded by the invisible Guardians who welcomed her Spirit and left the perfume of roses suffusing the air where her body lay. When her cottage was visited a few days later, the perfume of roses still lingered, but her body had vanished and was never found. She passed into the realm of legend.


Sorrow is like snow. Cold molecules that fall from the sky. And flow into your soul. Then slowly melt and dissipate, Only to return and chill you again. And again.

From Canada, A cold front had migrated south, Leaving the earth under a soft quilt of snow.

It was the edge of seasons, Near the end of winter. Around two on a Sunday afternoon. The sun had warmed the land and the pavement was dry, But it was still icy in the shadows and you had to keep an eye out. I was on a two-lane road, a winding route mostly empty of travelers this time of year.

My mind was drifting when my phone buzzed. I pulled it from my pocket. It was Jasmine. This time I decided to answer. Slowing down, I began looking for a safe place to pull over. I’d taken off about two weeks earlier. Left Portland to get some air, And give Jasmine Some space. She was driving me crazy – and I her.

“Uh, hello?” I said. “Dad, where are you? When are you coming home?” Right to the point, as always. I like that about her. Take no prisoners. I looked over at the map spread out on the passenger seat. “Well, dear, I’m in eastern Oregon.” “Where exactly in eastern Oregon?” In my mind I saw her roll her eyes. “Just a minute.” I turned onto a snowy road That led down to a lake and stopped By a gate that blocked a closed campground.

“Okay, at the moment, I’m driving around a lake north of Baker City, East of the Wallowa Mountains. And I don’t know when I’m coming home.” “I wish you’d let me know where you are. Why haven’t you answered my messages?” “I’ve been on some back roads. Cell service is spotty out here.” In truth, I just didn’t feel like talking to her. Or anyone. I craved silence. Open spaces. Anonymity.

“Where you staying tonight?” she said. I had the location circled On the map.

“I’ve rented a cabin at Brownlee Reservoir near Hells Canyon. I’m headed there now. You’d love it out here, Jas.” It was all true, except the last part. She would’ve hated it. Jas is a creature of the city, born and bred. In Montana years ago she said, “I don’t get it. What’s go great about the outdoors? There’s bugs and bears and bees … and I’m not goin’ on your stupid hike!” It dumbfounded me. “Whose daughter are you?” I inquired.

I remember her mother didn’t like my joke. I couldn’t understand Jasmine. But I’d long ago Given up trying to open Her eyes and make her realize What incredible wonders are all around outside. “Where’d you stay last night?” she asked. For a moment, I couldn’t remember. I’m not good at answering Questions under the gun. I made something up.

“Burns.”

“And before that?” “Bandon.” Another name plucked from the map. “And the night before that I was at Fort Rock. Slept in the car.” I knew Jasmine wouldn’t call me on it. She had no idea where these spots were.

“You know you shouldn’t be driving out there alone,” she said. “I’m fine. This cabin I’m going to is supposed to be nice.” “Could you find a more isolated place?” “It's peaceful. Nobody around. The snow on The trees and lake. It’s beautiful. Good place to get away from it all.” “Get away? From what?” You have nothing to get away from, Dad. You have to accept that mom is gone. It’s been over a year.” The familiar ache returned. How I miss her. Like a limb removed. Her incomprehensible death had knocked me around the bend and made me resent People who take life, and love, for granted. Like I did. “Get away from what, dad?” Jasmine kept on, cornering me. I didn’t answer. To be honest, what I was getting away from was myself. I was tired of what I’d become. A lifeless loser, watching TV all day, wanting to be left alone.

“Dad, please come home.” “I will, dear. Don’t worry.”

“You’re getting really forgetful. You know that, right? Ever since mom … you’ve gone downhill.” “I know, but I’m okay. Really. How are you?” “Are you even listening to me?” Her tone was an octave higher. It reminded me of her mother.

“Yes, Jasmine, I’m listening to you.” “You’re getting worse, Dad.” “No, I’m not. I just don’t understand you, and it drives me crazy.”

“That’s right – you don’t understand me! I wish you would.” I felt my ire rise but clenched my jaw and kept quiet. Jasmine is a worrier. It’s her nature. She can’t help it and I know the feeling. I’m worried, too – about her. The choices she’s making. We’re flipsides of the same coin. It’s unfathomable to me how your own blood Can be so much like you – and yet so different.

She wants me to stay close to home, Instead of road-tripping around. I fight her on it. That and other things. Like her job, which I think she should quit. I know she could get a better one. We’re a lot alike when We argue and I hate to admit, it often feels good to get into it with her.

“I want this to be your last road trip,” she said. “I’m taking the keys when you get back.” “Well, I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Nope. I am fine and I am NOT giving up Driving and I will go anywhere I goddamn please, understand?” There was a long pause and then a sniff and I wondered If she was crying. That didn’t stop me.

“Knock if off, Jasmine. You are gonna have to TRUST me And let ME be the judge of what I can and cannot do! I’m telling you I am fine! Now quit worrying and get off my back.” I heard her breathing in a broken pattern and I wanted to reach out and hug her.

And then, through the frosted car window, I saw some dark figures moving out on the lake. Stark shapes on a brilliant white blanket of downy snow. I rolled down the window. It was a herd of elk. About thirty it seemed, Including several young ones With their mothers. They were huddled together, Walking slowly across the frozen lake.

“You’re gonna get lost, you know,” Jasmine said. “Die on some dead-end road out of gas or something. Mom was right. You’re reckless.”

Leading the herd was a bull with a candelabra of a rack that spread like the branches of an oak. “Wow, you should see this,” I said. The herd followed closely as the bull steadily moved forward, Nose down as if smelling the water, or fish, beneath the ice. I reached behind my seat and grabbed my binoculars. One hand held the phone to my ear, The other brought the binocs to my eyes. I got out of the car and began walking through the snow toward the lake. The air was crystalline and smelled of pine. “See what?” she said. “What is it?” I didn’t say anything. “Dad!” Suddenly, the bull stopped, Threw his head back, and looked at the rest of the herd.

In a snap came a sharp crack, like an ice tray. At first I thought – rifle shot. But I saw no one anywhere. No elk had been hit. And then I saw the ice under the middle of the Herd buckle, and I saw a dark fissure open in the snow. One of the smallest elk slipped And its forelegs went into the crevice. Its mother bent down to her young one And the ice broke beneath her, and in a second the mama was

Into the breach, ice chunks around her, Eyes frantic as she struggled to Keep her head up. Jasmine spoke. “Dad, dad, Would you please say something?”

All I could muster was, “Oh my god, no.”

I looked up and down the bank but nobody was around. Not a bird made a sound. The bull elk reversed course and started Running back toward the elk that had fallen through, and as he got to the hole, The ice under the herd split and the snow parted and each animal, One by one, sunk into the dark. Gutteral sounds I’ve never heard

Reverberated across the lake. I took my binocs from my eyes To see for real. I couldn’t comprehend what I saw. An entire herd of elk was sinking Into a snowy lake on a Peaceful, glorious, Sunday afternoon. Raising the binocs, I tightened the focus.

“Dad, I need you to come back. I’m moving. I found an apartment. I can’t live at home anymore.” I could barely hear what she was saying. The elk all tried to swim but there was nowhere to go. Hemmed in by the ice, up to their necks, they couldn’t get out. “Can you please say something?”

“I can’t,” I said, and hung up. I was speechless. Thunderstruck by the sight of the

Lake swallowing the herd in front of me.

The bull was the last to succumb. He thrashed his regal, Antlered head back and forth in the dark water, kicking his legs to stay above the surface. A fog of hot air rose from his flaring nostrils. Then, he turned in my direction, and I felt he could See me. My knees buckled. I yelled, “Help! The elk are drowning!” But my words dissolved in the air like bubbles.

In minutes, the whole herd was gone. Young and old, An extended family, A tribal community, wiped out, Leaving nothing but ripples and a memory that will someday fade away.

Moments later I got back in the car. On my phone I looked up Oregon Fish and Wildlife. I called and left a brief account of what I’d witnessed – thirty some elk falling into a frozen lake and vanishing. Then I backed up onto the highway, And drove on in the direction of the cabin.

At the first bend of the road, In a shadow, I hit Some black ice And slid into the oncoming lane, headed toward the lake. My heart skipped, but I was able to turn into the skid and stay on the blacktop. As I emerged back into the sun and picked up speed, I rolled down all the windows and let the indifferent molecules of life flow through. I shivered and felt a crack somewhere inside. I thought, I need to remember this. Because this was something. A moment of clarity.

I looked at the lake, to the dark hollow where all the elk had disappeared. The black hole was almost covered over by ice and snow. It dawned on me that you never know When life will no longer hold. You sense it before You see it.

Before I had gone a mile, I slowed to the side of the road, Checked the rearview, and made a u-turn. By midnight I was at our door, hugging Jasmine, Drowning in sorrow no more. Or at least until the Next snow.


Oh, Mark. What has become of you? It was obvious that we were both incredibly happy to see one another. We were both terrified at the same time, and both terrified for the same reason. We didn’t want you to get sick. I’d spend every single day here at your apartment with you if I could. Already your neighbors know me by name. I spend more time in your apartment than I do in mine. Five days a week I'm with you. We watched TV for a long time yesterday. Binge watching a series with you is a new experience. At one point you laid down with your head on my shoulder just like we used to, all those years ago. When you laid down again, I ran my fingers through your hair and pulled on it by the fist full the way I always had, the way that used to alleviate your headaches. After about a full minute of that, I noticed something I’ve never seen before. A large mass of your hair had piled up on the pillow beneath your head. Your thick illustrious hair was no longer as thick as I remember it being. You didn’t notice, but I paused for a moment and began to cry.

In the middle of the night when you were being woken up from the pain you told me about the process you had been through. For chemotherapy they hooked you up in the hospital to the port that still is embedded in your chest. You would sit there for six hours with nothing to do except reading the pamphlets they would hand you about what it is they were giving to you. This one was for breast cancer, that one was for colon cancer, but none of them actually were specifically designed for pancreatic cancer because there isn’t a cure for that one. They’re just trying to do whatever they can do; whatever possible.

I didn’t know it was pancreatic cancer until then. I didn’t know because you didn’t want me to know. But I will always always cherish the fact that you finally let me cook dinner for you last night. Chicken with rice, a very simple dish, but one you thoroughly enjoyed, and you even asked for more. I’ve wanted to cook for you for the last three years as I spent every single weekend and most of the weeks with you in your apartment. Until now I never had the opportunity. It was far more simple than what I would normally cook but it was easy to digest and made with nothing but the ingredients you already had.

I do worry so much about you. I love you. Always before when I knew somebody was going through a hard time, I always showed up to help out in whatever way I could because I thought they needed me to. With you it’s different. With you I do it for me. I do it for you also, but I’m doing it for me because I want to spend whatever time I can with you now. I can honestly say it’s selfishly motivated because I know without a doubt I have never loved anyone the way that I love you. The way I know I can trust you. Your smile makes me feel a sense of joy I’m unfamiliar with. You laugh at something in your phone and your eyes light up. It’s not an overwhelming happiness I feel in that moment, as I normally associate joy, but rather a calming sense of knowing in that moment that you are happy. Knowing that if you’re smiling, for a brief moment the pain is gone just enough for you to be at ease and be able to smile. You’re entertained. You laugh or chuckle and my heart lifts just a little, the heavy feeling of your constant pain no longer laying upon me like a ton of bricks. As much as your pain hurts me, I can’t begin to imagine how it hurts you. I love you. I pray all the time that I could take it all away from you and feel it myself instead so you wouldn’t have to.

I’ve tried bargaining with God many times, most recently last night. I placed my hand on your back and prayed to God to heal you; to take me in your place. For all my prayers the only thing that has changed in these three years has been the color of your kitchen from our painting it together last summer. What I wouldn’t give to take your cancer as my own and to give you that peace and long life. I think about that far more often than what would probably be deemed as healthy. I have so few things in this life that I ever truly wanted. Among the biggest dreams I ever had was to know this kind of unconditional love. Now that I’ve had it, I’d trade my life for you to live on. I’m sure I would find things I would need to take care of before being truly ready for death to come but I would take care of them and move on if it meant making sure you had another shot at life, guaranteed.

As you concentrate on hearing the voice on your phone that I’m not privy to I can’t help but notice the hair on the couch I wasn’t able to sweep away yesterday. You talk about options - maybe the cancer is gone from the chemo; unlikely but possible. Maybe it’s shrunk small enough that a surgeon can remove it - a great hope, not as unlikely but still unlikely enough. And maybe it’s not budged at all, and targeted radiation is the next step. You talk of three options and I realize how much you want to live. You may not realize it but death is not an option to be considered, even for you. It gives me hope. I wish I didn’t have to hear all of this through the conversation you have with someone else though. Why couldn’t you tell me these things? Do you fear telling me that badly? Somehow I thought you were more open with me than that. Then you say into the phone “we have to figure it the fuck out. And if we don’t, I’ve had a good run. I beat the odds already. Only 20% are candidates to receive the whipple surgery and only 5% of those make it off the operating table, less than 5% of those make it five years and only 2% of those make it to ten years. They cut me wide open and took cancer out of my body. I still smoke. I eat like shit. I don’t exercise. Now, WE GOT THIS and I can just watch the world go by outside. That chemo was very aggressive and heavy duty. It almost glowed going in and sometimes it glowed coming out. I was having all of the rare side effects. Four bags of chemo, three there and one bag to go home with me. All those rare side effects, where it says almost nobody has these, I was having them all. It just got worse from there.” I had to stare at my phone and pretend to be on social media so you didn’t see the tears in my eyes. My poor Mark. My poor friend. I may never know the pain you’ve lived through. I just wish I could take it all away from you. I wish you weren’t so resigned to trying to accept death as an option. You are a miracle to have survived what you have. But you are MY miracle to have given me the emotions in a heart I thought had died long ago. You gave me the impossible. You gave me a reason to love unselfishly. Yes, you’ve had a good run. But please don’t die. You’re not done yet. You still have things to do. You have life left to live. I’ve healed as much as I have because I had you in my life. I know that’s hard to understand, but it’s real.

“I haven’t filed taxes in five years,” you just admitted to a friend through the phone. Now I finally understand so much more. You don’t plan to live long enough to be audited. You are as broken as I am. This is your burden you refuse to share. This is what keeps you at arms length, but also bonds us. We are broken, separately, together. Oh God, please don’t let Mark give up.

Mark passed away April 1st, 2022.


Don’t you remember? I was young, and the sun was yellow on the grass. We were chaotic children, traipsing with scraped knees and bulging pockets, in the meadow between the library and the brick museum with the two-headed lamb. I don’t remember the other tents on the edge, but I remember the cool of the shadow as I sat crisscrossed, slowly peeling leaves from the grass, as I listened. I don’t remember her face or her voice, but I remember the softness of her sheep and the warm wood of her wheel. And she gave us a clump of her wool to keep. But I forget until I touch it again. For you, it is tangled lint that I should have thrown away years ago. You’re just trying to make me organized, make me into a neat child. And I don’t need it, there’s nothing I can use it for. But for me, it is sunshine, warmth, softness, the curiosity of childhood, and the old ways surviving. All in a fuzzy pocket clump. Do you remember this bracelet? I’ve almost thrown it away a thousand times. It’s broken, and even if I tried to fix it, it wouldn’t fit any more. The shiny is peeling off the beads and it couldn’t have been more than 50 pesos. Only a dollar. But it is Rhealyn, Rosalyn, and Charmaine and when I thought they loved me. It is dangling our feet over the church balcony, over the red abandoned house next door, watching the wind swirl through the rice paddies. It is popcorn and movie nights every Saturday. When I thought maybe I wasn’t weird anymore. Maybe people could actually want me. People who weren’t my family. People who like me and who didn’t have to love me. Maybe, I could be someone beyond Alexie’s sister or Tom and Lisa’s daughter, “another one of those A girls.” It is my birthday, laughter, and playing Twister, and knowing exactly who to invite, and their present to me. But it is also unexplained silence after, its thinking maybe they moved away but seeing them around town, it’s inviting and them not coming. It’s wondering what I did wrong, how I messed up, if any of it was even real. Or was it nice to watch movies and have free food and I was just the price they had to pay? Six months of sitting shoulder to shoulder and then nothing. Was I just an amusing oddity? A status symbol? Did they just want to brag that they had an American friend? If my skin was a different color, would they have even bothered? It is a shadow spread over all the relationships afterwards. It is my sisters shutting everyone off as insincere. But I was too desperate, too lonely. I knew that people talked to me because I was foreign, because of my skin and my height. But if they were talking to me, maybe eventually it would be more. People didn’t talk to me in the U.S. They talked to my sisters because they were pretty, active, exciting, and knew social signals. At least, here, I had a chance. I didn’t know about the loan. About their brother asking you to pay 200 pesos for his school fee the next day. And how you said, “no”, because he waited until the last minute so you couldn’t give him a small job to pay for it and you wanted to be friends not wallets. I don’t know what I wanted you to do. Whether it would have been better to pay and keep it going but then it would have still been insincere. Either way, my friendship was only worth $4. But I wish I would have known it wasn’t just me. This bracelet is hope, heartbreak, and loneliness, and I can’t throw it away. This? This is only a scrap of ridged cardboard, probably used to carry coffee before being tossed aside on a playground. But Yoyo wrote “Tree loves Miss Maxwell” on it and now it is her squinched up smile and Olivia’s giggles. It is walking back in the dark, sky pink with streetlights, lonely in a foreign city. I’m in over my head but still trying, and it’s worth it because I will see “my kids” again tomorrow. It’s Jessie teaching me Chinese. It’s Steve and Jack Chen’s hamster comics. It’s Sky diving through the layers of the earth for months after my geography classes. It’s love and childhood imagination. It’s thinking “Maybe one day, I do want to be a mom.” It’s teaching and it’s not easy work but it’s good. And it’s sobbing together in the parking lot after seeing pandas because, of course, I can’t stay and everything has to end. But, sometimes, when my heart is brave, I pull it out and remind myself that it happened.

And I wish I could have done better. I could do better now. But that was my best back then and I gave them all of it.

And I hope they carry the same excitement they did when they rushed me at recess about the “earthquake” crack in the playground when the news said nothing happened. We all grabbed our rulers and our geology notebooks, observing and hypothesizing until we realized it was probably from the hole for the new hotel next door. Or when they saw me writing in cursive and begged me to write them cursive alphabets to take home and teach their parents. But they know I love them. And that is the most important thing. And they loved me, too. Even if sometimes, they had a tree say it. I’m scared because time keeps slipping and I can’t catch it in my head. Sometimes, it seems like yesterday, sometimes it feels like a story you read to me long ago in the red couch with the white coil phone. You keep your time in order, trap it in tight calendar boxes. I tuck my memories into objects.

Keep them safe, I plead, don’t let me forget. Remind me. Because I don’t know what I’ll remember. I still get irritated when people say butterflies come out of a cocoon, because I learned that cocoons are for moths, butterflies come from a chrysalis when I was 5 years old. But the teacher I worked with for two years, it was weeks trying to remember her name. I remembered her smile, remembered that she was nice, that her grandfather loved cardinals. I knew I knew it, but I couldn’t find it. I am haunted by faces without names and names without faces. I know they were important, but I had nothing to hold them. You like things clean and neat. “Spring cleaning” refreshes you, removing clutter, making a clear path. But it hollows me out. I’m the one afraid and fighting “Over”, continuing the chapters in my head after the last page is read. I remember the dress. I was new-18, coming back to the U.S., terrified of a nightmare of cardboard in a grocery store covering blood puddles, worried about my scholarship competition and being in college half the world away. I wanted to be a grown-up, to go past the awkward little girl, always sure I was doing something wrong.

I was promised a teenage know-it-all phase and the bliss of ignorance, but I still haven’t received it. But in my fear, at least, I would be there for my grandparent’s 50 th wedding anniversary. Because those are important. And 51 isn’t the same, the numbers do matter. We can celebrate any day we want, and we still have holidays. Because when you set a day aside, it matters. My Grammie gave me an emerald dress to wear to it. It was wool and long sleeves for the winter with lace around the collar and shoulder pads. It was pretty but it wasn’t new. That’s what made it important. She had gotten it for a date with my Papa before they were even married and now, they were almost at their 50 th , too. It was my emerald princess dress, made me feel a little taller, a little steadier.

I was carrying on a legacy. But you said it was too old. That I kept dressing like a grandma. That I needed to dress more modern, $20 t-shirts that don’t look their price, shave my legs, and start using make-up. That you’re just trying to help. You don’t want me to be lonely. This is America. I need to fit in. But it made me feel pretty. And you threw it away. We don’t always remember the same. You don’t remember waking me up to put the soap away. It was on the bathroom sink, no dip or dish to put it in. You said it wasn’t that hard and moved it two inches. I still don’t understand the difference. You said it never happened. I remember it happened at least twice. It’s in the heaviness of my blankets and cracked ivory soap. But I don’t remember growing alone in a house, making supper and changing my older brother’s sheets while he was out with his friends. I don’t know holding the whole house on my shoulders, having money, but a mom too busy to be at home, and a dad who never said, “I love you.” But I once was in that tiptoe house, cold with air conditioning, dimmed by heavy curtains, no lines in the carpet and no room for my shoes. I can imagine, where affection required perfection, bleaching yourself into acceptance, still tiptoeing around “no’s”, and waiting for nods, where the house had to be clean because you were good . It’s different. And I'm sorry. Why would you carry rocks in your pockets? They’ll just tear up the washing machine.

You don’t need it.

It’s just a clump of lint. But I tie myself to memories with things, so I don’t blow away and lose myself. And I’ll keep gathering my wool.


I woke up with a horrible feeling in my stomach all I could think about was whether or not what happened last night was real or just a dream. I got out of bed everything looked normal so I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and an Advil I had the worst headache I kept getting flashes of someone hitting me in the head with a bat I walked to the bathroom and inspected myself in the mirror there were no signs of any bruising so I sat down and tried to wrap my head around it. I got an idea to write and draw everything I remembered and go over it and inspect every detail for any proof I felt like I was going crazy. I remembered the day before I spent the night at my friend's house and somehow I woke up in my house I remembered being at lucys house my best friend and waking up to a loud bang I looked over to my friend's bed and she wasn't there so I went downstairs and saw lucy on the floor with someone standing over her I ran and grabbed the fireplace rod and tried to hit hem with it as I did lucy started crawling away and then he hit me in the head with a bat I don't remember anything else right then and there I panicked and tried to call lucy she didn't answer so before I could even change out of my pajamas I got into my car and quickly drove to her house he car was there but she wasn't her door was unlocked so I yelled lucy lucy are u here I touched the door very lightly and it opened so I went inside continuing to yell for her I took a second to inspect the house everything looked the same as far as I could tell. I searched the house and no sign of lucy or anything weird so walked outside and called the police and told them everything I knew. about 10 minutes later the police arrived and I explained everything I knew they looked at me like I was nuts they searched the house and didn't find anything they came out to me bombarding them with questions and they didn't answer a single one they just told me to go home and get some rest like I was just some psycho making this all up so I didn't leave without arguing with them so they told me to call in a few days if I was still worried so that's exactly what I did. throughout those days all I could do was think I made a whole case wall of all the evidence and everything I knew to try and figure anything out I hadn't slept for days every time I closed my eyes all I could see was that night replaying in my mind over and over again. It's been 3 days and still no sign of lucy I contacted her family and they didn't seem to be too worried they just thought that she left town for a while I tried to explain to them what happened but they just said that I was making something out of nothing. why wouldn't anyone believe me I was starting to question myself as well but then I thought about it and looked at my wall filled with pictures and a bundle of mess and though no there's no way this is just a coincidence so I called the police again and tried to explain they still didn’t, believe me, I was tired of not being heard so I did some more investigating on my own I went to Lucas house and went through all her stuff for any clues I found a camera on it was some weird pictures but nothing that could prove anything It was just unlike her to own a camera shes not into photography so I went home and printed out the pictures from the camera and taped them on the wall I stepped back and looked at the wall no of this is making sense I whispered underneath my breath. So I decided to go onto all my social medias like Instagram facebook snapchat anything I could think of to get the story out there and still everyone thought I was overreacting or crazy I decided to print out pictures of all lucys friends and tape them on the wall anyone that could have been involved I printed out I called the police again still nothing I was getting angrier and more and more worried bye the day its been almost a month and no ones even worried I don’t understand why isn’t anyone seeing what im seeing none of this makes anysense I called asking each suspect a series of questions first I started with jake her x boyfriend I thought he could have maybe been involved I asked hem were he was that night he said he was out with friends I asked what friends he said Jacob and lee I was writing all this down too I asked hem if hes heard from lucy he said no and that was it so I decided to talk to lee and Jacob next because he brought them up I asked them both the same thing they both said they weren’t with jake so I knew one of them were lying so they were my 3 suspects I decided to go to the police this time I went to the station in person and was yelling at them telling them they had to do something and I kinda got out of hand so I was arrested and was said to have issues like thinking people ar out to get me and fantasies so I was put into a phycward and from there I don’t remember anything else It was a year of doing the same things everyday at least I think it was I don’t really know I left the phychward not able to remember anything lucy was completely erased from my memory so I went on with my life and no one saw lucy since


6:15am I woke up earlier than usual, which was strange as I had no work today. The sun was just beginning to rise, the predawn gloom softening from dark to soft pink and light blue hues. The air was cool and calm and the trees rustled peacefully in the slight breeze. Life seemed to have awarded me with an early start today so I rose, stretched my aging muscles and bones and put on some green tea. My house was, as always, immaculate, but I still found things to fuss over. I carefully, minutely shifted the cherry blossom tapestry on my wall and stepped back to observe it. The beautiful woven tapestry had been my wife’s favourite gift. Whenever I looked at it, it reminded me of her and made me smile. Once my tea was done, I sat on my small patio and sipped it gratefully, reading from a small book of haiku I had procured at a market many moons ago, its spine well creased. 6:40am Sufficiently revived from slumber, though still needing food, I decided to visit my daughter and my grandson. Although the hour was early, their family were early risers, for my son-in-law was a businessman, and young children always have a habit of rising early. I brought with me the little paper bird I’d been making for my grandson, Akira. He had a fascination with them at the moment, so I decided to give him a gift. I put on my robe and my sandals and departed. 6:50am The tram lines were busy at the early hour, full of commuters travelling to work in the city centre. I was glad today to not be one of them. The brightly coloured people talked the loudest, while the ones in their dour suits sat and stared at the window as though marching towards their doom. I was glad that my retirement was near. I had had enough of working for a lifetime. It was near the time now where my family looked after me as I had them, and I try to share my wisdom with them before I am gone. I hopped off the tram at the stop just before my daughter’s district. There was a teahouse here that sold delicious miso and tofu soup, just what an old man’s chilled bones needed. I grinned as I entered the teahouse. The familiar sight of grey-green uniforms greeted me and I bowed my head to each of them as I passed. I had served myself many years ago in the first World War and I would know some of these young men’s grandfathers who served with me.

The thin, older lady at the counter greeted me with warmth and a warm smile as she served me my usual. Word was that she fancied me, but I could not imagine being with anyone else other than Mikeru. She had been the one. I sat at a table by myself and quietly slurped my soup, listening to the officers discuss the War. “The Americans are planning an invasion, a large one, to try to stop our support of the Germans,” said a young man with a moustache.

An older gentleman, perhaps a veteran of the last war if his hard face was anything to gauge by, spoke. “The Americans will launch an attack but our troops are superior and our sea borders are well guarded. They would pay for it dearly in blood if they tried to storm our shores,” he said calmly. We’d fought with the Americans before and admired their weaponry, but they lacked the honour and rigid structure of our culture. There was a sturdiness in honor and order. “Apparently they are aiming for here and Osaka,” said another, slurping his soup loudly. “Hiroshima doesn’t have that many military targets here currently. Most of them are out fighting,” said the fourth. “We are in charge of the defence of the south. If the 2 nd Army falls, the south will be open to an invasion. American troops can take control of the rivers and gain entry inland. We are a primary target military wise,” corrected the veteran. “But there are too many civilians living here to warrant a full attack.” “They will bomb us, no doubt, but the damage will not be so severe as to completely destroy the city,” said the veteran. “They’re Americans though. Do you really think they wouldn’t kill civilians if it meant they would win the war?” “They are men, just like us. Any good general knows that innocent blood mustn’t be spilt if other alternatives are available. An attack will come, mark my words, but we will recover. Still, I will get a radio broadcast put out warning people of potential bombing threats. We are all well-versed in what to do now,” the veteran said, heaving himself up. The others stood, thanked the lady behind the till and trooped out. I finished my soup and sat there, pondering a while. This time, I was grateful, the war had not touched my family. There was no grief-striken mother to console as only one of her sons came home, no father to watch as he became a little more hollow, a little more shrivelled.

Akira was too young to be conscripted and he would grow up outside of the shadow of this war. My son-in-law had a slight limp, a remnant of a childhood injury so he had not been conscripted, much to his dismay. My daughter was secretly delighted. He instead worked in the communications office which dealt with much of the war effort so he was content. They were all spared my nightmares. I thanked the lady who smiled coyly at me again and began the short walk to my daughter’s house. I mulled over what the officers had said and wondered if I should move my daughter and her family away from Hiroshima for a while, at least until the Americans had turned their eyes from us. There were still small towns a short distance that would welcome anyone paying. Then there were some of the larger estates, like those owned by the Baron, who might consent to housing a family for a small price. My daughter would agree, my son-in-law would not. He was too proud, too patriotic and had an open disdain for the Americans. But I would try to convince them. I wanted them as untouched by the war as I could keep them. 7:30am I knocked on the sturdy wooden door of my daughter’s house and waited. The sun had pulled itself higher and I could see the faint glint of the Ota River and smell its slightly salty, and unpleasant, smell. The door opened and my daughter emerged, looking wide and awake and already flustered. “Father!” she said, and managed a weary but warm smile. She leaned in to give me a hug and I breathed in her warm scent. She reminded me so much of my wife, the warmth of the earth evident in her. “Come in. We are just all about to eat and then Ozuru has to rush to work,” she said, stepping aside and letting me into her small but homely house. Akira was already bouncing of the walls and he squealed in joy as he pumped his little five year old feet to race towards me. “Grandpa!” he shouted. I laughed and picked him up, whirling him around, although I’ll admit he was getting a little harder to pick up now. “My how you’ve grown! You’re becoming a big boy now!” I exclaimed and ruffled his jet-black hair. He beamed and grinned, showing a missing tooth. “Go and eat your breakfast and then I have a present for you,” I said to him. He rushed off to the table and sat there. “Good morning, Hikaru,” said Ozuru as he emerged from the bedroom. Tall and rather solidly built, he had fairer features than my family and I as befit someone of the water. They were a good match - water and earth. “Good morning,” I said politely. I sat myself down in the chair and watched the little family. Akira was impatiently waiting for his food while Ozuru gently kissed his wife on the cheek then turned on the radio. “…to stay inside and be aware for the sirens. The Americans have issued a statement with their intent to attack Hiroshima…” “Bah! We’ve weathered worse than them,” Ozuru said dismissively. “Don’t underestimate them. I fought with them, and what they may lack in honour and order, they do not lack in intelligence. They love their weapons,” I cautioned. Ozuru looked at me sideways and I could sense his slight distaste for the fact I had served with those how were now our enemy. But I had not chosen our allies.

“Either way, any bombs they drop will be mainly aimed at the garrison. Anyone living near there would be wise to relocate for a while until we win this war,” he said. “Would you think of relocating Sunari and Akira until we are sure it is safe in Hiroshima?” I asked him cautiously. He looked at me and scoffed. “I will not leave. My country needs me and we are safe here. Our house is part brick, not wood, so it will withstand any blasts alright. And like I said, we are too far from the garrison for us to really be in any trouble,” he said. “You don’t know where they are going to bomb. They are getting desperate to win this war. It has already dragged out for too long,” I argued. “We know roughly where they are going to bomb, if indeed they do. I don’t think that we are in any danger,” he said, making his cup of coffee while Sunari remained silent. “Food! Food!” shouted Akira. Sunari smiled and set the table with three plates, knowing my penchant for the teahouse, and served the food. Ozuru downed his coffee, shovelled a few spoonfuls into his mouth and then checked his watch. “I have to get going. I’ll be home on time today, I promise,” he said, giving each of them a kiss. He looked at me and sighed. “I understand your concern, Hikaru, I do. But Japan is strong. Let them throw whatever they want at us. We will survive and come out stronger. We always do.” “Even iron breaks if it is bent hard enough,” I replied. He left and Sunari looked at me. “Are you really worried?” she asked me. “I am. I think you and Akira should leave the city and go somewhere into the country. There will be no attack there as there are no advantages to be gained. You would be safe,” I said. “Safe where exactly? Where would we go? What would we need to take? How would we get there as we own no means of transportation outside the city?” she asked. “I don’t know. There are towns, there are the Baron’s estates. You would have to decide that, once you got your husband to agree,” I said. “I doubt that will happen,” she said tiredly. “He does not believe the danger.” “It is war. There is always danger.” They ate in silence, while I sat there watching, wondering what to do. My bones were aching and I felt as though I had spent my whole life at war, although it was really only a handful of years. Still, war leaves scars. Always. 7:55am Sunari cleared away the plates and sent Akira off to wash up. I sat and looked around and smiled when I saw the photo of my wife and I hanging on her wall. Sunari and her mother had not always gotten along, but in the end they had reconciled and I was glad. They returned a little while after, Akira in his school uniform. “My, my, don’t you look handsome,” I said, and heaved him up to sit on my lap. I pulled the carefully folded bird out of my pocket and held it out to him. “Oooh birdy!” he exclaimed and reached out to grab it. “Now, be careful with it as it’s very delicate. But this is Kurēn, the Crane. So long as you carry him, you will have good luck!” I said.

He touched it reverently then threw his arms around my neck. “Thank you, grandpa!” he said. I laughed and gave him a kiss. 8:10am We all began walking towards the door to leave when a sudden, blaring noise pierced the morning. Sunari and I exchanged horrified looks. “What is that sound, mummy?” Akira asked. Sunari paled like snow on the ground. “Planes,” she whispered. I grabbed her and Akira and pushed them to hide under the table, pushing it up against the fridge. If the fridge moved it wouldn’t crush the table and would perhaps add an extra layer of metal protection. I closed the curtains to prevent some glass raining through if the windows shattered then dragged the chairs to cover the front of the table to stop as much rubble flying through as I could. “Mummy, what is happening?” Akira said, terror beginning to seep into the child. “Just hold onto me, Akira. Everything will be okay,” she said. Her brown eyes stared up at me from the shadows and I saw she didn’t know whether to believe those words or not. “Ozuru,” she whispered. I grimaced as I realized that Ozuru was heading towards the communications office, one of the areas he had said would be hit. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I said, trying to make it sound convincing. The tears welling up in her eyes told me I’d failed. I peeked out the window to see if there were any signs of planes. Within a few moments, I heard the telltale drone high above and I waited to see if I could see what direction they were going. I hoped they didn’t decide to drop it right on our heads. Another minute passed and I finally saw the tiny dots above in the clear sky that were the American planes. They had passed over us and were heading towards the other side of the river where many bridges spanned the banks. I breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps we would escape the biggest effects of the blast. I still felt a pang of worry for Ozuru. We may not particularly get along, but he was a good father and Sunari loved him. I waited to see where they dropped the bomb, but even my undimmed sight couldn’t spot something so small. 8:15am Then it happened. A blaze of light appeared midair above one of the stone, domed structures. At first, I thought it was a spot in my vision but it grew larger and brighter and my whole world became white with intensity of it. Even with my eyelids jammed shut, it was like I was staring into the sun. I could hear Akira and Sunari screaming my name but I was blind. I think I screamed too. Then I was hit with a blast so strong it felt as though my flesh was being seared from my bones, that the world was crumbling around me, sweeping me off my feet and hurling me upon wings of fire. Then there was nothing. ***** Consciousness. I crawled to my feet, blind with the white light. I sensed my body was damaged beyond repair but I could feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing. After an eternity, the white light faded somewhat and I managed to open my eyes. Or were they open? I remembered standing in Sunari’s house, with Akira. Where were they? I turned, or tried to, but my body had other ideas. I collapsed on the ground again. My eyes managed to make out a tall shape of bricks. A wall. Where was the roof? On the ground? There it was. Was that the charred remains of a table...I looked for a sign of the sun in the sky, as surely it was still only early morning, not almost night. I could not find it. Perhaps it had fallen out of the sky in that blinding flash of light. I lay there, grey settling over everything. There was silence. I don’t know why. Hiroshima is always a loud, busy city. Ash. Everything was ash. Ash from fire. Fire in the sky, blinding light, sound, plane, sirens… In a final moment of clarity, I realised. “A bomb.” The horror registered somewhere deep inside and I realised why I couldn’t find the sun. The blackness began coming back against the brightness still seared to my eyelids. “ The sun has set in the East, casting this grey night. Now it rises over the West, for they held the Sun in their hands and ended us.”


Today’s the day I change. No! Seriously, I am so over being forced to lock myself up every full moon. Especially after last week, you would never believe what happened. I was about to start locking up a few minutes before the full moon, when my grandma decided to pay me a visit. Since she owned the little place I call home, she decided to let herself in with the spare set of keys she insisted on taking from me. As for what happened next, doesn’t quite require any explanation. Grandmas and wolves are not a good combination, especially when you’re a werewolf. Well, at least now I own the place.               Now you know why I need to find a cure, and there is only one creature who can help me and that is a witch. They are just as hard to find as some other old lady willing to fill the vacant position of grandma in my life. Lucky for me, I know someone who may be willing to help me find a witch, Peter. Peter is the leader of a small group of goblins. He and his group were all forced to mine right below Count Dracula’s mansion for blood pepper root, which is the root of the spiciest peppers in existence. When Dracula became a vegetarian, he decided to start eating the roots of blood peppers. It’s not relevant to how I’m going to find the cure so let us proceed. I went to Peter’s cave, just off the south coast of Transylvania, and managed to pull a few strings until he agreed to help me. He never wanted to have to see my face again. We hitched a lift on a dragon. A few days later, we arrived in Scotland.               Peter suggested that we should spend the night at his cousin Oliver’s hotel known as ‘’Macbeth’s palace’’. We did so but regretted it instantly. The entire hotel smelled of moth balls and garlic. We decided to leave before breakfast as we could only imagine what atrocities would be waiting for us at the breakfast table. We made it about a mile away from the hotel, when we heard the thundering sound of hooves pounding the cobbled road. It was Peter’s Cousin, Oliver. He handed us a letter with no name on it and galloped off. We opened the envelope to find a little note saying ‘’travel to the witches shack’’ written in a neat golden handwriting. That is exactly what we did. A few full moons later we were smashed on the back of the head by some fairly smelly creatures. I suddenly regained consciousness as an old woman was wafting some foul scented mud in my direction. I stood up, knees shaking and realised that the old woman seemed to be blind. As I took a shaky step forward, there was a crunch under my foot. Looking down I saw a skull which was about two thirds of the average size of a human skull. The old woman didn’t turn her head in my direction. I was about to continue when she smiled and picked up a doll. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach as I confirmed in my mind that she was a witch. She gingerly held the doll there in her hands for a few seconds, until with one fluid movement she dropped the doll on to the floor. I screamed as I fell to the floor like a boulder. She stayed still for a few minutes as I struggled to breathe, then she told me that voodoo dolls are tricky little things. Your friend Peter resisted and paid the price she said. She picked the doll up and put it back on the shelf as I regained control of my movements. ‘’Let’s talk’’ she told me. After we had a talk it all made sense, well sort of. Anyway, the witch’s name was Catherine, and she was going to turn four hundred and twelve that same week. She knew I was travelling to find a cure, and she almost had all the ingredients needed; but she needed a dragon’s egg to complete the cure. She told me where to find the last colony of dragons and that I had better hurry if I wanted to get an egg before they hatched. I arrived at Buckingham palace that same day. It had been abandoned for centuries, or at least that’s what I’d been told. There were dragons circling the palace and occasionally swooping down to pick up some poor prey. There was a zombie at the entrance but no other visible life-forms. I hurried down along the dungeon passage to find the secret entrance. After a few good hours of searching, I found the right waterfall and walked right through it. There, on a pedestal was an egg that seemed to be glowing walked up to it, mesmerized, picked it up and started walking back the way I had come. That is when all hell broke loose. The floor, walls and ceiling started to crumble. I ran and didn’t stop until I was back in the open air outside the palace. There were at least four dragons after me. So, I did the normal thing to do, I ran. Okay, it wasn’t the normal thing to do but it was definitely the most instinctive thing to do.  Three of the dragons lost interest in me, but one remained and kept up the chase. I arrived at ‘’the witches shack’’ and at once gave the egg to the witch and went to hide in the far corner. The dragon roared as the witch went to greet it. The dragon left the shack. And the witch told me we need to wait for the egg to hatch. The next day the egg hatched, I know this because I woke up with a small rabbit sized dragon biting my nose. The witch picked up the dragon and put it on the counter near a cauldron that appeared out of nowhere. Catherine lit the fire below the cauldron and started chanting what sounded like her spell. ‘’Frogs tongue, blood pepper root, a wizard’s curse, a demon’s horn, a wolf’s howl and a dragon’s child’s hair.’’ Now we need to leave it to set, so that it will be ready for you to drink it on the next full moon. The following month, Catherine took me to a little shed before the full moon started and chained me up. She left nothing to chance. I was bound by my arms and legs and after putting a muzzle on me we waited for the moon to rise. She waited an hour after the moon was up and then gave me the cure. It worked almost instantly, reversing the dreaded, horrific, monthly process. Within seconds I was human again. I went back to my old home, yes, the one where I had eaten my grandma and lived the rest of my life as a normal human. A totally transformed human, convinced that no more change was required!


most of the words in the conversations are in the way we talk in Nigeria so it is not totally wrong, I was just trying to catch the same experience “That’s the thing about this city” Kanka complained as he bit of a piece of peppered meat from the skewered suya we bought on our way back from our outing. We did this every Saturday, we leave school campus and I would take us out anywhere because I was the rich friend with the money to do so. After the day we walk from a close distance back to school. “Yeah” I agreed, one of my hands in my pocket and the other holding my own suya in a black polythene bag. I always wondered why Kanka liked to eat his while walking. “Everybody here just has to struggle by themselves and people are just rough, it’s like we are fighting an every man for himself battle that I don’t know about” he continued “Then again everything is just too expensive they’ll just go and raise price for no reason. For instance now see this suya we bought, only for this four pieces of meat they collected N100 when it was 50 before” then he threw away the stick and licked the spice off his hands. As he spoke I just nodded quietly in affirmation to what he said as I listened. I didn’t like to talk much Kanka was the talker and that was what made him approach me after one of our lectures, he said I was too quiet for his liking and I just shrugged my shoulders still not saying anything so from then on he always met up with me all the time, it was like he was everywhere. I was kind of forced to be his friend since he was hanging around me all the time. I liked him though he was nice and outspoken but he could be a bit rough at times, I reprimanded him so I was like his check for his errors. “Kanka I am tired of walking, let us take bus or taxi back” I grumbled “Hah, Jide you are already tired. Is this not the normal distance we always walk back” he asked. It wasn’t a question to be answered so I just continued. “See if you want to continue walking you can continue but I am taking taxi back” I argued “Okay oh. I you insist but you know it is not remaining that far to walk again, if we just pass-” he was saying but I glared at him and he stopped. I turned to the road to hail any taxi that passed and luckily one stopped. The battered blue and white car chugged to stop beside me, I bent to the window so I could speak to the driver. “Where to?” the driver asked me but I was assessing the driver and his car. The car was shabby as usual for most taxis then I looked up at his face staring at the tribal marks he had on his cheeks before I answered “Ehm, UNIPORT campus side” “Okay enter I know the place” I ignored him, which Port Harcourt driver didn’t know UNIPORT. “How much?” I ask him instead “It’s 200” he said in pidgin as he chewed on his toothpick “How? It is not too far from here. Collect 100 now” I argued switching quickly to Pidgin English so he wouldn’t think I am a rich child that doesn’t know outside and can be deceived easily. The driver just shook his head insisting he would stick to his price. “You don’t know that price of fuel has increased?” he asked but it was rhetorical, I meant who didn’t know about the fuel increase. I turned back to look at Kanka, he just stood there arms folded and he wasn’t even helping then he gave me a thumbs up, I faced the driver again. “Okay, oga take 150” I still continued in pidgin with him, he glanced warily at me from his side view and took out the toothpick from his mouth “That boy there is joining too?” he asked pointing with his toothpick “Yeah, yes he is” though in my mind I meant to tell him no so Kanka would walk back by himself “Enter” I pulled the hand to open the door but it didn’t open, I tried again and it felt like the handle was going to break I didn’t want to pay extra so I just rapped on the on the window, the driver turned back stretched himself so he could reach the back and he opened the door from the inside. “Eh sorry, the door has problem” he muttered with a shaky smile as he scratched the back of his head. I am sure it is not the only place with a problem I mumbled in my head and with that we got into the taxi. I always felt like all the taxi’s had one smell but it wasn’t too bad, they all had the same dank smell. As we got into the car and sat I sunk into my seat, like really sunk inside, the seat was old and tired. I looked at the driver but he was driving and couldn’t see me, I was sure he wasn’t bothered about the state of the seats as long as they could carry passengers. “Oga, you will not change the chairs” Kanka asked in pidgin, I mean he spoke pidgin most of the time, he was a PH boy. “No, I am waiting for something” he replied I bent my head close to Kanka and whispered in his ear “I am sure he is waiting till a passenger falls through” We both laughed heartily and I was sure the driver felt we were joking about him, he looked up at the rearview mirror and asked what but we didn’t have the time to answer we had already reached our destination. I pushed myself up a little to bring my wallet out of my back pocket, quickly bringing the money out I paid him and we hurried out of the car then he drove of angrily. Kanka and I just stood on the sidewalk still laughing. Another of our outing has ended the same way, us laughing about something. It was like something awkward or funny always happened after we went out. Kanka had stopped laughing but I was still smiling and he just looked at me like I was crazy. “Guy, stop laughing. Somebody will think you are mad” Kanka said punching my arm, I just stared back at him still smiling. “ Bia , Jide it is okay. Joke has finished” he said pushing me again “Okay, okay. I have heard, let us go inside” We didn’t stay in the hostels on campus instead we stayed in the lodges off campus because the hostels were always bad in most public universities. When we got to our lodge, some of our other house mates were outside gisting* or playing whot (a card game) we greeted them and went to our rooms, I would have liked to stay out there with them but the next day was Sunday so I wanted to go to bed early for mass the next morning. “Good night” I said to Kanka as I got into my room, he was in the room beside mine “Ah, you’re going to bed already” he exclaimed. I looked at my watch it was ten minutes to eight. “What? Is it too early?” “Yes now” “Kanka tomorrow is Sunday and I have some assignments pending” He shrugged his shoulders “Anyways, I am going somewhere and I have to see my mum” He left and I went into my room and sat at my study table. Kanka’s mother was sick in the hospital and his family wasn’t so well off so he had to work small jobs to help raise money for her bills. I offered him money but he had too much pride to accept it, he said he would feel more comfortable working for it and that she wasn’t dying so I let it be. My phone vibrated in my pocket, brought it out and looked at the screen it was a credit alert from my bank of 50,000 from my father. Swiping open the phone I typed in my password and opened my WhatsApp. I had to thank him immediately if not we would have a lot of trouble between us. ‘Thank you sir for accepting my request for the money’ I typed in properly, I reread it to find errors no matter how short it was and sent it, looking at it again I felt like it was too shabby so I added a little more ‘I will try to spend it wisely and give you a detailed review of my spending’ I felt more satisfied. When I turned I noticed the suya in polythene bag beside me along with few other things I bought, I had completely forgotten about them. Touching it the suya was still warm I decided to eat now after all I didn’t have the strength to cook anything now. I was getting ready for church the next morning then I got a call from Kanka’s sister, I answered the call ‘Yes’ I was trying to put on my cuff links ‘Um, this is Jide right?’ ‘Yes’ ‘Please hurry to the hospital now, the teaching hospital’ she was crying ‘What is wrong, you are getting me tensed up’ ‘It’s Kanka’ and that was what it took, I dropped my phone. I still heard her calling me over the phone. I threw my cuff links and picked up the phone, running out of my room got outside and hailed the first keke that I saw and I just barked teaching hospital. We got there I just threw the money to the driver and ran into the hospital, and grabbed the nurse walking past “Where’s the room for the emergency” but she just angrily stared at me then pulled her arm free “Who are you?” she asked “I am sorry but where is the emergency ward?” I tried to sound polite but truly I was scared After giving me a onceover she answered “Go down that hall the last door. Are you family?” I ignored her question and rushed down the hall. I burst into the room and I saw him, the ever vibrant Kanka, with so many friends and was always smiling or moving around was now confined to the bed wires running around him. I was broken by the sight of him. I sat down beside him and held his hand before he stirred “My God Kanka” I cried, he looked at me and seeing the tears in my eyes he laughed softly as his energy could carry him. “Stop laughing this is serious. What happened?” he looked at me and tears streamed from his eyes. “You are scaring me! What happened?” gripping my hand tighter and told me what happened. He had joined a robbery scheme to earn money for his mother and it didn’t go well, he had gotten caught in crossfire with the police. He had maned to escape with bullet shots to his hand and stomach. “Kanka I told you to let me help didn’t I?” “My pride would have been really hurt and I-” but I cut him off “What pride eh?! What kind of rubbish pride is that?!” I shouted “was the pride that cost your live worth it?” He looked at me, squeezed my hand and smiled “I am shocked you can shout” I pulled my hand from his hold “How much for your treatment?” “No I won’t tell you, just leave it” I wanted to hit him but seeing his state I reconsidered “Kanka seriously” “I am being serious, rather take the money and help my mum” “I will help the both of you” “No it won’t be necessary for me but my mum, she needs it” I opened my mouth to say something but seeing the expression on his face I understood. “It’s the city right it does things to you, now its condition takes your life” i said solemly *gisting - just like conversing