There he sits, in the crowded train going to Memphis, Tennessee, rereading yesterday’s newspaper from April 24, 1942. Halfway there the man begins to regret his decision of applying for a law enforcement job. Why did I leave the beautiful, scenery of Kentucky for this stupid job? he ponders. I like food better than music. But, life has its reasons that it keeps to itself. All of a sudden, a black man is getting on the train. He sits down in the front. “Hey, you,” the conductor says. “Go to the back of the train.” “But, sir, I-” “I don’t wanna hear it,” the conductor interjects. “You either go to the back of the train or you don’t ride this train at all.” “Conductor, wait,” says the man from Kentucky. “Let the black man sit with me.” “Well,” the conductor starts to say, then hesitates. “Ok, fine.” “Thank you so much,” the black man says. “No problem,” says the future law enforcement officer. A day later the man arrives in Memphis. He loves the scenery and the beautiful hills there, but he did not realize it would be so busy, and he feels sorry for the hundreds of people without a home, crying and struggling to keep their kids fed. As a few families soon see that this man is a prestigious individual, they scamper up to him and beg for the precious paper with the president's face on it. "I can only afford to treat you to twenty dollars each; I am so sorry,” says the man. Sniffling, one of the mothers gratefully speaks. "God bless you, Mr…," "Isaac,” he replies generously. “Isaac Hunt. And you?" "I am Ava Griffin, and this is my 12-year-old daughter, Naudia Griffin. My daughter's dream is to be a great detective. We needed money for food and clothes, so we could eat and I can get a job to pay for my daughter's education, so she can live up to her big dream. Thank you so much for the twenty dollars, we will never forget this." Isaac humbly replies, "You are so welcome, and I am glad I could help. And Naudia, good luck with your big dream. Just don't forget to never give up. And trust me, you will make it. And, who knows? Maybe we will cross paths once again. But for now, goodbye." As Isaac walks away, he notices that it was getting dark out and that he didn't even have a place to sleep. But thankfully Isaac sees a humongous, lit-up sign that reads, "Glacier Inn and Suites." Something about this place strikes Mr. Hunt’s mind, and before he even knows it, he is inside the building. "Hello sir, would you like to book a room?" a blunt and heavy voice asks. "Oh yes, a regular room please," Isaac replies softly, feeling very welcomed in the city. "How many nights will you be spending?" the man at the counter asks. Isaac hesitates for just a moment and says, “Just tonight, please.” “Okay, that will be five dollars. Here’s your key and you are going to be in room 202,” the man at the counter tells Isaac. As Isaac walks up the stairs to his room, he begins to look around the burgundy stairway to try to figure out why the stairway reeked of gasoline and cigarettes. But, before Issac finds out, he lets out a yawn, so, knowing that he is sleepy, he walks tiredly into his room. “Wow!” he says to himself, “I didn’t think the rooms would be this nice! Are they all suites? I thought I ordered a regular room.” He crawls into the very warm and cozy bed, and very fast he falls asleep. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The fire alarm goes. Isaac wakes up. There is a lot of heat and pressure.

“FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” Isaac yells as he hears screaming. “HELPPPP!!!” he hears a female voice say. “MY BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Isaac knows he can’t leave them; he has to help them. “Don’t worry, help is on the way!” Isaac yells so loudly, it hurts his own ears. He feels the door with the back of his hand, checking if it is hot. It is not. He runs out the door, slides down the stairs, runs past the lobby into the hall of rooms he knows the woman called from. “Ma’am,” he yells. “I need you to yell something, so I know where you are!” “OKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!” she yells. Almost instantly, Isaac knows where the woman is. He feels the door with the back of his hand again, but this time it is hot. “I’m coming, ma’am!” he yells. He runs into the bathroom in the lobby, finds a wet towel, and opens the door. But the flames. The flames are everywhere! With adrenaline pumping through his veins, he runs into the janitor’s closet, grabs a bucket filled with water, and throws it on top of the flames, dulling them all out. “Don’t worry, ma’am, I will save you.” He runs into the room with a towel partly over his eyes, grabs the baby, and puts his free arm around the lady, and brings them out of the hotel and into the parking lot.  Together they watch the hotel burst into flames as they listen to the sirens of the fire trucks and the ambulances. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much,” the lady says as she starts coughing.

“You’re very welcome, but get to a hospital right away, just to get you and your baby checked out.”

That is how Isaac Hunt’s career started. He became a renowned law enforcement officer, with his trained sidekick Naudia Griffin, and he fought against many foes, including Nazis, the KKK, Communists, and many other villains during his reign. After a long tenure as the chief law enforcement officer, he passed the position down to, now a full-grown, Naudia Griffin, who holds the position today.

He retired and lived a happy life. Nobody knows where he is now, however. But some have seen him in gardens, looking at the sunset in all of its glory. Because that is what he liked the most.


Caution: horrific details of a birth that goes wrong. Katy heard a bone-chilling scream followed by wails. Her twelve-year-old daughter Suzie ran inside. "It's OK, Mum. We were playing a game on the trampoline, that's all." "Eddie has hurt himself?" "Yes, as usual. He'll be alright." Katy ran out to check on her son in the backyard. Ten-year-old Eddie wept, cradling one arm as he sat in the middle of the trampoline. “Suzie did it,” he blubbered. "I'm sure it was an accident." His bottom lip curled down, and he shook his head. Tears trickled like water from a leaky faucet. He struggled over to her, keeping his right arm immobile against his body. Their large rectangular trampoline had no safety nets, but the rules were to not run on it and stick to the middle. The children had rarely had accidents. The worst accident had been when another child wouldn't stop running back and forth, tripped, and gashed their chin open on the metal surround. Katy had yelled out, "Stop running!" to no avail.

The mother had become hysterical, but the father had shaken his head and sighed. He whispered something about his daughter bringing it on herself. They still felt awful. By the time Katy led her son inside, she had concluded that his arm could be broken. Suzie looked morose. "Can you tell me how this happened, please, Suzie?" Katy led Eddie to the sofa and went to get a freezer pack. The arm sported bruises already. "We were playing a game. He did it to me first," said Suzie, sulking. "Despite who started it, I think he's broken his arm." "Oh, rubbish. He's a drama llama. Great performance, Eddie." "So, what game did you play?" "We played a cool game where one of us sat on the side of the trampoline and surprised the jumper by whacking their legs out from under them unless they jumped quickly."  "What makes this game so 'cool'?" "It's the surprise. It's great fun. When it was Eddie's turn to jump, he collapsed in a heap the first time. So useless." "As I said, I think he's broken his arm." This time, Katy glowered into her daughter's eyes. "What are you going to say?" "What am I supposed to say?" "The usual thing to say is 'Sorry,' Even if you Believe the Accident Could Have Been Avoided.". "Oh, it could have been avoided." Suzie looked at her mother's frown and the shake of her head. "Of course, I'm sorry . . . not much fun to play with someone hurt." She grumbled as she tore up the stairs.

Eddie sat crying. Katy sighed and gave him the ice pack wrapped in a tea towel to hold against the painful limb. "This is what we are going to do, Eddie. Today is Sunday, and if I take you all the way to A and E now, we will be waiting for hours and hours while they deal with all the accidents and sports injuries. The weekend is a hopeless time for A and E. I'll give you some Paracetamol syrup for the pain, and first thing tomorrow, we'll take you in. I believe it's broken from the way you're holding it. If it's broken, you'll get an X-ray and a cast. The good news is that it won't be as hard for you as when you broke your ankle that time." "But Mum, it's so sore. I want it to be better now. It wasn't my fault . "

"I know it isn't, son, but if we go today, they won't want me giving you painkillers, and you'll be in pain waiting for hours. We may not even get dinner. Tomorrow morning, first thing, it'll be so much quicker. . . Did you know that I used to have accidents, too? I've broken my wrist and my ankle. When I broke my ankle, I didn't want it to be broken, and I hobbled on it for a whole day. As I didn't have a car, I got my flat mate to drop me at A and E the next morning and afterward used crutches to go to my friend's house. She lived not too far from there. Someone else dropped me at my flat. No wheelchair for me." "I had lots of fun in my wheelchair, didn't I, Mum?" "You sure did. The kids at school played races with you and wheeled you around." "I let them take turns. I had lots of friends when I had a wheelchair." Katy felt a pang in her heart. Her innocent little boy had found it challenging at school and was teased mercilessly. He hardly noticed the way the other kids viewed him. His cheerful smile and kind nature had made him appear stupid. Suzie hurt more. She felt compelled to be his minder at school. The teachers and teacher aides coped with him during school hours. Still, during the breaks and before and after school, she had been tormented by other children for being his sister. Without oil-covered duck feathers, this sensitive little girl became bedraggled. She had toughened up to survive. Now, it seemed her empathy had gone as well. The older Suzie became, the less tolerance she had for being in a family with a handicapped child. Still, Suzie knew that Eddie had slow reactions and that their game had set him up to fail and fall. He never fell in a coordinated way. As a toddler, he had careened into walls because he neither stopped nor turned in time to avoid them. He regularly face-planted because he didn't put his hands out to save himself when he fell. Katy realized that Suzie needed to be listened to but also have her negative thinking, readjusted. Eddie needed help eating and toileting, and Katy had cleaned his teeth. That evening, she settled him in bed, gave him more painkilling medication, reassuring him that skipping a shower for one night would be OK and more manageable with his arm, and propped him with pillows.

Now, it's time for Suzie. Carefully, she knocked on her daughter's door and went in. Suzie had her light on and sat in bed reading. "Thank you so much for cleaning up the kitchen and getting yourself ready for bed," Katy said, sitting on the side of the bed. "We'll take Eddie to A and E tomorrow." "Mum, I didn't really mean for him to hurt himself. I wish we could play like normal kids." "I wish you could as well, dear. But that game really is dangerous." "Mum, why couldn't he have been a normal brother?" Suzie's eyes filled with tears. "I do have an idea how it happened. It was his birth. When he was tiny, he cried so much and was such an angry baby. You may not remember, but when Dad went out with the older children in the evenings sometimes, I'd stay at home with him and you. You only wanted me when you were little, and when I got you ready for bed, I had to put Eddie down. You used to remind me he was crying and told me to pick him up. I told you that he had to learn patience because you also needed me. I've always tried to be fair to you." "But it hasn't been fair. Crystal does everything for me. I love her, but she's my sister. You have to help Eddie so much. He has all sorts of appointments, and you have lots of meetings about him. Because of him, you made me leave my friends and go to another school." Katy opened her mouth. "Honey, it wasn't like that. We were concerned about you. We didn't want you having the worry of Eddie at school, or being teased because of him. We sent you to a better school with more opportunities even though it is further away. We did it for you." Suzie sobbed. 'I hate it. I have no friends." "Sweetie, we didn't know. You were fine about going to the new school at the start." "I didn't want to bother you and Dad. You had enough to worry about . . . Having Eddie as a brother sucks!" "Darling, I know how you feel. You know, when I first brought him home from the Hospital, I wished I hadn't had him. We still need to understand what is wrong with him. It's been hard work, but we must consider the good times. You have had lots of fun with him. You were lovely together when you were both little. You cared for him so much. Remember, he always used to smile and laugh at everything. He hasn't turned out angry, after all." "But I am. I'm angry that he gets all of the attention." "We have tried not to do that, but it can't be helped. He needs a lot of care. We couldn’t expect your oldest sister, Amelia, to do everything for him . . . I was a headless chicken trying to cater to everyone in this family." "And he lost my Barbie dolls under the house, and they were so hard to find, and you had to wash them. I was so mad at him about that." "Sweetie, my younger sisters wrecked my stuff, too. It happens. It can't be the end of the world. I know it made you very sad." "It made me angry." "The trick is understanding why you feel angry and not taking it out on others. About your school. Next year, you will be in high school, and you can meet up with some of your old friends there. Now, get some sleep, darling. We are out of here early tomorrow." Katy kissed her daughter and settled her under the duvet. Katy went through to the kitchen. Her husband, Tom, had made her a hot chocolate and waited at the table for her. "It's been one of those days again, dear?" "I'm worried about Suzie." Tom shook his head and smiled. "Let me get this right. Eddie has probably broken his arm, and you are worried about Suzie; who did it?" "Suzie is hurting too, but not because she feels sorry for Eddie." She put her face in her hands and wept. "There, there. It can't be that bad." Katy looked up. "It's too much, and it isn't fair. Eddie's birth was a mess. My Specialist went on holiday and said he'd be back in time. I told him he wouldn't be. That stupid Midwife. I never ever wanted to squat during a birth, but I needed to with Eddie. I think it helped him turn. That idiot Midwife pushed me back against the head of the bed to 'have a look.' And then it was too late. Eddie was coming out. And then he got stuck. I remember her saying not to push because his shoulder was stuck and to wait for the next contraction. She wouldn't even help me get comfortable." "It all happened so fast. The Midwife already said a few hours when she went to ring up for an alternative specialist. She wanted you to get onto all fours, but there was no time. Eddie was in a hurry to be born." "If I'd known what I found out later, I'd have screamed bloody murder. If you remember, I was screaming murder when I thought Eddie would be born at home." "You had just enough time to get to the Hospital, it turned out. I thought you had hours like the other times. Just wanted to have a shave." "Yeh, to look handsome for the nurses! While I was in sooo much pain. Posterior presentation. I had no idea what it was. It was shocking. Katy sobbed. "And years later to find out what can happen during a shoulder dystocia . . . And when I finally decided to check the birth notes, the Midwife had lied. She knew what was wrong all along and lied. My poor baby had his oxygen supply cut off before he came out. Sure, he finally breathed. He had petechial hemorrhaging of his eyes, bruising around them, and grazed ears. He cried and cried. He cried so much that after exhausting days of him not feeding properly because he couldn't suck and kept popping off my breasts, the nurses used to wheel him into an empty theatre to let me sleep. His screaming kept the other babies awake." "Going on about it won't help. He's turned out a lovely little chap." "I think people feel sorry for us. This whole family has suffered because of what happened. And financially. All those specialists, a cranial osteopath, pediatric appointments, and speech therapist we took him to. We are still suffering. And what about his future?" "You have always told me that because he loves everyone, the world is his tumbling-polish machine." "It was a euphemism. When I speak hopefully about Eddie because he gets on with everyone, his teacher aides look at me gravely as if they feel sorry for me." "You have to keep trying. Keep having hope. Don't look back. You can't change what happened." "The latest is poor Suzie. She isn't happy that we changed her to a different school." "We know why we did. If you'd left her at the same school, with all the pressure and bullying she received, she wouldn't have thanked us for that either. Damned if you do, and damned if you don't!" "I guess you are right. We've done our very best." "You've done better than that. Some other parents wouldn't have done what we have." "But I feel guilty. There are times when I wish . . . we hadn't had him." Katy sobbed into her hands again. "Here, have your chocolate before it gets cold. Don't dwell on the past." *** At A and E. The next day, after they had been in the waiting room for about an hour, the doctor finally saw Eddie. He shook his head. "What a break! How did you do this, young man?" "I fell on the trampoline. My arm is double-jointed, and it snapped when I landed on it." "Double jointed, you say?" "Yes, I can bend my elbow both ways." "It's true," said Katy. "It will be x-rayed at Orthopedics, at the Hospital, but I'm telling you now, this is a bad break. It's a wonder the bone isn't sticking through the skin. We'll stabilize it, and I advise you to take him in a wheelchair once you arrive, so he doesn't jolt it. Can you do that?" "We've been careful up until now; I'm sure we'll manage." On the way to the car, Suzie touched her brother's shoulder. "Sorry for calling you a 'drama llama.'" ***

They drove home with Eddie in his new plaster cast many hours later. "Can all my friends write their names on this one, too?" he asked. "I'll be the first," said Suzie. "How about playing a nice safe game of cards when we get home?" said Katy. Suzie grinned. "Yes, Strip Jack Naked, for real." "No, let's play Cheat," said Eddie, "I'm good at that." "What about Happy Families, kids?" Managing a ten-year-old child with an arm in plaster proved easier for Katy than handling the five-year-old Eddie with his leg in plaster. By the time the break healed, Eddie had gradually regained the use of his arm. His only regret was that the arm no longer bent both ways. It had been quite the sickening party trick. Eddie and his antics always astounded them. Always novel. Often, harebrained. The unfortunate thing about Suzie as a teenager was her lack of tolerance toward her brother. Before this, she had always been a very caring sister. When siblings clash as teenagers, the inherent selfishness of this age group leads to much grief in a family.

Once the mature, caring young woman emerged from her pupa of teenage angst, Suzie applied herself. After much research, she came up with a diagnosis for her brother. We pursued a formal one: Dyspraxia. Suzie had been right. In addition, Dyslexia had already been diagnosed, which helped him qualify for assistance at school, and his Sensory Disorder had been recognized.

His decisions led us all down some dark roads at times. He often didn't recognize hazards and wound up in heartrending and life-threatening situations. He's also been in several accidents, once with a leg in plaster again. His worst accident didn't involve any breaks. He stood up and began to exit a bus. He was the last one in line to leave. The driver didn't check and closed the doors on him. When they played back the recording, it showed that he hesitated moving forward when he heard a noise from the doors. His neck was so severely wrenched, and his body twisted that he needed costly treatment by an Osteopath for a whole year. I pointed out to the bus company that his hesitation meant he wasn't dragged along on the outside of the bus, which probably saved his life. They felt action during that split second could have prevented the accident. Bottom line - the driver didn't look. Suzie became a Mental Health nurse and has come to terms with her early family life. Eddie manages to hold down a menial part-time job and do volunteer work. He is gifted at listening and getting on with people. The tumbling-polish-machine has produced a gem.


A young woman named Lily lived in a quaint coastal town. With her long chestnut hair flowing freely in the wind, she walked along the shoreline, capturing the essence of a genuine, free spirit. As if reflecting the calm ocean, her deep blue eyes shimmered with a captivating curiosity, luring everyone in. Lily couldn’t resist whispering her heartfelt wishes to the gentle ocean waves as she strolled along the shore, her heart brimming with dreams. “My greatest desire is to find a lover, a man who can match and return my deep passion, and most importantly, a man who will always remain by my side, never leaving me.” The very idea of him evoked an intense desire that consumed her every moment. Immersed within the depths of her imagination, he transcended mere mortality. By being her lover, he would also serve as her protector and eternal companion. Believing the ocean listened, some thought that the God of the sea ruled over all creatures in its vast depths. Starting with this wish, the tale of her heart’s desire unfolded. Those who called out to the god of the sea from above were the ones the deity aimed to increase the population from. Lily’s pleas echoed through the vast depths of the sea and caught the attention of the God who ruled over it. The sound of the wind passing through the palms gave off an eerie vibe, almost as if it was whispering, “Be careful what you ask for.”

While Lily was strolling along the shoreline one day, she came across a tall, mysterious man. His eyes, a striking shade of green, seemed to conceal a hidden mystery. With a hint of a sea breeze in his voice, Jack revealed his recent arrival as a sailor in town when he introduced himself. When their eyes met, Lily couldn’t ignore the instant and undeniable connection between her and him. Jack’s charming personality, both delightful and witty, matched her adventurous spirit. He embodied everything she had ever dreamed of. Deepening their bond, Lily’s and Jack’s connection only grew stronger as time passed. While under the enchanting moonlit sky, they shared passionate kisses that kindled a deep connection, binding them together. The rest of the town, consumed by envy, whispered countless tales of their nightly escapades, unable to resist being captivated by their love. Lily was happier than she had ever been, but a small voice in her head kept nagging, “Be careful what you wish for.” Without a second thought, she ignored the warning, being infatuated with her newfound love. Jack mysteriously disappeared, leaving no evidence, all the while being surrounded by the gleaming silver glow of the full moon. Lily’s heart ached with longing for his touch, causing her to wonder where he had gone. She found herself unable to resist the mesmerizing allure of the sea as the first rays of sunlight broke through the horizon, casting a stunning golden hue upon the ocean’s surface. His disappearance became a powerful symbol, a constant reminder of how ephemeral their love truly was, a love that flourished solely in the captivating illumination of the moon. With the breaking of dawn, his silhouette emerged, resembling a ghostly figure from the depths of the ocean. The scales on his tail shimmered with a mesmerizing iridescence, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors, while his eyes gleamed with a radiance that seemed to belong to another realm. Much to Lily’s surprise, Jack turned out to be quite different from the man she had envisioned. After seeing him, a peculiar being with the characteristics of both man and fish, Lily experienced an inexplicable shiver coursing down her spine, evoking a mixture of both fear and desire. The pull of the ocean, with its irresistible force, was inescapable as it drew her heart closer and closer to the captivating Merman who had seized her imagination and soul. Lily became entangled in the snare as soon as the spell was cast. Upon seeing the merman’s silhouette, Lily felt a sense of tranquility instead of alarm. Her heart ached with a deep longing as if she had been waiting for his touch for an eternity. The sight of him was a haunting reminder, a bittersweet symbol of the love they had once shared - a love that surpassed the boundaries of ordinary life. The mighty ocean waves had granted her wish, but she soon realized the weight of the consequences she had unleashed. Ensnared in a love affair gone wrong, Lily’s life took a dark and unexpected turn. She was so captivated by the intense magic from below that she couldn’t perceive the danger as anything other than a sign of love. Lily found herself under the enchantment of the God of the sea, who had cast a spell that forever intertwined her heart with his, deep within the ocean’s vastness. For their love to thrive, she would have to let go of something truly meaningful. The something would be so precious that she couldn’t even bear to imagine it. Despite the danger and the sacrifices that would change her life forever, her passion for him burned brightly. Her mind was filled with thoughts of him, drowning out her worries about the potential risks and dangers ahead. Sharing was a concept that had never crossed Lily’s mind before. The Mer people’s ways were as different from those of the land dwellers’ as the ocean’s depths are from the peaks of mountains. The sailors who escaped the deathly claws of the sirens were aware of this fact. On that fateful night of the last full moon of the month, the moon rose, its pale light reflecting off the dark waters like a ghostly apparition. Jack motioned for her to follow him, and she hesitated for a moment before diving into the tumultuous sea. Like his father’s magic, his spell had an irresistible allure that pulled her in like a siren’s song. She took a deep breath, feeling her heart race as she descended into the unknown, her body trembling with a mix of nerves and determination, ready to do whatever it took for the man she loved. Lily’s naivety sealed her fate, transforming her into a captivating mermaid. She sat upon the rocks, her haunting melodies harmonizing with the others, drawing lost sailors to their doom. In his quest to expand his unsettling collection of wives, Jack persisted. Jack’s father had an impressive collection of thousands of wives luring sailors into the breakers worldwide. Jack had only just begun and had a very modest count of twenty. With Lily among them, Jack’s tally increased to twenty-one. If you’re walking the ocean shore at night and are lonely for the love of your life, be careful what you ask for. You might get much more than you bargained for.


The pine trees swarmed around the lake like a great barrier keeping everything safely inside. To the boys: William and Michael, it seemed like the woods were creating a private summer get-away spot just for them. Of course, their parents and little sister were still tagging along - someone had to provide the snacks and juice boxes, they supposed. But once they had been well sunscreened and had their floaties tucked on they felt like they were swimming all along on their perfect island.

“Billy! Mikey! It’s time for lunch!” called their mother from the picnic table just inland from the lake. The boys could already smell the meal their father was grilling and it was clear their mother had laid out all the necessary items for burgers from the small ice chest they had brought. Their sister had already begun drinking a bottle of Kool-Aid and smiling at them with a rather blue mouth. The boys looked at each other and instantly started racing up the sand trail back to their family.

The boys playfully pushed each other and tried to hold the other one back in order to win but in the end, they both arrived at the table together. Their mother, Susan, smiled down at them, trying to pretend as if she weren’t annoyed that their ‘playing’ always included roughhousing. She was a sensitive woman and not at all interested in anything violent or what she called ‘not life-giving’. However, when it was meant for fun, she often let it pass so as to not cause an exasperated uproar from the rest of her family.

“You two ought to play more kindly, or else someone might think you two just love violence and will offer you more than you can handle,” Susan said, trying to speak jokingly but came off just weird and a bit annoying. The children brushed it off and continued to tease each other and their little sister.

“Who wants cheese?” Jake asked, opening the package of presliced American cheese that was in the cooler. All the children raised their hands. He could tell from Susan’s expression that she would have also liked some but she refused to raise her hand for fear the cheese would go straight to her hips. Jake offered a weak smile but said nothing as he turned back to the grill. “Who would like to say grace for lunch?” Susan asked. Both of the boys groaned in unison.

“Do we have to say grace? It’s summer vacation!” Billy whined.

“Just because it’s summer doesn’t mean we need to be any less grateful for all the things we have,” his mother answered.

“Will Jesus take it all away if we don’t pray?” the little girl asked, speaking for the first time. Susan smiled and Jake stifled a laugh as he put the cooked meat onto the paper plate.

“No, Jesus doesn’t give things in order to be thanked but it’s still important we remember to be grateful. We are a lot better off than most people and it’s important to keep that in mind,” their mother replied. Jennifer, the daughter, did not look at all satisfied with this answer but she said nothing.

“Soups on!” Jake called, setting the plate down on the table and dishing up the meat. Everyone had already prepared their burger buns and were ready to finish it off with the main ingredient. As soon as everyone’s food was ready, Jake took his seat and held out his hands, his wife did the same. Reluctantly, the children followed suit and bowed their heads. Their father gave a prayer, which in the boys’ minds was much more like a long sermon, and then squeezed the hands he was holding and they prepared to eat.

When they had finished, Billy and Mikey wanted to race back to the water but their mother insisted that they needed at least 30 minutes to rest and settle their stomachs. Both of the boys groaned and moped and then decided to take the opportunity to explore the woods.

“Now don’t go wandering too far and get lost! You don’t want to make a meal for some kind of wild bear!” Their mother called.

Billy and Mikey laughed it off, thinking that first off they wouldn’t run into a bear but at any rate, they could take a bear together. The two of them talked and made up stories about how they were as strong and wise as Optimus Prime or a crazy fighter like “Stone Cold” or “The Rock”. Then their conversations turned to simpler and more manageable fights and arguments like the best Pokémon or how to win a Yu-Gi-Oh card game.

Then all at once, they heard a noise. It sounded like a little girl crying. The boys exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Should we check it out?” Mikey asked. Billy shrugged. He didn’t want to admit that he’d rather turn back - especially not if his brother was brave enough to investigate.

The two moved closer to the h sound and the cries became more distinct. “It sounds like Jen. Do you think she came in here after us and got lost?” Billy suggested, suddenly feeling much braver. Mikey chuckled and playfully punched his brother's shoulder.

“Hey, Jen! It’s us! We found you, you’re alright. Come on out now!” Mikey called. The crying stopped abruptly. The two of them continued down the path toward the sound of their crying sister.

“Come on, Jen. The gig is up, we found you,” Billy called again.

“I can’t, I’m stuck. Come help me!” their sister cried out. Both boys looked at each other with a smirk. Of course, they would help their sister, but this would serve for lots of teasing for the rest of the summer vacation. That was something they would really enjoy.

“Hold on, Jen,” Mikey called out, barely able to contain his laughter, “we are on our way!”

The two of them carried on, calling out if they lost the trail towards her. Jen would always answer with a cry and beckoned them forward. It was almost sunset when the boys finally came upon a large cave. The mouth of it opened up into a foreboding black pit that offered eerie and ominous adventures.

“I’m in here!” Jen cried out.

The boys wasted no time and ran into the cave despite not being able to see a foot in front of their faces. Almost at once, they were completely engulfed in darkness as if something had shut off the entrance behind them. Before either of them could even register enough to feel worried or fearful they found themselves facing a pack of the most horrifying and strange creatures they had ever seen. One of the creatures was still crying in Jen’s voice while another was still begging them for help, again in their sister’s voice. Both of the boys were stunned with fear and paralyzed in their thoughts.

“What… what are you?” Billy managed to whisper. None of the creatures ventured a reply. Instead, they opened their mouths wider than any human mouth should be able to, though it was already apparent these creatures were less than human. There were rows of teeth in their mouths that seemed to almost be swirling around. Without another moment of hesitation, the creatures lunged at the boys.

It was after nightfall when Billy and Mikey made it back to their campsite. Susan and Jake were none too pleased that the boys had stayed out past dark. Their mother gave them an awful lecture. In fact, she had been so worried and angry at her sons that she didn’t notice that both of them were much quieter than they normally would be. Neither of them was talking back or objecting to her discipline.

After a moment Jake stopped his wife and gave the boys a small bowl of cereal for dinner. Both of the boys at manically as if this was an unusual practice for them. They stared straight ahead and never uttered a sound. It wasn’t until all five of them were snuggled into the tent together that anyone was aware that these boys were not Billy and Mikey at all. Of course, by then, it was much too late.


"Danny Finn!"

We stood to attention as Roll Call was initiated. Several groups of single files, sorted by chronological order.

"Daniel Christopher Finn!"

The booming voice echoed throughout the hall. My heart felt a little heavy. “Poor Danny,” I muttered. "Citizen Daniel Christopher Finn," recited the voice causing a rush of emotion surging through me. “Stay calm. You’re going to hyperventilate. Steady your ship, man. You’ve gotten through this before.” I was lost in a flurry of nostalgic daydreams. This war had numbed my senses and caused my mind to conjure up all forms of escapism to relieve the stress. Most global conflicts send their young to do the fighting. This war, this unjust circumstance called on all ages to do their duty. Not all answered the bugle. Some perished without the opportunity to mount even a defiant shout or shake of the fist and some retracted into the shadow of fear and denial. In eighteen months of combat, our losses were high, with no end in sight. The enemy had stealthily penetrated our defences, planting foreign agents inside our once safe perimeters. Their toxic strategy produced the dissemination of false information amongst our rank and file, resulting in the erosion of our strength in numbers and eventually, our will to fight. Initially, our commanders in charge, reacted swiftly to counter the invasion but the enemies’ increasing influence bolstered its expanding impact on our inexperienced campaign and minute cracks started to appear in our defensive walls. The collated data revealed the enemy to be cunning. Analytics revealed that they blithely practiced the art of confusing us by quickly adapting to our counter measures, always changing, bending with the wind, never allowing us enough time to analyse them thoroughly. We did not realise early enough that time was a precious commodity and our response needed to be immediate, urgent. At the beginning of the year, our comrades held out heroically. Supplied with the best of provisions, intel, and protection, assurances from high crowed this war would end soon. However, at the first reports of positions being overrun and stretched to their limits, a certain level of panic spread amongst the lower ranks. Our field hospitals ran short of medical supplies, staff, and beds, as the corridors of medicine bulged with casualties. Anarchy set in resulting in mass looting of surplus goods because of the growing distrust of the contradictory intel our leaders provided. However, the faithful maintained an unwavering steadfastness to remain strong. We were all in this together and united, we would be victorious. By the month of March, disbelief started to set in with the realisation that thousands of us had died in the early battles and casualty figures were not immediately accurate. Brothers and sisters-in-arms vanished as munition supplies dwindled. No place was safe anymore. Even my own regiment's numbers dwindled.

          “DAVID KEMP,” recited the roll call voice.

Thankfully - as hope began to ebb - reinforcements arrived to bolster our fortifications. Specialised, detailed instructions were issued explaining that we needed to be vigilant – that the enemy could now be the person next to us – possibly a family member. “How did we get to this point?” “Were we expected to not trust those we knew?..”

“..DAVID DANIEL KEMP!”

This was exactly what the enemy wanted – to divide us, so that they could roam unimpeded within our ranks and finally conquer us. Their covert operatives breached the sanctity of our homes, isolating loved ones from each other, parents from children. We were being held hostage through fear. Friends and neighbours pitted against each other as opinions - fuelled by suspicion, anger, and betrayal – confused rational thought. This was no longer a war against an elusive enemy. This had evolved into a war of attrition, a war of propaganda and mind games.

The roll call voice bellowed louder, “CITIZEN DAVID DANIEL KEMP!”

As the year grew older, political interference converted communications into mixed metaphors of narcissistic flag waving. Alarmingly, any news from the front became twisted, deciphered into many interpretations; then, collapse! The flood gates opened and in swarmed the invading scores of the enemy, seeping into our streets, entering our remaining safe havens, and finally, disintegrating our stubborn but short-lived endurance. “Resistance is negligible,” our leaders now stated. “We have to accept their presence and we need to submit to their will.” The people's voices shouted out, “Have we been defeated?” “Are we now subjects of occupation?..” No-one answered our subjugated queries. Those conceited egocentrics at the top disagreed with the bureau of disinformation, who in turn, refused to listen to the frontline warriors - the boots on the ground. Apathy prevailed, then the populace began to divide into two groups: Those that wanted to fight on versus those that were tired of their liberties being taken away and wanted to desert to unknown and unproven futures (may I add, not before holding mass rallies to decry the war and our false patriotism).

“GILLIAN AKHURST!” “I know her,” vaguely recollecting.

Arguably, that’s what freedom allows us all. We can voice our anger, we can disagree with our government’s policies, and we can help change the world. However, this requires sensibility of the broadcasting channels to get the details right. Announcing the earth is flat only implants confusion and conjecture. Tell the people that there is no reason to panic in an obvious catastrophic moment and the streets fill with deserters spouting ambiguous protestations about their eroding freedom.

“GILLIAN ANN AKHURST!”

Late into October, senior staff gleefully informed us that reinforcements had helped to push back the enemy. Reports from the front confirmed the retreat. We could rejoice in our saviour, our great leader – whose singular action had changed the tide of war (so, his tightly knit Politburo declared). The enemy was retreating and no longer were we to cower and to fear. Street parties erupted and we danced in the street, drank coffee at sidewalk cafes, attended sporting events en masse. A cessation of anger permeated our psyche and life was getting back to normal.

“CITIZEN GILLIAN ANN AKHURST!”

The roll call voice echoed loudly, reverberating inside my head. I winced at the painful memories, now taking my breath away. “Enough! Enough! Enough! She can’t answer you.” Down the line, several of our comrades standing to attention, began to peel away, ghosting towards a screened area at the back of the hall. “How long must we wait? I need to get back to the frontline right away.” My commitment to duty has always been exceptional. I was one of the first to volunteer in the fight and wore that badge proudly. I did not like the uneasy truce. We had slowly dropped our guard, leaving us vulnerable to a surprise attack. Little did we know that once again, our services would be required to defiantly refuse to bow to oppression. Just as the all-clear , air raid sirens sounded, we found ourselves at battle stations yet again. The enemy had regrouped and thrust themselves at us in a new disguise, lightly equipped this time so that they could move lethally faster, permeating the gaps of ignorance and undefended areas of our world. Safe areas became hot zones of conflict, hot zones swiftly became overrun pastures of human wasteland. To our chagrin, our glorified leaders abandoned us to our own fate and opened the gates to our country, severely endangering all remaining bastions of resistance. Forced to network our personal stories and experiences, we opined our interpretation of facts and hearsay in the attempt to organise our battalions. Hastily formed instructions were issued on the necessity of building new defences. The moronic commentary from our diminutive government officials pressed the message of boosting our strength with countermeasures that would require repetitive and unending re-supply – a guerilla war spurred on by the endless circle of counteractant rhetoric.

“DANNY FINN!” “They’re repeating that name,” I mused. “Perhaps, it’s a recording and they've all swiftly left the building, running for their lives..” “..Or, is it just me repeating myself?” “Focus! Focus! There is no room for doubt. It destroys hope. Without hope there is just despair... What am I babbling on about?" Confusion swirled around and around inside my head as I grasped at reality. The war also, was trapped in a loop. A cosmic, changing apparition of a night-time navigational, dead-in-the-water ghost ship with no celestial star to guide it through the dark times.

“Number 141!” “That sounded impatient. Come on, show yourself. Don’t keep us all waiting.” With the end of December approaching, casualty statistics are climbing fast, affecting morale. There are less of us that still believe the fight must continue. An increasing number of our forces affected by this unending conflict have succumbed to the implantation of deceptive idealism and laid their weapons across the fields of the slain, creating a new regime of occupied thought. Encouraged by lack of will, and without truly realising it, they have allied themselves with the enemy, impotent to individual expression, sterile, gutless, and anesthetized by statistics and excessive media coverage. The mandate of tackling this war continues to ebb and flow. For how long, is beyond our perception. We are no longer the masters of our fate, we are now students reborn into a life-changing study, so we must pay attention. "NOW IS THE TIME FOR OUR EARS TO PRICK UP AND LISTEN TO THE VOICES OF REASON!..." My spontaneous outcry drew the attention of those close by. “Number 141!!...” My head jerked up as my ears honed in on the voice. “Wait, that’s my name.. no, my.. That’s me!..” Reading the ticket clutched tightly in my hand, I shouted out my acknowledgement. “..141, I’m 141!”

An acute awareness of my surroundings flooded my vision as a young woman behind a raised counter beckoned me forward - interrupting my distant, inner thoughts. I clicked my heels together in a military demonstration of response and obedience, took one marching step towards her, then corrected my strut to a normal walking pace. “Act like a civilian,” I muttered to myself. The uniformed female smiled and handed me a card. “You’re here for your booster jab?” “Correct, Mam,” I replied, curiously wondering why I was being so formal as I snapped to attention once again. “Wake up, son,” I prompted. “..And previously, you’ve had your double jabs?” “..er, yep.” Instantly, I was now a practitioner in the art of concise, informal conversation. She gestured to her right side, just behind her shoulder. “Please follow the blue line behind me and someone will meet you at the other end.” “Thank you,” I politely expressed as I saluted. A warm and gentle smile complimented her kind looking face. “Happy New Year!” I momentarily dawdled. “Yes, it is, isn’t it… Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot- and all that,” I recited. The realisation of my own words brought back a sense of reality to me, briefly flashing the faces of those I lost in this difficult year back into memory. “Hup, two, three, four,” I mockingly regressed. “..No time for melancholy.” Following the blue line towards my re-supply officer, I remembered the fallen, my friends and those they left behind. My mum was gone too. Not from this war but from the isolation it forced upon her. I had been far away fighting the good fight - without question - as she died alone, suffering from her own inner pain of separation from the world. The coroner stated other reasons relating to bladder infection, pulmonary pneumonia, and sepsis but I knew the true cause. It was loneliness. A brief sadness slowed my pace. A grieving that will only increase in volume as this conflict continues to strike us down. This is a different kind of war against an unseen and belatedly detected foe. Whatever weapons provided to us in this fight, we must passionately grasp with unfettered interference from the uninformed. It is imperative that we also remain true to our resolve. “Resistance is negligible," spewed the declining government's spineless doctrine. "I say it won't be, if we are all of one voice, and maintain a resolute and well-planned determination to win.”

May this war be over soon... so the living can live.

"Dispatches out!..."


If you are a woman who has attained the ripe age of marriage but still stuck in your father’s house, and living in a society where only married women are considered responsible, you will understand perfectly my exposition.

You will be so uncomfortable from the seeming isolation the society has left you in. Even your very own family will join the conspiracy. Your parents will call very often to remind you how old and close to their graves they are. They will compare you to your age mates who are already settled down. When the routine calls become incessant, you will enter into depression for a week or two. Then your gold digger boyfriend, a husband or lover of an old friend or a distant relative will gradually take you out of depression with a few inferior women stuffs as gifts, and a forbidden passion. You will decide to take a little break and think things over.

On your way to the grocery store one day, you will run into an old classmate who you had thought was not in your class. She is pregnant and is flaunting her pure gold wedding ring. You will exchange pleasantries and most importantly, phone numbers but jealousy and envy will occupy your thoughts for a couple of days, and will not let you ring her. You will try to brush it aside with the consolation that maybe she was pretending all is well. You will meet a lot more others like her. You will be tempted to empty their cards into the trashcan because they constantly remind you of your singleness, but on a second thought, you will reason that they may be necessary pointers to your quest. Your parents will send a summoning letter since you have refused to pick up their calls for some time now. You will attend the meeting comprising of your aged parents and relatives, both paternal and maternal, in your family house. They will bombard you with questions only heaven or hell have answers to. The meeting will end in chaos – accusations and counter accusations.

You will take another decision to be more religious, assuring yourself this may help a great deal. The counselors will counsel that you should look around your old friends, for your future “would be.” But you are already in the future; considering your age, you will say within their heart not wanting to doubt your counselors. You quickly remember that the only place you can look up old friends is Facebook. Sitting up late into the night until your back ache, you ransack the app for ex crushes and their likes. But all you see are photos of happy family men. You will put a little more effort, and you will come across one or two singles and you will message them with detailed intro of yourself. They will reply as though in conspiracy, asking you about your family – husband and kids. You will block them because they failed to understand your language. Three months later, you will run to your family house to have a private chat with your mother, and she comments on your gloomy countenance which worries her a lot. You will tell her you have finally seen someone to marry and she grins widely, out of excitement. You will give a little more details, that the man is a two-time divorcee and a father of three teenagers. Your mother will furrow her brows. You will add that he is very mean and bossy, constantly reminding you of his sole purpose in your life - to give you a place in the society and nothing more. Your mother will frown some more and then settles suddenly with a wry smile which will make you even more confounded.

On the eve of the wedding your mother will remind you about making your wedding hair and you will tell her you have a great hairdresser to take care of that but she will simply and slowly shake her head in disapproval and will say she has a better option. She will grip you by the wrist and virtually drag you to her bedroom which is beautifully arrayed with purple drapes and lilac backdrops. You will sit on the soft bed adorned with the classiest sheets you have ever seen. She will go into her closet and emerge with a small box. You recognize it as her treasure box; where she keeps all her valuables. She will remove an old complimentary card and press it on your palm. The card has an awkward name and an outdated phone number. You will confirm the oddness of the number again by counting the digits with nods. Your mother will tell you straight to call the number but you will want to air out your observation concerning the old number but she will cut you short with a gesture of quietness. You nod in fear like a robot whose maker is about to destroy to prove an inconsequential point. She will warn you against talking to anyone about it and remind you that most times friends are enemies in disguise.

You will go into your bedroom and lock the door behind you. You call the number with a mind divided into four emotions – fear, doubt , anxiety and curiosity. To your amazement, the phone will ring and a deep echoing baritone voice will sound from the other end which will make you shake. The man will say hello twice before you remember you have to respond. He will tell you where he will pick you up at about 2pm. That is the honor he gives his clients. At exactly 2pm, he emerges in an old model rickety peugeot car . He walks straight to you and introduces himself and you will be taken aback before realizing slowly that he is the one you have been expecting. He will say, shall we? Rolling his deep green eyes like an owl. You will jerk up from the chair with intense fear and follow hypnotically. Scared to look at his green pupils, insanely protruding cheek bones and a puppetry mouth; an alien of a sort, you will sit there like a vegetable. He will drive for about one and a half hour to an isolated house that looks more like a haunted one. He will open the old padlock with a rusted key that he fumbles out of a bunch of same fate. You will both enter a room that looks like a hair salon, with an old dressing table, a set of chairs and mirror frames without mirrors. He will beckon you to sit while he opens a dusty drawer to remove a large catalogue held together by tiny iron strings and twines. He will tell you to make a choice of your hairstyle and you will take a deep breath and exhale loudly, too afraid to ask the so many questions bothering your mind at the moment. Before he will start, he takes you on a tour as his tradition demands and draws your attention to a tattered wallpaper fastened on the far side of the wall to your left. As you move closer you will see pictures of your mother, grandmother who you only knew by pictures, all your aunties and many others you do not quite know. Yet again fear will not let you say a word. You will gulp down a lump that has been in your throat since arrival. He will tell you proudly but in a few minutes about the caliber of his clientele, and will add that you are next in line and will express his gladness by his squeaky laughter. On a serious note, he will tell you to study carefully the posture of others to avoid mistakes when it is your turn. Every one of them is holding a part of their hair up, revealing a portion of a chopped chunk and smiling remorsefully but looking radiant at the same time. The chair will creak as you sit. As more like mystery than reality, the hair will be done after he runs his pale, cold and shaky hands through your hair for a couple of minutes. All through the quick 30 minutes of the fabulous hairdo, your mind will be on the posture thing, learning and rehersing it quietly within the confines of your mind. He will say he is done and will ask you to take the pose for the snapshot that will seal the very essence of your patronage and the perfection of his profession. He will remind you of the smile as you take the pose. An old rusted camera will do the job.

He will drive you back to where he picked you up. Your mum will call the moment you get home to ask how it went but you will be too exhausted and frightened to talk. She will say, she understands. After the wedding, on the next day, your husband will delightfully serve you breakfast on bed, afterwards plants kisses upon kisses on your forehead while you savour the delicious meal. You will be too shocked to respond and he will be too in love to even notice let alone pick offense. When he has gone to the gym you will run to your mother to relate what you saw at the salon and your husband’s change of attitude. But she will motion you to hold your peace and instead say, welcome to the club . You will wonder what she is talking about. And she will continue and say, keep the card safe for your daughters if you will have, just for your daughters. It is our family long tradition, she will add, smiling mischievously.


"This is the last Freak I'm giving you this week, and if you don't pay me two gold pieces, then you'll be losing your most trusted supplier."  "You know the Knights are picky about the Freaks people bring in nowadays. It's not easy for me to just hand over one like I used to before. Aliza, I'm telling you, you should think yourself lucky for getting seven silver pieces. The Hunter that you just walked away received one bronze piece."  "Listen, Xander, this Freak is different. This Freak can form objects out of light, and I've seen it do it. It's different from the lousy ones that could only breathe fire or control water."  "...Two gold pieces. Give it to me."  "Tut tut tut, only two? The price has gone up. Five gold pieces."  "...Fine. Five gold pieces. No more."  "Deal."  "...Don't... let me die... please... Don't hand me over to him... Not the Knights..."  "Shut your trap, Freak. You should be lucky that you'll be sacrificed for the greater good. Freaks like you only do harm to society and should die."  "Thanks for the gold, Xander. You should be lucky that you have such a good Hunter like me."  "Where are you going now, Aliza?"  "To The Forest, you idiot. You're not the only supplier that depends on me. Don't worry, I'll only hand over the low-quality ones to the others." ...  "There we go. Now, if you finally stop using your Curse, then we'll just neatly tie you up and hand you over to the Merchants."  "No! They'll kill me! They'll murder me! I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"  "Neither do I, you Freak! So if you don't want me to starve to death, you should stop squirming around!"  "No! No! No!"  "...Fuck. It's gone again. No worries. It's hurt anyway. It won't be able to go so far... I can hear you, you know! I'm going to follow you! I'm going to kill you if you don't cooperate!"  "No! No! N-"  "Ugh. I told you I didn't want to go this far. Now you've got blood on my boots. Do you know how rotten blood smells, you idiot? I don't want to waste my silver pieces on washing my shoes, Freak! You better be worth the silver that goes into cleaning my boots!" ...  "Hello, Aliza. What have you got here?"  "A Freak. What did you expect? I won't be asking much, only a few bronze pieces to get my boots clean. This fucking Freak's blood is disgusting."  "Any Freak's blood is disgusting, Aliza. I'll give you two bronze pieces."  "I'll take that. Thank you for your business." ...  "Gah, it's evening already. All the Merchants would've closed their shops, and the ones that are still open are shady... I should just take this Freak to my house this time. Treat it to its last nice dinner."  "..."  "Have a nice meal. Bon appetit. And, now when you'll be hungrily devouring your food, I'll be sleeping. Keep quiet, Freak."  "...Monster." ...  "Die, you fucking monster!"  "Wha- How did you free yourself!"  "My ability is to melt my body to get through objects, and it's not a curse! I'm proud to have been born with my power!"  "Shut up, you Freak- whether or not you think of it as a gift isn't important! It's what society thinks! And if society thinks it's a curse, then it's a curse! You should die!"  "You killed my friends! You killed my family! You killed my people! You're a murderer! Your name is known all over The Forest, Aliza Truman! Maybe the Ordinaries don't know it yet, but we do! Your father was a 'Freak,' if that's what you like to call us!"  "And I killed him! For society! For the greater good!"  "Would the Ordinaries accept people with the same blood as a Freak? You yourself have a Curse! Stop denying it! Eugh!"  "You talk a lot for a Freak, you know? Nobody likes tiresome, noisy, disgusting Freaks. I made the mistake of letting you eat food I paid for out of my own money."  "Money you made by slaughtering us. Money you made by violence. Money you made by taking lives. You didn't earn that money, Aliza Truman, daughter of a Fre-"  "...Cursed Freaks. All of you should burn in hell and die. Disgusting creatures." ...  "Come back, Freak! I'm not done with you!"  "I'm done with you, Truman! You're a Freak, too! You're Cursed! You're no different from the rest of us! For the greater good? What nonsense! Aliza Truman, you're a monster! You're nothing more than a murderer!"  "A murderer who lives for the light that brings the world hope every day. You made me use my bow. Think of it as an honor. No ordinary Freak dies by my arrow."  "...Ha. You used your Curse. You were one of us all along..."  "Bullshit. My fast arrows aren't quick because of my Curse. It's because of the skills I've built up over the years."  "...No. The wind. The wind helped you. The wind pushed the arrows faster, deeper... Aliza Truman. You can never run away from your fate. Accept your life as a Freak and make The Forest your home with your Curse..."  "If I had a Curse, then I'd be able to push you off the ground, simply with winds. I cannot. I am not Cursed. I am not a Freak. I am not a daughter of the filthy Freak that lived in The Forest. I am Aliza Truman, most trusted Hunter within the Ordinaries."  "...Try it. Try using your Curse. Try it..."  "No. This cannot be happening. Answer me, you Freak. You did that, didn't you? You loathsome being. Don't try to trick me."  "..."  "Answer me. Don't- I can't be-"  "..."  "You fucking Freak, respond to me! Don't ignore me! I can't be Cursed! I can't be a Freak! I can't have my father's blood! It's your evil doings! I can't- I can't..." ...  "...So I'm a Freak now, am I? I might've been a Freak from the start... A Freak ignoring my Curse... A Freak who denied itself."  'Would the Ordinaries accept people with the same blood as a Freak? You yourself have a Curse! Stop denying it!'  'You can never run away from your fate. Accept your life as a Freak and make The Forest your home with your Curse...'  "You win, Fate. It seems that I cannot live as Aliza Truman anymore. It seems that I must live my days as a Cursed Freak. But I'm not going to let you win so easily. I won't accept my fate. And if I can't live as Aliza Truman, nor a Freak... then my options seem limited.  ...Such a beautiful sunset. What a nice last moment on this earth. For the greater good. For society. For the Ordinaries."


Mrs. Harriet Beaufort was not sure when she started hearing them. The muffled voices that seemed to come from nowhere. The odd sounds that were unlike any bird or bell she had ever heard. The footsteps and banging that were sometimes right against her great room wall and sometimes so far away that she had to strain to hear them. But she knew it had been for quite some time, at least since her dear Edgar had passed.

When it had first begun to happen, she’d been sure it was the war returned to her doorstep. Those awful soldiers in their gray uniforms, setting fire to what they saw to keep the more-awful soldiers in their blue uniforms from getting their hands on it. Somehow, surely by the sacrifice of her dearly departed Edgar, her home had been the only one to survive the fires. But it hadn’t been without great cost, of course. And, when the noises had begun, the wife of the late Mr. Edgar Beaufort had been sure that her dear husband had taken her sanity to heaven with him.

It was squirrels, she reasoned at first. Squirrels who had escaped the fires had taken refuge in her attic. But the attic only went so far, and she could hear the sounds even when she paced the grounds looking for where squirrels could have gotten in. Then, perhaps, a family of birds. If it weren’t squirrels, then surely it was birds, hidden somewhere in the eaves. Woodpeckers drilling into the wood. Hundreds of them. But it was no bird she knew that made sounds like what kept her awake at night, and there were no holes to be found left by pecking beaks. She had half a mind to call for someone in town, but the idea of a man in her home without her beloved Edgar there was far too much for her delicate sensibilities.

Then there was the sound of people. Men with their women. Conversations in the walls. Those, at first, had terrified Mrs. Beaufort. The soldiers returned, hiding in her home. Or the soldiers she’d been warned about, come to take what her lovely Edgar had left. She’d thought of leaving the house, but travel wasn’t something she could do on her own. Oh, how she wished her dear Edgar had still been there at her side. Then they could leave together. Or maybe he’d have held her hand, told her she was simply being silly, and she could have slept easier at night without the thought of men in her home without her husband there. But when she began hearing the sounds of children, when there were certainly no children to be found, she thought she ought to make an exception. A priest, after all, was not the same as a handyman or a soldier. A priest was a man of God, and certainly whatever was in her home and making the noises that mimicked humans and rang unholy bells was something that the Lord was needed to take care of. And she thought very hard about calling for the priest, about heading into town, but every time she tried in her best skirts and bonnet she was overcome with fear. She had never been to town without her darling Edgar. And so, she resolved to share her home with the demon in her walls. It had been several months at that point, if not longer, when she began to see them. Figures in odd clothes passing through her walls. The first time it had happened, she’d fainted cold on the floor with a scream. When her eyes had opened she’d taken her favorite kitchen knife and scoured her house, trying to have even half of her dear husband’s bravery. But there was neither hide nor hair of demons, no footprints left behind from the strange hooded figures with their long skinny legs and their horrible pointed white toes like a horse’s hoof flat on the ground. She slowly became used to her madness, accepting it as her fate for not following her darling Edgar into death. The figures walking in and out of her walls like whispers, floating through the air and disappearing into her high ceilings were soon nothing more than the mosquitoes that came with the summer. Commonplace. Normal. And though they sometimes, on exceedingly rare occasion, seemed to look at her, she could never make out a face, human or otherwise. But she knew what she saw weren’t humans. Not when their hands sometimes ended in rectangles instead of fingers, when they had terrible dangling ears hardly the width of her embroidery floss that would connect into flaps on their bodies, when some of the words they said were little more than nonsensical sounds or screaming into their horrible hands.

But then one day, a voice said her beloved husband’s name.

And Mrs. Harriet Beaufort nearly passed out cold again.

“Edgar Beaufort?” The voice, a man’s voice, clearly called again.

“Who are you?” Mrs. Beaufort said back, a shake in her voice and her skirt balled in her trembling fingers. “Who are you, and what business have you with my husband?” “Edgar Beaufort, are you here with us?” She crossed her home immediately to the front door, throwing it wide. But there was no one on her porch.

“What business do you have with my husband, you monster? Don’t you know he died in the war?” The door shut a little harder than she meant it. Immediately the first voice was joined with a second. “Holy crap, dude, did you hear that?” “Holy shit. Oh my God.” “How dare you take the Lord’s name in vain, you demon!” Mrs. Beaufort’s voice raised. “Ask it again, man, ask it again.” “Edgar Beaufort, if you can hear us, please say your name.” “This is Mrs. Edgar Beaufort, and you have been trespassing in my home for-” “Edgar Beaufort, did you die here?”

Not only had the demon interrupted her, but it’d had the gall to ask so crassly about her darling’s death. “How dare you!” She gathered her skirt, stamping a foot.

“How old were you when you died?” Mrs. Harriet Beaufort, a proper Carolinian woman through and through, was absolutely beside herself. “I beg your pardon? The nerve of you, asking a lady-” “Why are you in this apartment building?” “I’m not a part of building anything!” She answered, flabbergasted. “Is that what you horrific things are doing? Building something here? A portal to hell? Not in this house, you’re not! Oh, no, oh no no no,” and she began to stamp off, to retrieve her favorite knife from the kitchen. “ “Yo, G, did you hear that?” “Yeah, man, play it back, play it back…” She whipped around, screaming, “I’m through playing any games with you, Mr. Huger, is that your name? Who do you answer to? The devil? You’ll be answering to Mrs. Edgar Beaufort, you mark my words!” As she turned, her elbow caught a vase on an endtable, but she paid no mind to the shouts that followed from her walls. No, she was getting that knife, and she’d be giving these whatever-they-were a piece of her mind. And as she held her knife in her hands, she waited. Waited for another rude question. But there wasn’t one. She waited and waited, shouting into the empty halls when the demons wouldn’t answer her as the hours dragged on. Oh how she wished her dear Edgar were still there. She wished she hadn’t lost sight of him in the fire. She wished she’d been more flammable, that the flames that licked at her skirt had taken her with her husband instead of left her behind to rot so.

She took her favorite knife to her walls, carving her beloved’s name so she could see it everywhere she turned. She would find whatever the demons were a part of building if she had to tear her home apart with her own delicate sensibilities. Every wall a figure walked through, she began to mark. Every spot they disappeared, she ripped the floorboards up to find them. Every sound she heard was written in ink directly onto walls once she’d run out of paper. She would find them. She would find those demons. And once she did, and she finally had the courage to leave home and fetch the priest, she would leave her house to them and join her darling Edgar. And, unknown to Mrs. Harriet Beaufort, a landlord was making an incredibly lucrative deal with an overnight ghost tour to make use of the empty rooms left behind when the supposed Mr. Beaufort began writing his name into whatever seemed to be the old burned down walls that once had stood where the complex did.


Donuts Do Not Die The crotchety old guy settled back down in his over-sized crusty stuffed arm chair pushing the ottoman slightly to the side for now. He jarred another cigarette out of its pack and picked it out with his teeth, flipped his Bic to light it and clicked to a 24-four-hour news station on the large box TV balanced on top of the flickering gas fake fireplace used to heat the enclosed porch. The cold chill still rattled the three walls of windows he peered through watching for them. He knew they were coming. The waning sun was sneaking below the horizon finally giving up any effort to warm the hazy atmosphere. Indian summer was long gone giving in to the soon to arrive winds of November. It was time. He could detect their torches bobbing along in the distance from every direction. They were searching. Knowing the flickering lights from the fireplace and TV would be casting eerie blue images across his sullen features, he figured he might as well give in to the ghosts, and the skeletons, and the zombies. Never any good news on these days anyway. Struggling up from his comfortable corner he lumbered to the switch by the front door and illuminated the interior then checked to see if the door was locked before settling back in for the inevitable. And he waited. He didn't have to wait long. ^**^ “This is it, Grandma! I think this is the one! We found it. Didn't we?” The miniature King Kong squealed. “Well, I think so. It looks very much like what I remember. But it has been a lot of years since...” “I am pretty sure, Mom brought us here a couple of years ago. The porch light is on. Let's go see. Okay?” “But there is an old man on the porch. Someone else might live here now... “Oh, oh. I know you. You're... Bruce. Aren't you?” “Sure am. And you are Tammy. Right? We went to high school together, if I remember correctly.” “Then we are at the right place. But maybe the wrong time. Is... your mother still...” “Yes, yes. She is still alive. I live here now taking care of her.” “She can't possibly still...” “If you are thinking what I think you are thinking then yes. She has some help now days but you'll find her inside. I am only the gate keeper. Go on in the foyer and straight ahead. The doors are closed to keep the cold out and the warmth in. But she is watching for more victims. She is waiting to see you and your big gorilla. She will be delighted.” “Knock on the door, Scooter. You know what to say.” “Don't say my name, Grandma. I am the mighty King Kong!” “Gotcha. You're on, King Kong.” “Trick or Treat!” “Come in, come in,” a frail, shaky octogenarian voice responded back. They open the second door to see a crippled-up hag in a witch's hat and green and white striped long-stockings beckoning them to enter into her lair. She reaches her gnarly long figures for a napkin to wrap up a humongous golden ring of glazed pastry before handing it to the youngster. “Here you are, you Little Monkey.” Her voice quavers. “Could my grandma have one, too, please?” He ventures as he clutches the treasure to his chest over the plastic jack-o-lantern dangling from his arm. “She used to come here when she was my age.” “Oh, no. I, I don't...” Tammy started. “Sure you do, Deary. Here you go.” “Why, thank you so much. I remember how good these are. I can't believe you are still making and passing out your delicious donuts after all these years.” Tammy oohed and ah-ed. “My girls and even my Grandson help me out now days. But I have only missed one year, the year that grandson got married on Trick-or-Treat night, in what, near 50 years? As long as the Good Lord allows, I'll try to keep up the tradition.” Tammy basked in the aroma of the delicacy and the welcoming smell of the whole house still emanating from the kitchen. “Well, God bless you and thanks again, so much.” She directed her grandson back through the double-door foyer to the front porch to make room for the next in line. “Thank you, Bruce. So wonderful to see 'The Donut Lady' is still producing her signature treat. I remember seeing that story in the newspaper years ago. If you don't mind me asking, how old is she by now?” “Well into her eighties. Will be ninety next February in fact. Almost have to tie her down to keep her out of her kitchen. She tends to fall a lot lately so can't be out there alone anymore. But she can't be stopped from supervising the production. Ours still never come out as perfect as hers but we try.” “Still looks wonderful and I can't wait to get home and enjoy this with a cup of coffee. Don't even have to share this saucer-sized wheel with anyone. I never expected to get one myself. Chewbaca, here, asked for one for me.” “King Kong, Grandma! Chewbaca would need guns and you wouldn't let me carry one!” “You make a ferocious King Kong, Little Guy. Don't be climbing any skyscrapers. Enjoy your prize.” He slightly tussled the long fur on the top of the creature's head then motioned them aside as four multi-colored Power Rangers converged on them weapons drawn. “Trick or Treat!” They demanded in unison. “Right through there but beware the witch!” He pointed them toward the inner door as a princess, a unicorn and two fairies exited with eyes as round as the treats they beheld. “Excuse us, excuse us, please.” Bruce held open the porch door to let them pass and as Tammy and her grandson started exiting as well he touched her arm, “Uh, Tammy. It was good to see you again. Perhaps I can buy you a regular sized donut and cup of coffee sometime soon over at Flinny's?” “That would be nice. How about Tuesday at half pass eight?” “Sounds delightful. See you then.” He smiled as he ushered in Donald Trump and Barack Obama. “Right this way, Gentlemen.”


The turkey didn’t have a shot when Elizabeth went to pick him up for Thanksgiving. He was already meant for the table of a pack of hungry children. Little did this poor turkey know that his life would be sacrificed in vain. As Elizabeth proudly marched into the home with a turkey that was bound for the table for her seven children she would have no idea if the outcome later. When she arrived home her children excitedly exclaimed “mom is that really for supper?” In which Elizabeth replied “ this lovely bird will be for supper and we will be having a grand pumpkin pie as well”. There were six girls and a miracle little boy in this family so the girls were old enough to help with cooking this great feast. Grandpa would be joining them later along with their father once their hunting adventure was done. The pies got started first by the children while Elizabeth got the bird freshly cleaned in the sink. Every effort would go into preparing this bird for Grandpa who only visited once a year. The children were always hungry as growing children are so this bird would go a long way. The idea excited Elizabeth to have meat long after the celebration was over. The 20 pound bird was what could be afforded .only when on special ,and it was quite a treat to imagine all the meals it would serve her hungry brood. The turkey had to be completely washed in salt as she had been throughly taught by her mother. Once the bird was salted the butter was melted and drizzled in healing amounts so as to cover the bird. A light seasoning was out on top to decorate what would soon be the crispy skin that would melt in one’s mouth. Elizabeth was proud of the giant bird in the pan, put the foil on top and put the lovely creature in the oven. The pies were sitting ready to be baked when the bird was 2/3 done so there was nothing left to do but wait. While waiting Elizabeth got creative in making some homemade biscuits and involved her tiny son to use the circle cookie cutters to help. He enjoyed making more of a mess with the flour than anything. When the biscuits were complete it was time to wait to put them in and the pies for a few more hours. The directions on the turkey for cooking time had been done so off for some family monopoly time. Playing monopoly is usually intent at the Stice house so the game goes on and on. No worries because the turkey had plenty of time. The kids were very bossy about which game piece they would play but Elizabeth always chose the golden pup. Her daughter Cassie was always insisting on being banker and no one caught on to her schemes as to why. Seems there was a cheat in the house. Nothing was normal in a monopoly game . If it wasn’t arguments over the new rules then it was about unfair swapping of properties. The time was flying by as the game was getting pretty fierce. What seemed like an eternity and the timer has not yet gone off so no one had checked on the bountiful bird. Then the nightmare happened for which for which no one would ever forget. Elizabeth would certainly not be soon to forget as the smoke started to curl in fluffy billows of black from the oven. All the smoke alarms went off in unison and if that were not bad enough that’s the precise moment when Grandpa made his  entrance. Followed of course by the children’s father. The piercing noise of the alarms were sure to send the neighbors running as they valued their lives when intense cooking took place. No one wants to see their neighbors home billowing with smoke. The look on Grandpa’s face was priceless And Elizabeth was mortified. She tried to make light as she turned off the oven and set about turning off all the alarms and opening the windows and doors. As she took the poor bird out of the oven it was not just overcooked but to her horror it was black as night. The bird literally burned up on the heavy butter. So, it looked like a shallow crispy critter and was not meant for any kind of human consumption. The bird clung to its lifeless body as if to protest life in vain. No longer would it go to feed hungry children. It was so shriveled that it was evident the heat had torched it from the inside out. She tried to pull the bird apart but realized it was indeed charred all the way through. Elizabeth was getting a rude stare from Grandpa who also usually clicked his tongue when he was mad. She tried to make light of the situation and said “ we can find something else to eat “. She tried to suggest the ever-baked tuna casserole but all the kids started grumbling and whining. The younger girls who were just 7 and 9 started to say “ we want turkey“ “ we want turkey“ in a kind of chant. It was as if they couldn’t grasp that the turkey had gone south and there was nothing to be done.  Grandpa grunted and then started to order pizza. Then he proceeded to loudly complained at the high cost and he shouldn’t have to afford this as a guest. It was all Elizabeth could do to not burst into tears. She was mortified at all the drama this has caused. Although the bird was burned and Grandpa would be mad forever life would go on.  Inside she was determined not let it ruin the Holiday. She was a positive person but knew when it was time to get some air. She directly marched to the kitchen with pride and grabs the bird and her camera. She remembered the changing colors of the leaves that had wisped their way up by the trellis of grape vines. It was the perfect setting for a photo shoot. The evidence of the day that a lovely bird met its maker. She put the crispy blackened turkey in the golden fall leaves to have a photo shoot while everyone else was whining and waiting for pizza. The art that was created that day in the photo session was done with love and creativity. When she was done she left the bird intact in its charred art form exactly where the last photo was taken. If anyone dared question her sanity at that point it would have not mattered one bit. The memory to her would not be sad day in which dinner was ruined with a bird burnt to a literal blackened crisp.  She has a positive mindset that it would all be okay. No one let’s Elizabeth live this Thanksgiving day down but she holds her head high and shows her photo to all with pride and laughter.


Lying in the cold darkness of an empty room, I didn’t want to get up, there was no point!  How many times can you get knocked to your knees before you just stayed down in the muck?  This wasn’t who I was, or at least it’s not who I used to be, but here I am knocked down again, all in the name of Love.  You see I have yearned for love, hunted it, tried to create it, and all to no avail.  The rational side of my brain says to forget it and become the type of guy that I cannot stand.  You know the one, the guy who uses women for one thing, treats them like trash, and just moves on, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.  “Get that out of your head Jake,” I growled to myself, rising out of bed to start my day. Sandra had been everything to me.  She was beautiful, spirited, and had brought excitement and joy to my life.  We had lived together for two years yesterday, when she moved out with all of my furniture.  I should have paid more attention to the signs that were right in front of me though.  The questioning looks I would get when I started working night shifts and the cold meals left in the fridge, if there was anything left at all. Then the “girls' nights” started with a group of her college friends on my only nights off.  I knew it was coming, but I chose not to see it; like a fool I was blinded by what I thought was love. Walking to the window I pushed the towel to the side to let the harsh brightness of the sun into the room.  I still can’t believe she took the blinds when she left!  Closing my eyes, I let the warmth and light envelope me, then the tingling started, like pin pricks across my skin.  I had never told anyone why I worked nights, but it all started after Sandra moved in.  We had gone to the river for a canoe trip where I got a horrible sunburn. After that, my skin always reacted the same way to direct sunlight; a slight tingle that intensified into excruciating pain. “Polymorphic sun poisoning,” the dermatologist called it.  “It’s hard to say what caused it.  I’m sure that severe sunburn didn’t help matters any, but it’s just something that you will have to monitor very closely from now on,” he said flippantly.  Not caring anymore, I stood in the light until my skin turned red and the pain doubled me over.  It took my mind off the betrayal.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that this happened. Before Sandra, it was Janeane, and before her it was Chelsea, my high school sweetheart.  They had all used me to help them financially and led me to believe they loved me, but they hadn’t.  I’m not even sure they understood what love was. “She even took the coffee pot,” I thought shaking my head.  “Why would you take the coffee pot, you don’t even like coffee?” I had asked when calling her phone. “Andre likes coffee and doesn’t have a pot and I am not about to go to Starborns all the time,” she replied. “You left me for Andre?” I had roared into the phone, unable to control my anger. Andre had been my best friend since eighth grade, my coworker, and my surrogate brother and the kind of guy who destroyed any kind of monogamous relationship he came in contact with.  Always looking like he stepped out of a magazine, he was tall, well built, and had beautiful olive skin, a stark contrast to my alabaster tone.  This was the last straw, I couldn’t do it anymore, so I didn’t. Leaving town had never crossed my mind before, this had always been home.  I grew up here, but this time I saw no other choice, I had to get away.  The house sold in a month and since it was my house and paid for, I at least had a windfall if needed. My work had accepted my notice without hesitation and didn’t even try to talk me out of quitting.  Sad that I had been there, doing a good job, for fourteen years, but that’s life, I guess.  All I owned fit in the small box trailer I had bought to haul the sound equipment that Sandra had taken as well.  “If you don’t find a place, at least you can camp in the trailer for a while,” I told myself, trying to find a bright side. Leaving town as the sun broke the horizon, I steered my Tacoma toward the highway, set the cruise at 80, and never looked back.  There was nothing left for me there and the road heading South was all that I wanted to see.  Seventeen hours later I rolled into New Orleans tired, starving, and needing gas.  Turning into the first Conoco station I came across found me being the only customer in the parking lot. Road weary, I stretched my back, walking a couple of laps around the truck and trailer before heading into the store.  The attendant was a slim faced woman with an inviting smile and beautiful caramel skin. “You ain’t gonna find no place to stay in this town,” she said from behind the counter.  “It’s Mardi Gras honey, and I’d be careful where I went in the city tonight, if I was you!” “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Can I get thirty-five dollars on pump four and this Coke?” I asked, sliding forty dollars across the counter. “Is there any place that I might find something to eat?” I inquired. Shaking her head, the attendant took the money, ringing up my bill.  “Only place you’ll find food tonight is at my house and since I never seen you before I will probably keep my gumbo to myself,” she said, smiling through her thick Louisiana accent. Opening my palm for the change she stopped, dropped the change on the counter, and started crying uncontrollably. “You poor thing,” she wailed. Confused, I looked to see if there was some kind of grotesque tumor erupting from my hand, but there was nothing, it just looked its normal pasty white. The woman grabbed my hand with a grip like iron, tracing the lines of my palm over and over, tears dripping from her cheeks onto my skin. “You poor man. How many times have you been hurt by those you loved?” she asked. Reeling from these words, I felt like a hole had been torn through me, revealing my soul to the elements.  “Three times,” I stammered as my knees started to buckle and the room began to spin. “Focus on me,” she commanded, “you can’t pass out on me. It’s important that you stay awake.” My eyes locked onto hers, vibrant and amber with little green flecks around the edges, tears pooling on her bottom lids wicking through thick black lashes before sliding down her cheeks. "Molina" etched in black letters on a gold name badge, pinned to her red shirt. "Wha…What’s happening here?” I stuttered, trying but unable to pull away. “You will never find what you need if you keep looking for it so hard, baby. It has to come natural-like.  The other person shouldn’t care about your money, your stuff, only you and what’s in your heart,” she sobbed.  “You got a light in you still and all the darkness surrounding your heart is from the pain caused by others.  You got to let that go!” Molina said, wiping her face with a tissue. How was it that a woman whom I’d never seen before knew so much about me?  Was I still asleep?  What was happening to me?  As these thoughts bounced to and fro in my head, Molina looked at me with those piercing amber eyes. “I have the sight, honey. Got it from my grand-mamma, who got it from hers, who got it from hers.  It goes back generations in my family, and it can be a curse, as well as a blessing,” she said releasing my hand.  “Your pain is written all over you and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone hurting so much.  You need help, baby,” she said quietly. “Is this real?” I asked, backing away from the counter. “As real as breathing,” she said softly. Lunging toward the door, I forgot about my gas as I drove out of the parking lot, convinced I could find another gas station.  I raced down the street, turning right for a few blocks, then back left, finding nothing but blocked streets and closed businesses. I let out a sigh of relief as I turned the corner and saw a station with all the lights on.  My breath caught as I walked in, seeing Molina, waiting with my change in her hand. “I said you need help,” she said, smiling. “How is this possible?” I said, turning back toward the door. “Don’t leave!” she said sternly.  “Jake Bertrand, you started running away long before you ever left home, you just didn’t know it.  My name is Molina,” she said, pronouncing it “Moe-Lynn-ae”. “You are losing it Jake,” I muttered. “You aren't crazy, just broken,” she said, shaking her head.  “There’s a reason you found your way back here and it’s not because you got lost.  I led you back here with my light,” she smiled. “I saw the lights when I turned the corner,” I stammered. “Everybody can see those lights, honey.  That’s not the light I’m talkin' about.  I prayed that God would send you back to me, so that I could help you and he did,” she said matter-of-factly. Slumping onto a stack of papers, I dropped my head into my hands.  I was dead, that was the only explanation that I could come up with.  I had to have fallen asleep driving, died, and was now stuck in this weird realm of confusion. As if reading my thoughts, Molina chuckled as she said, “You aren’t dead, and this is real.  Now go pump your gas and come back into the store.” My mind spinning, as my body, on autopilot, went and did as she had told me to.  I looked at my watch to see if it was still ticking, trying to wrap my head around the events taking place.  Time ticked along just as it always had, rendering me at an even farther loss for a rational explanation.  The pump clicked indicating the tank was full as the sound of a nearby private Mardi Gras celebration ensued.  The scent of warm, sweaty bodies engaged in dancing and drinking floated on the winds of the night accompanied by the raucous music of New Orleans’ largest celebration.  My mind settled as the music and laughter lifted my spirits. “You made the right choice coming here Jake,” I heard from behind me. The gas station looked dark and abandoned; I hadn’t even noticed the lights had been turned off.  The voice sounded familiar, but the woman speaking to me wasn’t Molina. “It’s me child,” she said with that unnerving ability to hear my thoughts. “How is this possible?” I asked, no longer afraid of her presence. “I knew you were going to come along at some point in my life.  I’ve waited years for you to set foot in front of me, at this moment right here,” she said, reaching for my hand. Without hesitation I reached for her hand surprised at the strength of her grip, she looked to be 90 years old, but the amber eyes still blazed brightly.  Looking around I realized the gas station didn’t just look abandoned, it was and had been for many years. “Molina are you an angel, or something else?” I asked hesitantly. “I am simply a messenger,” she said softly. “Why is this happening to me?” I asked. “Oh honey, it’s because you are broken, baby,” she drawled, “I know how to fix you, but you have to listen, because I am only allowed to tell you this once.” My vision blurring, I hadn’t realized that I had been crying this whole time. “I don’t want to be broken,” I sobbed, falling to my knees. “Please help me!” I begged. “Stand up, take me in your arms, and kiss me,” she said. I rose to my feet, bent down slightly to look into her eyes, and kissed her with a passion I didn’t know I possessed. That’s when I felt it; the pull from the depths of my soul.  I could feel all the pain and darkness leaving me as she pulled me into the kiss.  Her frail body was changing under the touch of my hand, her skin no longer felt taught over her bones, her hair spilled in endless curls down her back as she was growing younger.  Our bodies intertwined in this ethereal embrace, seeming to reverse time, in defiance of the natural order of all that I thought I knew. We broke apart, breathless, and wanting more. Before me stood the young woman I had seen earlier. “What just happened?  How did you go from young to old and back again?  I’m sorry for all the questions, it’s just that I don’t understand any of what’s happening tonight,” I said through ragged breaths. “You saved me, and I saved you,” she said breathlessly.  “I was cursed by a Voodoo queen a long time ago because she was jealous of the love I had for a man she wanted.  She took him away from me and cast a spell, locking me in this old body for all but a few hours a year during Mardi Gras,” she said quietly. “So, this is all some kind of dream, right?  There’s no such thing as magic, is there?” I said incredulously. “You tell me,” she said, pulling me in for another kiss. I couldn’t resist her touch and relished in the delicate kiss, savoring the taste of her lips, the softness of her tongue against mine. Pulling back to revel at the ebony beauty in my arms, I couldn’t help but wonder how long this moment would last. As if on cue, she tilted her head to the side with a sly smile saying, “The only way to break the spell was to feel the passion of a man broken by love, but who still wanted to find it.  Even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself,” she said as tears streamed down her face.  “I have been under this spell for over a century, hoping that someday, you would find me,” she sobbed. “I don’t understand any of this, but I can’t deny what I am feeling right now. How can I feel love for someone I just met, who tells me they’re over a century old?” I asked. “I feel it too and to explain it would take a lifetime. Are you willing to listen?” she asked demurely. Puling her close to me, I whispered, “Only if you are willing to spend that lifetime with me,” kissing her softly. “There’s no place I would rather be than in these arms for the rest of my days,” she said, hugging my neck and nuzzling my jaw. We talked through the night, standing in that abandoned lot until dawn. As the sun rose over Lake Pontchartrain, her onyx hair shimmering in the light, I felt no tingling, there was no longer pain, just the warmth of her touch, and the radiance of her smile. “I’ve waited a long time for you,” she said, squeezing my hand. Pulling her hand to my lips I said, “I am glad you found me. Let’s go home!”  We crawled into the truck and drove all day with the windows down, heading nowhere in particular, just happy to be together and in love.