A pool of blood, a dead body lying on the cold floor, and a man standing confused of what just he had seen. It was something he did not expect upon waking up, and to his mind, he knew he was supposed to be in a library. Yet there he was, looking at the scene that seemed familiar to him. He was just an ordinary man that works as a teacher that decided to visit a usual library near the university. But he was never the type of person that would do such henious crime. Rather than being violent, he was more of a gentle giant, a man that all his students look upon to. He poundered his thought once more, then all the picture became clear. The place which was an old apartment, a combat knife used as the weapon, and a small ring dropped as evidence, all of it was part of the novel he was reading before he lost his conciousness. But how did he got there, the question that bothered him. He could be asleep yet pain could be felt as he pinch his cheek. The footsteps of running people befall outside at the hallway, forcing the sealed door open. But he didn't not bother on waiting and went to leap into the window, for who was at the time being, was the infamous Jack the ripper. His sweat became intense as his heart pounded in fear, and the door broke open. To his luck, he manage to escape, and thus, clearing the vision of the horrific space. He was back at the library but everything was dark and empty. No people were left except for him, and the closed book he was reading had glowing red lights that dimly fades each second. Confusion struck him on how he got into that imaginary world, but discarded the thought to return the book to where it bellongs and finally go home. But as soon as he stopped by the shelves, nausea attacked, and within a snap, he was in a different world. A fresh breeze swayed from the bottom of the mountain and there, a dragon flew passed by, shoving an intense gust of wind that send him to him knees. He was now a knight that wields a sword and shield in his both hands. The plates surrounding him were heavy yet his physic made it possible for him to carry the weight. With a massive roar, the dragon came back and spewed flames that set the forest into flames. His shield became blazing hot to even be carried, and the sword he possesed was dropped in surprise. There was no way to defeat such thing for it had domain on both the land and air, breath that roast every thing it wanted, and scales stronger than iron. He knew the only way he could survive was to run. Yet no matter how he flee, his path was being blocked by an invissible barrier. The barrier of the scene, which only took place on the singe page of the book. He can't ran from it, and the only way he could escape was to find something that could flip the scene. He had to defeat the dragon. He returned to where the had dropped the blade, and faced the foe that traps him in the inescapable place. And as soon as they meet eye to eye, he threw the blade straight to the dragon eye, sending it back to the bottomless chasm. It ended, and now, he was back to the real world. Yet he was too afraid to go into any adventure anymore and rushed to find his way towads the exit. Yet his haste caused him to fall from the mezanine, and down to the floor he was dropping. But not single dent caused him any injures for a floor was not the thing that caught him, but cold water that sent chill all over his body. He was in another new world, filled with penguins and seals, and the clothe he wears were made of fur jacket. It wasn't one of the novels he had stuck in, for his escape lead him back outside, yet as he went across another shelve, his body cross another fate once more. The place was rather normal, if he'd exclude the measure of everything. The height of the building, the roads, and even the movement of every person were followed by lots of numbers. He even spotted a person named Jack who ate apples and kept asking how many he had left. Being a teacher, he knew what type of book where he had gotten into but even him didn't want to stay for too long for it was a book he wasn't quite fond of. It was math. But to escape, he had to solve gasilion of questions, passing every gate keeper that kept asking for how many apples they had left. Good thing it was basic elementary math, or he would have been trapped for eternity, solving problems he once slept off during class. His return only lasted for a second as the imaginary world took him back into another chaotic world. The sound of rapid lead, the cries of men for their comrades, and the explosion that till the ground with large craters. He was in the batteground of a world war. But of all he had faced, it was the one his heart couldn't take. He had histories with guns, and one had taken the life of someone important to him. He cower in fear, hiding beneath the piles of body of same uniform he had, as someone's shadow shades his ground, and from his back, a hand crept that pulled him out. In surprise, he shoved it and found the young librarian staring with a shock face. Then he notice the sun had already meet the surface, and the shop was once more open. Apparently, the owner was a witch in hidden, and the young teacher accidentally found her secret. The secret of the hidden world inside books in her library. She apologizes for what had happened, and even though he was terrified out of his system, he couldn't bare to put an anxious face. For the true reason he comes and go, was to take a glimpse of the owners lovely face.


Bristol, August 4, 1875 My dearest daughter Jemma,

It is of the utmost importance that you come home, and with great haste. Your mother misses you greatly, and your sisters find themselves at a loss without you to aid and direct them. I implore upon you the thought of Oliver, who anxiously waits for your arrival, as we accepted his proposal sometime last week. Engagements are already underway for your wedding attire, and you must remember the honor that was granted us for him to ask for your hand. Your mother will no longer have to hurt herself doing her housework, for Oliver’s family will grant us a maidservant to take her place. If not to return for him, return for your poor mother’s health and wellbeing.

           Furthermore, I am of the opinion, as is society, that a woman has no place in trousers, much less a militaristic setting. The dishonor you will bring if others were to find out that my daughter had enlisted! Why, I can practically see your mother fainting from astonishment if she knew what you have done now. Oliver would retract his proposal and our family would be ruined! All our attempts to better ourselves will be for naught if you continue to be so selfish. Of all improper things to do, this far exceeds what has happened in the past, and you will not be the only one affected by your imminent downfall.            Please, think of our family, and appear home at once. I can already see how beautiful you will look in the dress your mother has been working on, and though you wish to wear grey or red, this one is a lovely white, resembling the attire of Queen Victoria herself. We have saved for several months to afford this fabric, and since your mother’s skill is unmatched, we will make do. I wish only the best for you, your loving father, Leopold Hale Ms. Jemma Hale, Pirbright, London  Bristol, November 10, 1875 My dearest daughter Jemma,

           It is highly inappropriate that you have continued your stay away from our family without the express permission of myself, your father, or on the arm of your husband. Oliver still awaits you here, though I am unsure why, for if your mother had dismissed me so when I asked for her hand then you would not have come to be. What he sees in you, I do not know, nor do I think I will ever see.            What further irritates me is your apparent ‘promotion’ within our standing forces, as a woman has no place there, whether she be demanding and insistent towards the troops or not, she must not attempt to raise herself to the stature of a man. Your further persistence towards the male appearance will bring shame upon us! Forever you shall stay our daughter Jemma, and to think of you as anything but would be blasphemy in the eyes of the church and horror in the eyes of our peers. I do not know where this delusion that we would ever call you James comes from, but it is wrong, and I will not encourage it. I could no longer hold off telling your mother to where you had run off to, and she has fallen into a state of shock. Your mother, ill! It seems as though I was right to insist upon your expedient arrival home, although at this rate, it seems to be a debate as to whether you mother will remain a part of that home when you make it back. I shall think of it a pressing matter of conversation upon your return the discussion of what to do about your engagement, and if you take in any salary from the army, do send it back for your mother. It is your responsibility for putting her in this dastardly state, and therefore it lies upon you to bring her out of it. I await your next letter, your loving father, Leopold Hale Ms. Jemma Hale Bandar Tua, Perak Bristol, December 25, 1875 My beloved Jem,

           After hearing about your latest exploits in Malaysia, I have found a newfound respect for our soldiers. While I am still of the opinion that you have no place among our militarymen, I appreciate your effort to lead our men towards victory over the Malays.            The money that you have sent towards aiding your mother’s illness has helped us greatly, and she is recovering swiftly upon promise of your return home. Please do come back to us safely, I am afraid that news of an injury might shake your mother’s condition and turn south.            Your sisters have been spending much time with Oliver, and while I am still confused as to why he wishes to stay in waiting for you, I do appreciate his constant presence. He is a good reminder of you once being by our side. He has greatly helped our financials as we await you, and seems to enjoy very much our calling of you as Jem, rather than Jemma. Almost as if he knew all along how you felt! Alas, I am still quite uncomfortable with the thought of your presentation, however I am willing to try if it means you will come home to us faster.            While you write of an advancement into Sayong, I pray daily for your health in hopes that you will survive past the end of this war. Do keep us in your thoughts, your loving father, Leopold Hale Ms. Jem Hale Sayong, Perak Bristol, January 20, 1876 My dear James,

           I have waited for your response letter to my last one, and while I do believe it was read and received, I still wish for some kind words back.            I hope that your missions in the jungles have gone well, and while I am now of the opinion that you have done a wonderfully leading your men, I still wish for you to be careful. Oliver still awaits you here, and I am sure that we can arrange for a private reception and service for you and him, if you still with to wear trousers upon your return. He speaks of you often - as well as your large number of letters - so I believe it would be appropriate to assume that you still wish to be with him.            Your mother is now back to full health, and she eagerly tidies up your room, so that it will be pristine upon your return.            We have heard of you in this week’s newsletter, where much praise for yourself and your men was written. I assure you there will be much celebration upon the troop’s reinstatement to England, your men to Bristol, and you, to us. Do write back soon, your loving father, Leopold Hale Mr. James Hale Kota Lama Kanan, Perak Bristol, February 3, 1876 My dear Oliver,

           It is with great sorrow and pain that I write this letter to you. I wished for my next letter to be notice of James’ jolly return to England, but it is instead that I must inform you of the package that I received from the infantry some three weeks ago. I have not had the courage nor will to write, for every time I sit down at my desk I break down into tears.            As of the 4 th of January 1876, Colour Sergeant James Hale perished during the fight in Malay. The loss of my son weighs heavily upon my heart, as enclosed in the letter that I received was both the Elizabeth Cross, of which I am very proud, and the letter to which I had last written James, unopened. It is my greatest regret that he was not able to read his name written in my script, and that he will ever hear me speak of how proud I am of him as my son.            I do appreciate very much all that you have done for our family, and since you were to marry him, I implore upon you to keep the Elizabeth Cross that is enclosed in this package. Please keep his memory close you your heart. Your to-be father-in-law, Leopold Hale Mr. Oliver Williams Canterbury, East Kent


Jasper is always on these neverending world tours with Hoffman’s Circus now, but back when I knew him he was just a klutz. Always showing off in front of girls, performing magic tricks that always seemed to involve him briefly holding their hands, doing tricks on his skateboard, playing with hacky sack or poi. Even with only me as his audience on our cycle rides around the outskirts of town looking for stuff for him to photograph, he was always jumping about. It’s surprising any of his photos actually came out in focus, really. On a May bank holiday, he wanted to go to the abbey ruins. I’d just finished my college essay (2000 sweated out words on the Ottoman Empire) and it was looking like it was shaping up to be a pretty nice day. I told Mum and Dad I was headed out. I remember Mum making me some sandwiches to take, still cut into quarters, despite the fact I’d recently turned 18. Guess you never stop being a child to your parents. She stood at the door and watched while I put them in my bike’s wicker basket (another idea of hers, which I had to admit had been pretty useful. Even though Jasper bent double laughing at it every time I cycled up to his, it didn’t stop him stowing his camera in it while he was off goofing around). I got the awkward bit out of the way with him quickly that day. “Mum asked me to ask you to tell Linda we don’t need her till two o’clock on Monday ‘cause someone’s coming to look at the boiler.” “Harsh way to talk about your mother, dude.” I swatted him for that. “But yeah, will pass it on.” Then he ribbed me about my shorts. First time I’d been out that year in something other than trousers. You see, that’s how we knew each other, Jasper and I. His mum worked for mine. And a fair few of the other mothers of the other kids at my college. Jasper lived with Linda and her older (much too older, we agreed) boyfriend Rennie in a park home about five miles east of where I lived. He had a stepsister too, Meg her name was, and not gonna lie; I was a little obsessed with her when I met her. She was 21, had hair that fell to her waste like black silk and chain smoked. But friend’s family members and exes are off limits, that’s the rule. Anyway, Linda (also a bit of a hot ticket, not that I’d have admitted that to Jasper on pain of death) came to help out at the house and one time she’d brought Jasper as she couldn’t get a sitter. God knows what Rennie was doing. He probably had an urgent appointment at the bookies. So that’s how Jasper and I met. Despite him being three years younger, decades it feels when you’re that age, we really hit it off. He ended up coming over to play Prince of Persia whenever Rennie was bugging him, which was a lot, or to walk my lab Bevan with me. Business out the way, we began our journey, me slowly cycling with him near-jogging or us both walking with him being annoyed I kept bumping the front wheel into the backs of his legs whenever he turned around to tell me something. But with the sun beating down and girls with more leg on display than we’d seen in months, we were pretty dang chipper. We got up to the abbey from the west side while finishing a minor squabble on what the correct lyrics were in an R.E.M. song. Jasper took off the camera that had been bouncing on his chest and ran up the rest of the way to the first scatterings of stone. My nose started twitching in the first sign of a hay fever attack. Jasper commenced his usual monkeying around, doing cartwheels and handstands. Then something on the other side of the slope caught his attention. “Martin,” he hissed. “Get over here.” My eyes were beginning to tingle. I scrunched up the ends of my sleeves and balled them into my sockets. “What is it?” I asked, navigating the bike between broken bits of abbey, looking for a good corner I could prop it up in. He beckoned furiously. He looked like a vulture perched on a plinth, flapping a wing. Having found a good parking spot, I joined him. “Look,” he said. “Buncha freaks!” I was bracing myself for some couple making out or kids doing some tagging. Not the scene that lay before us – some satanic ritual. In broad daylight. Then a cameraman called out and the woman laid out on a slab, surrounded by five guys in black and white facepaint, sat up and adjusted her corset. “How much longer? I can hardly breathe and I’m sweating buckets in this thing.” The guys laughed, and one handed her a bottle of water. “Must be a music video,” said Jasper, transfixed. “Well, we hope,” I replied. “I’m going to get my camera.” He scrambled off to retrieve it while I rubbed my eyes and stifled a sneeze. Jasper hopped back up on his plinth, then jumped to a higher column. He took a moment longer assessing the distance to the next one along, before leaping on that. He swayed a little, before steadying himself by clutching the sides of the column in his crouch. “Careful up there,” I said, patting my pockets in search of a hankie, not wanting to tear my gaze from him. It was like, we’d had the theatre, and now we have the performance art. He stuck his tongue out at me, then did a handstand. “Whoops,” he said as the camera bounced off the top of the rock. Just as well I’d bought him a protective case for it last Christmas, although he joshed me for that at the time, saying he was sorry he didn’t get me knee pads in return to wear while cycling. Refreshed, it looked like the band members were in position again. From a van, a blast of heavy metal interrupted the usual tranquillity of the spot. Birds flew out the trees and squirrels raced up them. One of the leather-clad dudes was having his make up retouched. Jasper took a few snaps. “Hey, maybe they’ll want to buy these off me. Exclusive behind the scenes footage.” I nodded, but this nearly shook stuff out my nose, so I stopped. I stifled three sneezes in a row. “Or maybe the fans will want them,” Jasper continued, oblivious to my distress. He readied himself to jump to the next column over. I looked from the top of it down to its base and realised just how far up he was getting. He knows I hate it when he does this. All the fear he should be feeling transfers to me. All the envy I felt, that never transferred to him. He was flexing his knees ready to bounce, while the cameraman screamed out some direction over the top of the music and I let out a mammoth sneeze that just about blew my head off. Jasper had not factored these sonic disturbances into his spontaneous parkour. As such, he jumped a tad too much to the left – away from my sneeze, I noted with some pride, even in my horror. Down he went, landing heavily on the cracked earth with a sound like a sodden pile of laundry. Flomp. I dashed to his side. He was trying to rise up, looking like a body builder on his thousandth push up, groaning like Frankenstein’s monster. I got my hands under his pits, trying my best to ignore the warm damp I felt there. “Dude, what the fuck, are you okay?” He grunted. He was favouring his right foot as he stood. He gingerly put the left on the ground, and yelped. The band members recognised such sweet music and all turned their pale faces. One of them, musta been about 6’5”, started making strides towards us. It was like watching a skinny giant coming to pick you out for lunch. Especially as he was also swinging a battle axe. Fe fi fo fum. For a moment I considered throwing him a quarter of sandwich. “Hey what’s up with your buddy?” the giant rumbled. The rest of the gang had caught up with him and were making sympathetic noises, having seen the awkward angle Jasper’s left foot was poking out at. “He fell,” I said. “He was climbing up there,” I was careful not to add ‘ to get a better look at you’ , “and then he fell”. I watched stupidly as Jasper wrinkled his nose and fought back tears, leaning on the treacherous pillar. “Harsh,” observed a man with an upside down cross painted on his forehead that was in danger of dripping down into his eyebrows. “We’ve got a phone in the van,” the giant offered, pointing his axe at the vehicle. “I’ll ask Tiff to call an ambulance. OI, TIFF!” He shouted instructions at her and with not a small amount of huffing and awkwardness, she wriggled off the table. I put the image of her skirt riding up to the back of my mind to deal with later. * * * “Hi, I’m looking for Jasper…Jasper Timms. Came in here with a foot injury a little while ago.” I had declined the offer for a ride in the ambulance. I loved Jasper, but I loved my bike too. The woman on reception squinted at her screen. I watched her orange fingernails plod at her keyboard. Only two of her fingers under their neon hats seemed to have been trained how to type. “Down the corridor, third door on the left,” came the reply, after a small eternity. “Thanks.” I peered round the side of the third door. Jasper was slumped on a bed, looking glum, although he perked up when he clocked me. Probably saw my nose first. Dad always said I’d inherited his, the famous Marson nose that always entered rooms before their owners did. “So what’s the damage?” I asked him, taking a chair in the corner which certainly wasn’t chosen on the grounds of the comfort it afforded. “Two fractures.” “Ouch.” Jasper nodded. “Some bank holiday this is turning out to be, huh.” “Oh, I don’t know, man. We got to get out in nature, get some exercise…bear witness to a sacrifice.” We both snickered. “We hung out with rock stars and you got to ride in an ambulance. What was that, like your fourth time now?” “Fifth,” he replied with that lopsided grin that would go on to work very well for him with the ladies in years to come. “I’m going to get a coffee. You want anything?” “Wouldn’t mind a coke.” “Sure thing.” I stepped back out in the corridor, debating for a moment whether to go and ask at the desk, then realising I could probably find the machines myself quicker than that. I trudged along, focusing on my shoes squeaking on the green floor to dissuade myself from the temptation to peer into any doors open a crack. I figured it was bad enough patients having to wear those gowns that left your butt hanging out without a teenager gawping at them. A couple more corners and I found the drink machines. I got my coffee, then fumbled in my pockets for a coin for Jasper’s coke. Found one, shoved it in the machine and followed the instructions. I’m pretty sure you know how it works. Only, usually you get the can you want in exchange for feeding in money. Something got glued up in the mechanics of this box though. I slapped the side of it, muttering mean words about its mother. The cans and crisp packets seemed to gleam mockingly at me. You can look, but you can’t touch. “Screw it!” I looked to my left and right, making sure nobody was around. I was going to get this drink for my young friend one way or the other. I stood back so I could get a bit of a run up and drove my foot into the chilled prison of caffeinated delights. I slopped red hot coffee all over my hand and got a broken toe for my trouble. But at least I was in the right place to be treated. I limped back the way I’d come, the tang of disinfected hospital piercing even my traumatised nostrils. “Hey Jasper…you know how you’re always saying I should take a leaf outta your book? Well…”


I can see it now. The fire rated glass doors to the emergency room slide open. Swirling red lights flash in the black night sky. Rattly wheels of a gurney roll onto white linoleum tiles, white sheets are tinged red, pink and black, doused with blood and caked with ash. Melted skin mixed with coagulated blood drips from the patient and leaves a sticky trail down the hallway. Screams curdle my blood. I am not a psychic. I couldn’t predict what you’ll have for breakfast, or who will win the lottery or how many kids you and your husband might have. I’m just a night nurse. A “miracle worker” with a shitty track record of miracles performed. I wipe asses and administer medications and take blood pressures and draw blood. I am nobody special. In fact, I am the opposite. I am cursed. I am cursed by Déjà vu. Everyone knows present moments exist in a continuum with the past. But, sometimes the past completes the present moment instead of the other way around. I am convinced this is the way time and space is actually configured, it’s just no one else knows the past before it completes the present…no one except me, apparently. And only sometimes. Déjà vu never tells me anything that could help make the present better. My visions are vivid, yet vague; visceral, yet vacant. Basically, I get to experience the horrors of the past before they become the horrors of the present and then again when the past officially completes the present, a moment I can’t predict and don’t know is coming until it happens. I live a life of double horrors. I just don’t know why. Two weeks have passed, just enough time for my vision to begin to slither away into the recesses of my memory and fall asleep. It’s a game of cat and mouse Déjà vu makes my brain play.       I am charting the elevated blood pressure of the patient who came in with a broken tibia when the bay doors slide open. A gurney with rattly wheels, draped in blood-tinged sheets atop a body, burned from head to toe, crashes through the doorway. The patient’s wife, I’m assuming it’s his wife, rushes in behind. She slips on a flap of her husband’s sloughed off skin that has dropped to the floor and grabs hold of the nurses station countertop. She looks down at her shoe and screams. Then sobs. Then her sobs and screams mix to form bone-chilling scream-sobs. My blood curdles.    What can I say? Oh hey, lady, I knew this was going to happen to your husband two weeks ago, but I had no idea who you guys were, so there was nothing I could do? I learned long ago to keep my complicated relationship with Déjà vu under wraps. No one believes me. Most think I am mentally unwell when I try to talk about it. So, I let the visions simmer in my brain until they happen to boil over and splash onto the burning ground of the present. The good news is, relief is here. The relief that comes when the past finally completes the present and I get a break. I get to live like a normal person: oblivious. Oblivion is underrated. Sure, bad things still happen in oblivion, but their weight feels lighter, two-dimensional. Tonight I am going to watch Netflix and chill, while eating Ben and Jerry’s Netflix & Chill. It is the alignment in the stars my soul needs. Peanut butter ice cream will join his friends salted pretzel and fudge brownie and have a dance party on my non-boiling brain (as long as they promise no strobe lights). My night shift ends and I walk outside for the first time in twelve hours. The sunrise is creeping up over the horizon. Beams of light illuminate the city-scape. A chilled gust of wind whips my pony tail in front of my eyes. I feel like I am a needle in a haystack, peering through wisps of hay at the day shift staff passing by. I dig in my bag for my car keys, and it strikes. Lightning catches the bale of hay atop my head on fire. I can see it now. My hands cup a white porcelain tea cup that hovers just above its matching saucer, on a white linen table cloth. The tablecloth is dotted with crumbs. I set the cup down on the saucer to swipe a cluster of crumbs onto the floor, except they land inside my bag instead. I reach down into my bag. I think the shadow underneath the table of my legs makes them look like a pair of cheap unbroken chopsticks from a take-out joint. My mouth tastes like sour lemons. An ear-piercing screech. A crash. A thump. Glass breaking. A child’s voice, “Mommy!” I look up. Just outside the café, a little boy peers into the road at what looks like a woman’s head poking out beneath a black off-roading tire. The head is squashed. Strawberry blonde hair is matted in oily ooze, and bits of brain splatter the mudflap of a dark green Land Rover. I gasp. Oh shit. The child turns around and sees me through the window. Wait, I know that child. He is my five-year old nephew, Ryan, only he seems taller somehow. Must be the distortion from the café’s thick glass window.

“RYAN!” I jump up, knock over the table and make my way to the entrance of the café to the soundtrack of breaking porcelain and disgruntled murmurings. I exit the café and run toward Ryan. I look up. Another vehicle is speeding down the street, unaware of the crash ahead. I make it just a few steps from Ryan when the black Ford Focus veers to the left and rams over the curb, which hurdles it in the air. I look down at Ryan, who is now covered in a tidal wave of darkness from its shadow. I reach for him, then everything goes black. I open my eyes, no. No, no, no, no. Please, god, no. Not this, please. I am still standing outside the hospital, my hand is shaking inside my bag, and my knees begin to buckle. It’s not real. Visions never come the same day the present completes the past. I usually have a few weeks, at least! What the fuck! I run to my car as tears fly off my face in the wind. I text my sister with my adrenaline-fueled fingers.            Me: Hey, are you and Ryan okay?            Em: Hey, yeah we are fine, what’s up?            Me: Nothing, just checking - let’s get together soon.            Em: Come by later, we will be at the house.            Me: Will do. I don’t know what to do. I try to sleep, but every time I close my eyes I see Em’s brains on that mudflap and Ryan’s lanky arms reaching for his auntie while a sky-high shadow-monster envelopes his body. Perhaps this is just another one of Déjà vu’s sick games, like the cat and mouse one. Yeah, that’s it. Only, now I have to guess which vision is real and which one isn’t and this is the first unreal one. I’m not a psychic, I am not special. I am just cursed, remember. A cursed, non-miracle worker night nurse. Still…I need to talk to Em—on the off-chance, the extremely unlikely off-chance, that. Well, you know. “Hey, Em,” I say, then give her a massive hug when she opens her freshly painted red front door to greet me. She said she hopes it makes the white picket fence stand out more, and it does, but in a creepy way. Ryan comes running in from his play room. He is holding a plastic tyrannosaurus rex and a handful of multi-colored Legos, including one dismembered yellow head with no hair. It winks at me from his palm, which makes my stomach flip. “Kate, you look exhausted, what’s wrong?” Em says as she ushers me in and takes my bag and coat. “Oh I just worked last night, that’s all. It was a long one. Burn victim. Pretty gruesome.” “What does gruesome mean?” Ryan pipes up from behind. “Oh, shit, sorry,” I say, then look at Em. “Shit,” parrots Ryan. This is not going well so far. Em makes us a cup of tea and we sit in her living room. “So, um, this is going to sound crazy, but, I had a pretty vivid dream, and it scared me. I feel like I need to tell you about it. To…well, to warn you.” Em let out a slight chuckle, then looked at me. My look was not so light-hearted. “Oh, um, okay…you’re being creepy. But, okay. What was this dream about?” I had decided I would spare Em from the gory details, but still impress upon her the urgency of the situation. I told her I had a dream where she and Ryan were killed in a car accident, and I was nearby in a café, and tried to help but I couldn’t. “So, Em. Promise me you will never just, like…be outside of a café, ever. Just cross the street. I will also avoid all café’s, especially with white linen tablecloths. I mean, who do I think I am anyway, that’s way too fancy for my taste. So, it’s no big deal. Right?” “Kate, it was just a dream. Everything is going to be okay…I’m just worried about you, are you feeling okay? Like, mentally?” “I’m fine!” I snapped back. Of course, my agitation gave her more reason to doubt that I was. “I’m fine,” I said and forced myself to sound laid-back. “It’s all good, I’m sure you’re right, just,” I leaned forward and took her hands into mine, “promise me you won’t loiter in front of café’s?” Em smiled and squeezed my hands. “Don’t loiter? Okay, policewoman Kate, I promise to lead a loiterless-in-front-of-cafés existence.” “Good.” “Great.” Two years pass. No crash, no café’s with white linen tablecloths and white porcelain China. No disasters. I am convinced I beat Déjà vu  in her silly new game. In the meantime, I start dating this resident, Kirk. Kirk and Kate, cute, right? He is dreamier than dreamy. Curly brown hair, deep, hazel eyes, freckles, tan even when he hasn’t seen the sun in months due to his grueling residency. Between you and me, and the dementia patient who came in to the ER early this morning, to whom I overshared a little, I think Kirk might propose tonight. He is taking me out to dinner. He didn’t tell me where, just to wear a dress. I can’t wait. A girl can’t go wrong with a classic black dress. At least that’s what I heard, so that’s what I am wearing. It’s a little short, but only when I sit. Kirk ends up blindfolding me. He takes my hand and leads me out of the car to the front of the restaurant. It is none other than Bianca’s, the Italian restaurant I have wanted to try for years, but could never afford. We hold hands, walk inside and are seated. I am too fixated on a potential proposal to take in much of my surroundings. We have focaccia pomodoro for our antipasti. Kirk orders trofie al pesto, and I order linguine al frutti del mar. It is the best food I have ever eaten, hands down. Kirk insists we split a lemon semifreddo and a pot of tea for dessert. I don’t argue. I am still hopeful a proposal is coming my way. As we are waiting for our dessert a thought comes to my mind. It is like a drop in the ocean that ripples, then disappears. A tiny drop with a familiar sensation. I have been here before. I shake it off. We delight in our lemon semifreddo, feed each other spoonful’s and giggle when whipped cream gets on Kirk’s mustache. Only one bite left. We both agree we are too stuffed to eat it and instead, sit back and sip our cups of tea. Kirk looks nervous, then reaches into his pocket. This is it . I cup my white porcelain tea cup, hover it just above the saucer, afraid to move until I see what he is going to do. I hold my breath. He pulls his hand out of his pocket to reveal…his wallet. Oh, come on Kirk. Despondent, I take the last bite of lemon semifreddo. I set down my tea cup and notice a cluster of focaccia crumbs on the white tablecloth. I swipe them off in angst. Of course they fall straight into my bag on the ground. I reach into my bag and catch sight of my legs in my simple black dress. I think they look like a pair of cheap, unbroken chopsti…. shit.

An ear-piercing screech. A crash. A thump. Glass breaking. A child’s voice, “Mommy!” “No!” I look outside to see a green Land Rover and my nephew, Ryan calling out to my dead sister. On the other side of the road is a tiny café. I realize they were crossing the street to avoid it, as I made Em promise to do. “RYAN!” I knock over the table and make my way outside. Porcelain plates, bowls and cups crash everywhere around me as people yell out in disbelief. I don’t even look up, I run to Ryan. I can get to him, I can save him, it’s not too late.

The black Ford Focus veers to the left to avoid the Land Rover and rams over the curb which hurdles it in the air. I look at the tidal wave of dark shadow and… it’s a miracle . The shadow monster is no longer coming for Ryan. It is coming for me. I reach out to him, then everything goes black. Past completes present.


Our story is about a town, a small town, and the people who live in the town. From a distance, it presents itself like so many other small towns all over the world: safe, decent, innocent. Get closer, though, and you start seeing the shadows underneath. The name of our town is Greenville. It’s been a week since the discovery of and Jake Jones's body, but his death is not the first nor would it be the last that the town of Greenville would suffer. The town now had its first serial killer. Everyone’s afraid to say it, so let me be the first. There is a serial killer amongst us. San Francisco had the Zodiac. New Orleans had the Axeman. Texarkana, Texas, had the Phantom Killer. The list goes on and on. Add to their ranks Greenville's very own psychopath, the unknown name of this mysterious killer, who is still out. Like the Red Death showing up in an Edgar Allan Poe story, the Black Hood had come to Riverdale. With that grimmest of reapers looming over us, how did we cope? Putting all this behind us for one night is exactly what the town did, the homecoming dance was coming up, and everyone was busy asking their friends or spouse to the dance, while I am busy writing away in the town's diner about what they are trying to forget. Later that night, there was another death, the girl next door, Jenna Moore. The captain of the cheer squad, childhood best friend of mine. Everything ended when she became popular and I became the girl on the bench with a computer and a story to write. Every fairy tale comes with the same warning: Good children should never go into the woods alone. Stray from the path and who knows what you’ll encounter. A hungry wolf. A handsome devil. Or maybe something worse. The deaths of Jake Jones and Jenna Moore are all the town talks about, and still, the killer is still out there, but now the killer is leaving clues, notes on the front doors of each house in the small town. The town was rising with worry, for they could be next. After the first death, we had all hoped it was just suicide from a stressed and anxious teen, but after the autopsy, the truth was out, and now it has settled into the minds of everyone there, there is a serial killer, and they are thirsty for blood. The kids in the local high school found a way to cope with the deaths of their classmates, alcohol, and fizzle rocks. With another death of a Greenville High Schooler, the Homecoming dance was canceled, but Luke Smith, the captain of Varsity football, my neighbor, my crush since 3rd grade, had decided to host a party in his home while his dad was out of town on business work. Thinking I would spend another night drinking coffee at the diner and typing away, Luke had invited me to the party, and there was no way I was going to turn down a high school party. Monday after the party, everyone was still hungover, but that wasn't the worst thing, by 4th period, the sheriff would have his first arrest. Emma Fisher, Luke Smith's girlfriend since the fifth grade, was arrested for the accusations of the murder of Jake Jones and Jenna Moore. All evidence pointed back to her, her blood at the scenes, her fingerprints, and her DNA all over the crime scenes. One thing was off though, she was out with Luke. By Wednesday morning, she was released, which still meant, the killer was still out. Fear. It’s the most basic, the most human emotion. As kids, we’re afraid of everything. The dark. The boogeyman under the bed. And we pray for the morning. For those monsters to go away. Though they never do. Not really. Just ask Jake Jones and Jenna Moore. But it never ended with them, the Shadow Killer was still out and had made another round, leaving a note this time with the dead body, warning the town, "If the town cannot keep their children under control, then I will be the one to do it, for these kids have sinned, and I am the one to get rid of it." No one knew what it meant, for we didn't know what trouble Jake, Jenna, and Emma had gotten into. yes, that's right, Emma Fisher had been the victim this time. Weeks had gone by and not a single word from the Shadow Killer, the town was quiet, and people in it too. Maybe the sins the Shadow Killer was talking about had gone away, or even better, the Shadow Killer themself. But when things started to get quit, when we started to let our guard down, the Shadow killer struck again, this time it was none other than the boy across the street, Luke Smith. Guilt, innocence. Good, evil. Life, death. As the shadows around Greendale deepened, the lines that separated these polar opposites blurred and distorted. “I’m guilty,” the Janitor confessed to the sheriff. But of what? It was the ultimate cliffhanger: the janitor had confessed but was he really the face under the mask, or was he covering up for someone else. Was he being paid to do this, was he being threatened, or was he really the killer? You know how there are just some towns where bad things always seem to happen? Well, Greenville has become one of those towns. The most recent horror? The school janitor turned out to be a serial killer. But we were putting him away along with our Christmas decorations. In Greenville, everyone wears a mask, not just the Shadow Killer. But every so often, the mask slips and our true selves are laid bare for all the world to see. So we scramble to put it back on, like a kid in a cheap Halloween costume, but it’s too late. People have already seen what’s underneath. And it’s terrifying. But the biggest secret the town still doesn't know is the true killer. A secret buried with the janitor and the 4 dead sophomores. I was the true Shadow Killer, and no one will ever expect it. Who expects a quiet girl who writes to be the killer, but then again, no would've expected the janitor to confess for a murder he didn't commit.


“Well, fuck you in the eye with a skewer then,” Jane quietly muttered. Whether her comment was heard or not wasn’t totally apparent, but the conversation continued. “I’m just reminding you that it’s always been this way. Every being has a purpose and this is yours. We all have to come to terms with our lot in life, although you do seem to have more trouble than most accepting this.” The priestess looked at Jane for what seemed like a long time, and then when there was no response, she went on. “You can call it Fate, or Destiny, or whatever you wish, but it is the will of the Gods and it cannot be changed. The Gods can be harsh but they can also be kind. Remember that everything we have, we have only because they have provided it, so we can not, we MUST NOT go against their will. Some would tell you that your place in the grand scheme of things is actually quite an honour, you know, “ the priestess patiently, and not unkindly, replied. Jane had heard the news earlier that day, and come to the hut of the priestesses for… guidance? Advice? Maybe a glimmer of hope or even a hint at another way? “I understand how it all works, I really do. Yes, I’ve heard it my whole life, but I just can’t wrap my head around it. I am not trying to ruffle anyone’s feathers, I just don’t understand why you have this life and I have a different life, and other races have other lives and our purposes are all so defined but also so different… Who decided it all, and why? I just don’t believe that this could possibly be everything there is…” The priestess let out an exasperated sigh. “It is the will of the Gods, my dear, and that is ABSOLUTE. Of course it is not entirely unusual to have misgivings in your position, and especially the closer you get to your time, to feel at least some measure of fear. The sacrifice is a great thing, but it can be frightening. However, you must accept it anyway. Continue to meditate on the very important part that you will play, and remind yourself that it is for the good of the whole flock. If nothing else, try to find some comfort in knowing that not only is this all necessary to keep our entire universe in balance, but also it is widely accepted that through this act, you will have earned a very exalted place in paradise.” Jane kicked and scratched at the ground nervously, unable to truly articulate what she was feeling. She knew she shouldn’t be arguing, and that so many others before her had gone through the same thing with acceptance, sometimes even with dignity, but to her it just all felt so wrong. Maybe she was just afraid, but she just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that her whole existence came down to this one thing and one thing only.

She walked back across the dirty street to the hut that she shared with others who would share the same fate, some at dawn, (as she was), and some another day. She knew that her life had not been unpleasant. She had a warm place to sleep, plenty of food to eat, lots of friends around. She spent her days strolling about in the sunshine, talking with her friends, looking for something to do. Every now and then some new cock of the walk would come through and maybe provide an exciting distraction for a time. She could do what she liked for the most part, nothing was really prohibited and nothing was really expected of her. But if, from the moment of your birth, your fate was decided for you, do you really ever have free will? She had never lived anywhere else and she knew that each race had a purpose, all of which were decided by the Gods. She had known her purpose for as long as she could remember - this was not a new idea or a shock to hear about it. She had never known anything else. She was born and raised to eventually become sustenance for the Gods. Nothing else mattered. Still, her stubborn inner voice whispered, what if? What if there was a way to escape your fate? What if there was a way to just ESCAPE? She knew there just had to be more out there somewhere. Sometimes she snuck out at night and sat on the roof of the hut to watch the sun rise and she could see that the horizon went on way beyond their borders. It seemed to go on forever. She often wondered if there were other races, other whole worlds or even other Gods out there? She had asked a priestess this once and was told, not for the first (or the last) time, that it was very dangerous to daydream about such things. And even if there were other Gods and other worlds, they could be so very much worse. Out of the frying pan and into the fire as the saying went. It was better to just accept and enjoy what the Gods have given you for as long as you could. Maybe life being so short was part of what made it so precious. There was some wisdom on the priestess’s words, but still…? What if? That damned inner voice would not give up. She walked past her hut and just kept walking. Soon she was past her hut and long past the priestesses’ hut, and to the green space on the edge of the village. She walked through the grass, thinking for a moment of how cool the grass was on her feet, and how nice it might be to stop and sit and listen to the quiet of the evening, maybe poke her toes around in the grass and disturb a few insects and watch them scurry or slither for a while. Her thoughts roamed. The Gods came through her small village at dawn every day, sometimes there was one of them, sometimes more. They would stop first in the hut of the priestesses with their baskets to receive their offerings. Then they provided the day’s food to all. Other than that, there had been no real contact. Where did they go? Were there other villages with other purposes? She could not stop thinking about whether it was possible to escape her fate. If she accepted with grace and dignity, as hundreds (thousands?) before her had, then in the morning, she would be sacrificed. The gods would kill her and they would eat her flesh.

So she kept walking. Soon she was further away from the huts then she ever went. With every step her inner voice repeated what if. Soon she wasn’t really thinking at all, it was just step, step, step, step, what if what if what if what if. She kept walking. Soon she was feeling the creeping cold of the night. She shrugged it off and kept walking. At some point, it dawned on her that if she kept going, she had no idea how to find food or shelter or care for herself. She decided she didn’t care and she kept walking. She had no idea how much time passed. Suddenly, she fell back with a startled gasp as she realized she’d run into something. She backed up and squinted. Wire? She eyed it slowly. She looked to her right and then left. Some sort of wire mesh that seemed to extend for miles, and was higher than her eyes could focus in the dark. She saw that there was a gap in the bottom between the mesh and the dirt so she scrunched down as low as she could and wriggled under. There was a point when she thought it might be too tight but she forced her way through and with barely a scratch or two realized she was on the other side. She saw a thicket not far away and felt the exhaustion inside her screaming at her to stop, even just for a few minutes. She had never really experienced the darkness so it was easy to convince herself how much she needed to rest for a time. She got down low and maneuvered herself into a well hidden spot in the dense foliage and closed her eyes. *	*	*	*	*	* “Here she is!” Jane was startled awake by a shrill voice and a very large shadow looming over her. Before she had shaken the sleep away, a God reached into the bush and wrapped her within its massive hands. Jane could do nothing except let out one scared little squawk. She was walked past her village, where, from the dizzying height of the God’s hands, she could see her friends waiting for their daily rations and watching her go by with their eyes wide. The God who carried her passed her to another one, who seemed to be twice the size of the first. It took her by the feet and swinging her upside down, slammed her down onto a wooden block. It happened too fast for her to be anything but stunned. The God raised a stick with something on the end that glinted in the morning sunlight. She felt a sense of awe come over her. As the axe came down, her last thought was, “It is the will of the Gods.”


[ WARNING - This is a murder mystery. It contains sensitive content. ] Detective Michelle “Mickey” Mantle looked at the autopsy report–Accidental Carbon Monoxide Poisoning. An open and shut case; the batteries in the carbon monoxide detector were dead; except they shouldn’t be. The expiry date wasn’t for ten years; they were nearly new. The manufacturer confirmed that batteries with that expiry date had only been on sale for two months. Taking the batteries and a printout of the manufacturer's information, she went to do battle with the coroner. Jim “JJ” Johnson had been Vancouver’s chief coroner for twenty years. In that time, he had seen everything from drug overdoses to decapitation. His decisions on cause of death were final and rarely challenged. As soon as he saw Michelle, he knew what she was going to say. “Go away.” He growled. “Chris Peterson was murdered.” “Piss off. . . . I know carbon monoxide poisoning. God knows I have seen enough of them.” “Did you check the batteries?” she said, slamming the batteries on his desk. “They were dead.” “They shouldn’t be. . . . Check the expiry date. They are less than two months old.” Johnson glared at her. Christ, how did I miss that. He goes to his filing cabinet and pulls the folder with his notes on the Peterson case. It is remarkably thin. He quickly finds what he was looking for, a one paragraph statement on the carbon monoxide detector.

He reads aloud. ‘The batteries in the carbon monoxide detector were dead. Replacing them with fresh batteries shows the detector is functioning normally. A label on the detector says the batteries were replaced by his son in January.’ He takes the folder back to his desk and sits down hard. He sits there stroking his chin. “Well, what are you going to do?” she demands. “Could be a mistake on the label.” he muttered. “Change the cause of death to Indeterminate and get the batteries tested.” Johnson scowled. This slip of a girl telling him how to do his job didn’t sit well. That she is right made it worse. Trying to appease him she says, “I’ll buy lunch if I’m wrong.” Going into his computer, he changed the official designation. “Happy? . . . Now piss off.” Two days later, Johnson was at Mantle’s desk. “Get your coat.” She smiled. “The lab said the batteries were probably dead before being put on the detector. We’ll go look at the crime scene, then I’ll buy you lunch.” It was one of those Edwardian homes that pepper the Shaughnessy Heights area of Vancouver. Screened from the road by a row of laurels, Mickey placed it as original and not one of the faux Edwardians that were in fashion. The exterior had recently been restored, although the grounds were in need of some TLC. Walking to the house, Mickey looked at the two chimneys. Only one had a metal cap, the telltale sign the fireplace had been converted to gas. Johnson rang the doorbell. A middle-aged woman, well on her way to what would euphemistically be called matronly, answered the door. “Mr. Johnson, what brings you here? I thought you had all you needed.” “Just a few loose ends to wrap up Sandra. . . . May we come in.” JJ doesn’t introduce Mickey. He had worked with her before. He would introduce her when she was ready. As she put it, “People are more likely to speak freely when I act like a secretary following her boss around.” They go into the bedroom, a large room on the ground floor. Mrs. Peterson asks, “Would you like a cup of tea?” JJ hated tea, but wanted her to leave them alone. “Yes, that would be very nice.” The gas insert in the fireplace caught Mickey’s attention. It is an older, ventless model. “I didn’t think that type of gas fireplace was allowed in a bedroom.” “They're not. . . . This was originally Peterson’s den. He turned it into a bedroom after he tripped and fell down the stairs last spring, breaking his hip. . . . Prior to that, he had his own bedroom upstairs.” “Tripped?” “That’s what the incident report said.” “Anything else I should know that didn’t get into the file?” “His doctor had prescribed Xanax, he took one before going to sleep. . . . And the bed showed signs that someone else had been in bed with him. . . . I didn’t ask.” “Who says chivalry is dead? . . . I think we need to talk to Mrs. Peterson.” They go to the living room where Mrs. Peterson has laid out tea. Mickey took in the room; the furniture is period, but reproductions and not very good ones; the tea set had mismatched cups; Mrs. Peterson’s cup has a small chip in the base; the fireplace has a new, vented, gas insert. JJ takes the lead. “I am sorry to have to inform you that we are now considering your husband’s death as suspicious. This is Detective Michelle Mantle, she is heading the investigation.” Taking over, Mickey asks “How long has Mr. Peterson used the den as a bedroom?” “Since last spring.” “Does he usually have the gas fireplace lit?” “No, just since the cold weather started.” “In the last two months, who would have had access to your husband’s bedroom?” Mrs. Peterson looks puzzled and doesn’t answer right away. “Just my son and me.” “You have your own bedroom?” “Yes, upstairs.” “How long have you and your husband had separate bedrooms?” Mrs. Peterson is getting angry. “For just over three years. . . . How is that any of your business?” Mickey ignores the question. Pausing for a few seconds, “Someone else was in the bed the night your husband died.” Peterson explodes. “Did he have his trollop of a secretary come over when I was out? In my house.” She was screaming, “In my house. . . . If you want to find someone with a motive to kill him, you should talk to her.” Calmly, “Why would she want him dead?” “He was going to sell the apartment he bought for her and her bastard son.” “Her three year old son?” Mickey ventured. Peterson jumps up screaming, “Get out. Get out now.” Mickey turns to JJ, “A little late, but we should seal that room.” Then to Mrs. Peterson, “Thank you. I may have more questions later.” “Get out.” As they walk back to their car, Mickey observes, “That went rather well.” Sarcastically, “Yeah . . . You hit it out of the park.” Pausing, “You can be a real asshole at times. These people have feelings. She just lost her husband, and her son blames himself for the defective batteries.”

Mickey seems to ignore him. “Lunch?” “White Spot?” “Sounds good.” On the way to the White Spot, Mickey calls Constable Carson. “Hi Brian. Looks like we have a murder investigation. Clear it with Staff. I need you to do a financial check on the Chris Peterson file, wife, son, the works. Look at credit card receipts. I am looking for batteries purchased in the last two months. And check if there is any insurance. . . . Thanks” JJ looks at her. “You don’t really think they would use a credit card, do you?” “Do you carry much cash?” JJ shakes his head. “Me neither.” After lunch, Mickey drops JJ back at his office and goes to interview the secretary, Carolyn Brooks. Not what most people envision as the other woman, she is a short, mousy, thirty something brunette. She leads Mickey into Peterson’s office for some privacy. Mickey sits down, Carolyn starts pacing, starts talking. She was self-deprecating, “I am not what you expected, am I?” Actually, she was. The Hollywood stereotype of the busty young blonde were the exception, women like Carolyn were the usual. “Sandra called. Called me a murderer, a whore, said our son wouldn’t get any of Chis’ money.” She laughed. “What money. They are broke. Even the house is mortgaged to the hilt.” Mickey knows all she has to do is let her talk. “It started just over three years ago. The business was in trouble even then. He just needed someone to talk to. Sandra just kept telling him he had to work harder. He turned to me. . . . I know it is a cliché, but we didn’t really mean it to happen. . . . Then I got pregnant. He was a good father under the circumstances. . . . I don’t know where he got the money, but he pulled together the down payment for my apartment; I pay the mortgage. She thinks she will sell it, but it is joint ownership. It’s all mine now. . . . Did she mention the insurance?” “No, she didn’t.” “There is mortgage insurance on their house, and this apartment, a million dollar policy for our son and Chris Jr., and I think she has a ten million dollar policy.” “Do you think she could have killed him for the money?” Carolyn shrugged. “Possibly. He said he was having trouble making the premiums. He was going to cancel everything except the mortgage insurance at the end of the year.” “How about her son?” “Chris Junior, no–not unless his mother talked him into it.” Mickey closed her notebook. “I am sorry, but I have to ask, were you with Mr. Peterson on the day he died.” Carolyn blushed. “Had you been there before?” “No, that was the only time. . . . He called and said he needed to see me. . . . We just lay there holding each other for over an hour. His wife almost caught us.” The next morning, Constable Carson is waiting for Mickey to come in. “Got the information on the batteries you wanted. It is strange . . .” She cut him off. “Chris Peterson Senior bought them?” “Yes, but that is not the only strange part. There were two purchases. First he bought an AA battery holder, the type they use for building electronic projects, and some wire. Then, a week later, a six volt lamp and a pack of AA batteries. . . . How did you know it was the father?” “Just a hunch.” “Did you look at the life insurance?” “Yeah, he got them three years ago.” “So the suicide clause has expired.” Constable Carson nodded. Damn. No one likes to investigate suicides. There isn’t any closure for the family, just a lifetime of self recrimination. Mickey calls the lab, then goes to see JJ. She goes into his office and slumps into the chair next to his desk. JJ watches her for a minute then snarls, “Shouldn’t you be out catching bad guys?” Mickey doesn’t answer right away. “You said he took a Xanax.” JJ nods. “Sleeping in a room filling up with carbon monoxide–painless?” His expression changes, he whispers, “Yes.” She tells him about purchases. “Why did he buy new batteries?” “I checked with the lab. If he tried shorting out the batteries, they could explode. I think that is what happened. . . . Using the lamp would run down the batteries slowly, without any obvious damage.” JJ looks troubled. “I’m not going to change the report to suicide based on two credit card receipts and a theory.” “Indeterminate?” “I can live with that. . . . We need to tell the family. His son needs to know he didn’t kill his father.” “You go–I don’t think they would want to see me.” She starts to leave. “Mickey," he barks, "You did good.” “Why doesn’t it feel that way?”


“I’ll come back for you,” she says, hugging me tightly. I bury my face into her neck, trying to memorize the feel of her hair tickling my cheek, the scratchy sweater that she’s worn holes into, the smell of the cheap perfume she swears is just as good as “the fancy stuff.” I try to believe her, but we’ve been here before. For as long as I can remember, she’s been making that promise. For as long as I can remember, she’s been breaking it. Releasing me, she holds me at arm’s length. Her pale blue eyes are red and watery, her thin brown hair pulled into a bumpy ponytail. We used to look so similar, but that was Before. Before she was prescribed the painkillers for the car accident that killed dad, Before she lost her job for nonperformance, Before the collection agencies took our home, Before I was sent to live with my grandmother when mom was arrested for possession and intent to sell. Before, we were a family. Now, everything has changed, and she’s going away again. When I was younger, I used to make up stories about where mom went during her long absences. She had been recruited by the CIA to investigate a ring of traffickers targeting young girls in our hometown. She had discovered an old treasure map and was going on a harrowing journey to find it. She was actually a queen and had been called away to resolve tensions in the Court. Grandmother always humored me, doing her best to keep me from learning the truth. Now that I’m older, I know where mom really goes. As blissful as ignorance was, it’s hard to ignore the police car in the driveway every time she has to leave again. Her absence has become as familiar to me as my right arm. It’s stranger to have her around than it is to have her gone. When she’s here, we’re all walking on eggshells, waiting for the moment the policeman comes to retrieve her for violating her parole. Tensions run high between her and grandmother, the latter angry that the former can’t seem to pull it together for the sake of her child. I stopped taking her addiction personally years ago, but grandmother will never forgive mom for dumping a five year-old on her porch before hiding out from the cops at her seedy boyfriend’s house. I’ve forgiven her, though. She can’t help it. It’s who she is. No one ever really talks about the moment your parent becomes a person, a human with flaws and imperfections. It’s a strange metamorphosis, like a reverse butterfly. They start out so beautiful, and you feel lucky when they focus on you. Then they start to molt, their wings falling off and their colors fading. Most of the time, they come out of their cocoons eventually. Not always, though. Mom was still in her cocoon, unable to face the world again and unwilling to transform. My grandmother stands behind me, her arms crossed and looking at my mother derisively. She has no patience for mom’s habits anymore, and she’s talked about adopting me more than once so she can keep mom away from us indefinitely. So far, she hasn’t made good on her threats. “Last chance, Rebecca,” grandmother says to mom. “After this, I’ll be suing for adoption.” Mom doesn’t acknowledge her. If she believes grandmother, she doesn’t show it. They used to have screaming matches over my custody. Either mom doesn’t believe her, or she’s conceded defeat. I don’t which possibility bothers me more. Mom studies my face, like she’s afraid she’ll forget what I look like while she’s gone. She’ll be forced to detox once she’s in jail. It’ll be a rough time for her, and when she comes back, she’ll talk about how great she feels and how she wants to take me to the mountains or the beach or Disney World, how things are going to get better. They never do, but a small part of me always hopes she means it this time. As much as she’s disappointed me, I haven’t lost all my faith in her yet. If I think really hard, I can remember how she used to be. She was so full of life, so happy and so in love with dad. They were always holding hands or hugging, sneaking kisses when they thought I wasn’t watching. I loved to see their affection, though. It reminded me of their love, and that love created me, so that must mean they really, really love me. One summer – the last summer, though I didn’t know it at the time – we went to an amusement park. I was afraid of the rollercoasters, and dad and I made a deal. If I rode the tallest rollercoaster with him, he’d buy me the biggest cotton candy the park sold. It was a massive ball of sugary goodness, as big as my head, and my parents had never let me get it before. Reluctantly, I agreed, and he held my hand as I screamed Bloody Mary over those hills and twists and turns. When it was over, I got my cotton candy, and it promptly made me violently ill, but it was so worth it. For a long time, I thought that rollercoaster ride was the scariest thing I had ever done. Then the car accident took dad and changed mom, and I was afraid of new things. I figured that, at some point, the fear would fade and I’d get my reward. I’m still afraid, and I’m still waiting for my cotton candy prize. The squad car drives off, mom in the back, and I imagine I can see her looking back at me, watching me even after she can’t see me anymore. My grandmother’s hands rest on my shoulders, keeping me tethered. Without her, I think I might just float away and wait for the day mom joins me in the sky, where we’d soar over the clouds and fly far, far away. Wishful thinking. I stand at the door for a long time, well after mom has been driven away and dusk has started to fall. It’s not that I expect to see her coming back down the street. It’s just that I’ve always believed that if I look after her hard enough, if I stare long enough, she’ll feel my gaze on her and she’ll know I’m not mad at her for leaving again. It’s important to me that she knows that. Eventually, I turn around and go back into the house. Grandmother is in the living room, watching reruns of old detective shows and embroidering a pillow. I walk past her to the kitchen to get some dinner and she follows me in. “How are you feeling?” she asks me. How am I feeling? I didn’t know. For so long, my mother was my mirror. I felt how she felt. If she was mad at dad, I was mad, too. If she was sad that he was gone, I would sit and cry with her. She wondered who she was without him. I wondered who I was without her. More recently, though, there’s been a separation between us, a wall that neither of us knew we were building. Is it just that I’m getting older and changing, or is it that she’s staying the same? I don’t know what emotion this is, so I shrug in response. Grandmother studies me for a long moment before turning to the refrigerator and pulling out a container of leftovers. “I’ll heat this up for you. Go and sit down.” I amble to the dining table and trace the grains in the wood with my fingertip, following their paths up and down and around the table’s surface. I try to make sense of the patterns, but just when I think I’ve figured it out, I see a new swirl that changes my trajectory, making everything look different and erasing whatever path I had been following before. Sometimes I got sick of starting over, of the patterns of my life resetting and pushing me back to the starting line. Grandmother sets a plate in front of me and sits with me while I eat, neither of us speaking. It’s a comfortable silence, but the weight of my mother’s absence always blankets us on the day she leaves. It comforts me with its familiarity. I go to bed early, though I’m not tired. The window in my room is small and looks out over the field behind the house. There are no other houses on our street and only one streetlight on the corner, so my view of the stars is always unfettered. Mom used to tell me to find the brightest star and make a wish. She said no matter where she was, she’d be making a wish on it, too. “I always make a wish for you,” she’d tell me, “that you’re happy and healthy.” I never told her I made the same wish for her. Even now, years later, I make that same wish on the brightest star I can find. I wonder if she can see it, too, if her cell has a window. Probably not. But I like to believe that somewhere out there is the version of my mother who loved to jump in rain puddles, who laughed easily and hugged hard, who sang loudly and off-key and never for a second would have left me behind. I like to believe that that version of my mother still exists, and that she’s making a wish for me right now.


He should have known that happiness wasn’t in his cards. Whenever it finds its way to him, it is ripped away from him. Figuratively…and literally. The knight who gave him his name laid on the grass, just like how he and she used to do. The green mixed with the red still seeping from her armor, barely visible in the midnight rain. Her eyes were dim, a far cry from the sun they once were.

He breathed heavily, his hands still on her wounds. He knew she was gone, but if he stopped, he didn’t know what would happen to him. His back was turned to the moon, the damned orb at fault for all this. The curse that brought upon the beast that attacked them.

“...my love.” His voice, hoarse and dry, finally spoke the words he never dared to say, tears or rain falling onto the still face framed by golden hair.

“I couldn’t save you.” The beast was too strong, and even he couldn’t hold it back. Even after all the training with her, all the times she reassured him that if it came back, he would be strong enough to beat it… He failed. He was a failure. He couldn’t do it. It killed her, his failure killed her. What would her brothers say? They were right to distrust him, after all. Right to say that he could never protect her. Voices. He could hear voices. The twins…if they saw their sister there, they would blame him. They would be right to do so. The claws and marks on her broken and battered body told their story. The fact he was alive told its story.

He had to leave her, flee to the woods and start anew. …how was he supposed to find his way without her?

Before he knew it, his gaze found hers again, the rain on her cheeks mimicking the tears he could never understand. Why would anyone cry for him? Why would anyone care for him, a mere peasant found on the streets?

A shadow of a man. The voices grew louder. He shut his eyes. Let them capture him. Let them put him on trial. Let him be executed. That way he could never fail to protect anyone again, especially from the beast of the woods.

He looked down at himself. Slashes and blows, shallow cuts into his skin. Of course. She died. Not him. It should have been him. If he had been stronger, she would have lived. He would have died, as it always should have been. His mind wandered to the twins’ reaction to finding their sister. His hair stood on end. It wasn’t due to the cold plaguing the night.

“...my knight. My sun.” How funny words could be. He strained to force himself up, but just like before she lost her light, he couldn’t control his body. He couldn’t move. He was weak. He always has been.

Get up.

Get up and fight another day, dear. Those had always been her words. An easy order to follow, but why did they ring so hollow now?

If he didn’t get up, he would be incarcerated or killed, which she wouldn’t have wanted. She’d want him to live on. But if he lived on, especially without her… There was no future. Please, don’t think that way. There is always a future for you. For everyone. He swallowed. Were those words fabricated or her spirit? He didn’t know. Insanity was no stranger to him.

Let me go. Gone were his palms from the freezing body of his sun. He slowly retreated back into the woods, eyes not leaving her, step quickening at the same pace as those from the twins. And when he heard their howls, he collapsed. “...I’m sorry.” He was undeserving of the name she had given him. Her gift was in vain.

He scrambled for the necklace, almost finding it lost among the freezing cold on his chest. Relief flooded him when he finally found the piece of metal, yanked it away, and threw it on the ground where it shattered. Moon. That’s what a piece said. How funny. He stood up, trampling on the item with such ferocity that it cut into his soles. Red poured from him, so much more than during the battle. Less than he deserved. Less than should have been.

He panted, the necklace broken into a million pieces, its other half still intact. He knew what word awaited him, but he didn’t dare pick it up. He knew that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. He wouldn’t… He couldn’t. Not again. He knew that if he did, then not even the greatest guards could be protected, not even the most mighty of warriors would survive.

…and yet. His heart had shattered with the pieces of her gift.

It would have been the only thing keeping him together, so maybe, just maybe, if he looked upon that half again, he could be whole. He could be with her and her gift.

What foolish hope. And yet… The cold metal was barely noticeable in the rain. He paused, the blank material staring up at him. One single motion was enough.

He spiraled.

He fell.

His sun, his knight, had given him his name, yet he often found himself forgetful of it, undeserving. And now, as he stared down upon it, he knew why. He truly was undeserving of it.

He was not the only foolish one.

…less. Something erupted from his throat. Laughter, a sound he thought himself unable to produce. His sensitive ears picked up the voices behind the trees filled with anger and wrath and grief. Shouting that grew louder and closer.

Let them. Perhaps they stood a chance.

…no, what was the point anymore? The only person able to control it was gone.

Moonless rose, vision blurry, claws digging into the dirt. The rain had stopped. He snorted, staring up at the clear sky. The full moon stood tall and bright.

Moonless howled.

Moonless cried.


It was a gorgeous day outside, and I was enjoying a wonderful lunch with my best friend in the entire world. We had known each other all our lives, considering she was my sister. However, there was no one else I would rather spend an afternoon with. Here lately it was a rare occurrence because I worked all the time, and she had three kids and a husband who commanded her attention. I worked for a big cosmetics firm, and traveled a lot for my job. Which brought us to our current conversation. She had the usual concerns, such as when was I going to settle down and have a family, aka husband and children. My usual go to answer was I love my work, and at the moment it was all I wanted. But add in the fact that she was five years older, and practically helped raise me, she didn’t believe my answer. After lunch we usually went shopping, but this time she told me she had a surprise for me. She drove, and we parked in front of this Victorian looking mansion with huge stone pillars. It looked like it was a remnant of the 1860’s southern plantation. “I am not dressed for a fancy lunch!” I told her. She just smiled and told me to follow her. We walked up the impressive stone stairs, and read the sign on the old oak wooden door that stated to come in. We entered a long hallway, and there were three doors on each side. The first one said lawyer’s office. She motioned for me to follow her. The last door on the right read: Madame Helena- Palm Reader and Fortune Teller. I looked at my sister in disbelief. She knew how I felt about these kinds of utter fantasy. “Hear me out. You have been miserable since your break-up a YEAR ago. You need a new prospective, a new direction. Maybe she can open your eyes to different possibilities.”. My sister said compellingly. “Also, I already paid, and there’s no refunds”. She looked at me and held her hands in a prayer like fashion, and whispered please. “Fine, let’s do this. But then you owe me lunch!” She laughed and knocked on the door. It was a very dark room with heavy, velvet purple, blackout curtains on the windows. There was a card table in the middle of the room, with a red tablecloth covering it. On the table there was a crystal ball, and a deck of cards. The lighting above the table were three different colored globes in various sizes. There was a large painting of a black cat with green eyes on the wall behind the table. An old woman came out of the back room carrying a silver and red candle. She was dressed in what looked like a silk red bathrobe. She had long gray hair, covered by a black cap. She spoke in a deep voice and told me to sit. My sister walked the other way out the door! Wow! I was alone with this odd woman. She picked up the crystal ball and set it on the floor behind her. She said, “give me your hands”. She took my hands in hers, they smelled like jasmine. She held them for which seemed like forever, but in reality, it was more like 30 seconds. She spoke again in her deep voice. “I will reveal to you three cards, one from the past, one from the present, and one from the future. Are you ready?” I nodded, and she turned over the first card, on it were two small girls playing outside with a bunny. It looked like my childhood backyard, our pet bunny and my sister and me. I was super impressed and creeped out at the same time. I wondered how much information my sister had shared with her. She looked up at me and nodded yes. I nodded in return. She put that card to the side and turned over the second card. On it were one image over another. The first image was a man and a woman silhouette holding hands in front of a church. The one below was the same couple, but they were facing away from one another, and the woman was crying. It looked a lot like my ex and I, except it escaped the red mark on his face for being a two-timing piece of garbage. I was actually feeling sadness from seeing this image. She spoke up and said, “it's time to move on. He’s not the one for you, and he doesn’t deserve your sadness, or tears.” Yikes! She nailed it. “Are you ready for your future?” I nodded yes and she chose the third card. On it were three images. On the upper left-hand part, there was a woman standing at a podium with woman cheering for her, she has a check in her hand. The upper-right hand was a picture of a man and woman holding hands, and smiling at one another. The final picture was the couple standing in front of a house with a sold sign in the yard, and the woman looks to be very pregnant. The woman picks up all three cards, puts them in her robe and takes my hands again. She tells me, “I see much happiness in your future. Be open to it.” Then she gets up, and walks to the back room. I get up and go out the door to my sister, who is looking at a magazine. “How did it go? Did she have good news?” my sister asked. I replied hesitantly because I didn’t want to argue with her, but she needed to hear this. “My life is my private business, and I do not appreciate you sharing my history, or my aspirations for my future with her. From now on, please refrain from giving my personal information out to anyone!” She looked at me in disbelief and shock! “Hun, I set the appointment up and paid online. The only information I relinquished was my credit card information.” I just stared at her in shock. “She knew so much about me. This is a tad freaky. Let’s go to lunch at that new place downtown. We’ll talk then.” We walked into the new place, got seated and I told her everything the fortune teller told me. She agreed that it was a bit unnerving. We had finished our lunch, and were enjoying our wine when a man who identified himself as the manager/owner asked if everything was good. I looked up into the blue/green eyes of one of the handsomest men I had ever seen. He also looked like the man in the future picture. I smiled and said, “it was perfect, I believe we just found our new favorite restaurant.” He smiled back.


“Please hurry up and open ,” I mentally pleaded with the shop assistant through the crystal-clear window. She couldn’t hear me, but I knew she could feel my angst through the glass divider. ‘ Limited Stock ,’ said the posters stuck to the inside of the window. ‘ Once they’re gone, they’re gone!’ It was the 1980s – the decade of desire. Computers, Rubick’s Cubes, Teddy Ruxpin, Care Bears, Strawberry Shortcake, and the most anticipated arrival to my young impressionable life… Cabbage Patch dolls. What made them so necessary to have, is anyone’s guess; however, great marketing, word of mouth, and the concept that you weren’t buying the dimple-faced cuties, but adopting them with adoption papers, made them a desirable commodity for their target. Girls were told the adopted dolls were theirs and theirs alone. The exception to this rule, however, was me. You see, I’m a boy – or was - at the time, caught up in the mass hysteria that demanded ownership of at least one of those cute stuffed dolls. It was a typical reaction to the era’s ritualistic devotion to materialism. A coveting of biblical proportions. Wanting what others already possessed, spread a sickness from coast to coast and across the seas into every corner of society. It was as Saul Bellow wrote in his book, ‘Henderson, The Rain King,’ a case of ‘ I want, I want, I want.’ ‘Born from cabbages,’ the dolls came with birth certificates displaying the day they were born; but intriguingly, not the year. The brilliant marketing brainchild of Xavier Roberts sent every young girl into an unrestrainable frenzy. However, the doll’s design was not really his. He stole that idea from someone else - an American folk artist named, Martha Nelson Thomas. Rubbing salt into the wound, he then won the subsequent copyright lawsuit against him. A small, fractional out of court settlement freed his unapologetic venture to gross over $500 million that year. Not bad for a hijacking. Copyright arguments were inconsequential to my young coveting eyes, as I stared puppy-eyed at the last boy doll dressed in cowboy clothes with holster, sheriff’s badge, and cowboy hat. Displayed amongst a variety of mainly female dolls - mostly depicting a diversity of backgrounds, he stood out like a god amongst mortals. The longer I gazed at him, the more I wanted him. No, I needed him. He was going to be my pal and we would share our lives as we knew it. Nobody would get between us, I foolishly thought, because being at the front of the line meant nothing. When those doors were unlocked, it was every man, woman, and child for themselves. A throng of scrambling bodies shoving, scratching, and swearing at each other, surged into the shop, causing my mother’s grip on my hand to loosen in the crush, leaving me cowering in the nook of the shop window. I tried as best I could to stand tiptoe, scanning for my mother and the doll I expected to see her clutching on to, but that never happened. I saw the doll, alright. It was in the hands of the only other boy in the crowd of crazed girls, who craftily hurried out through the shop door, gleefully carrying the doll in its box. A smug, evil smile on his face gloated at my abandoned and crestfallen stare as he huddled behind his mother. Acting as icebreaker, she ploughed through the incoming frosty mass of doll prospectors still attempting an assault on the near-empty shelves. If the look of envy could metamorphose into malice, my expression demonstrated it. Bordering on psychotic jealousy, I raged. He recognised it, but rather than be worried by my arrowed look, he seemed energised by it – almost ecstatic. No amount of sympathy or reassurances from my own mother on the way home, could dry my puffy sore eyes. “I don’t want to wait over nine months. I want him now,” I cried through soaked red cheeks. *** Some forty-five years later, I was prompted to defend myself to a group of my peers attempting to ascertain whether I was guilty by reasons of temporary insanity or just plain guilty by reasons of malice aforethought. I had long forgotten the frolic and self-obsession of youth. Supporting a family of my own, I had raised a loving and generous daughter, who in turn had become a young and devoted single mother. To say that a granddaughter’s love is a gift from above is an understatement. That little girl’s smile melted my heart every time it flashed at me. So, for her eighth birthday, I wanted to get her something special, something retro, something she could cherish long into adulthood. Searching for such a special gift, I shopped at my favourite online outlet, eBay. To my delight and surprise, I discovered a similar doll to the one I so long ago craved - still in its original box, never opened. It was described as a collector’s item. The $140 starting price was reasonable enough; however, it was a bidding item and had no Buy It Now option. Undeterred, I submitted my bid with a $190 limit and tracked it over the next several days. What had started with half a dozen bidders, ended up with me and one other person in a bidding war for this pristine investment. With only ten minutes to go, it had reached $300. Bidding on eBay can be contagious. Getting caught up in the excitement and desire to beat the other person or persons to the prize, is intoxicating. I fell into that feverish moment, upping my bids until I cut myself off at $520. My main opponent demoralizingly won the item for $521. The disappointment I felt brought back buried memories like I had suddenly been struck with PTSD. Feelings of guilt for letting my granddaughter down, brought a terrible sadness and jealous rage to my disposition. So much, that I contacted the seller to let them know that should the buyer renege on the deal, I would be willing to pay them $1000 cash. They politely responded saying that they were a reliable eBay seller but if I was interested, I could come into their store and view their other collector dolls. Searching for local items on eBay was something I always liked to do, because I could save on any postage costs, and offer cash for whatever else caught my eye. I didn’t consider it to be unethical. It was a behaviour driven by my boyhood experience that taught me to get ahead of the crowd when you want something that others also want. Not sure whether it was curiosity or resentment feeding my need to find out who the successful bidder for the doll was; however, I managed to pry information from the seller regarding the day he expected the buyer to collect the doll from his store. I lived in the same small town that I grew up in, so it was possible that I might have known the buyer and could offer them the same amount of cash that I offered the store owner. I needed to find out; however, I didn’t want to be recognised, so I picked out a parking spot opposite the store and waited in my car, observing through my rear-view mirror. I didn’t have to wait long. As a car pulled up outside the store, I immediately recognised the driver – an old school acquaintance. Against all sensibility, I followed him into the store. Several shoppers occupied the shop staff, so no-one really noticed me enter. Dolls, cars, trains, all collector items, filled the shop’s shelves and glass display cabinets. It was the ideal space to get lost in dreaming and reminiscing of younger days. Items from many decades stirred childhood memories of happy, carefree times. I even caught a glimpse of an old ‘ Robby the Robot’ from the movie, ‘Forbidden Planet,’ a 1950s Sci-Fi gem re-run countless times on the small screen. Robby appeared in many other Sci-Fi movies, eventually co-starring in the 1960s TV series, ‘Lost in Space.’ At the time, Robby was jestingly labelled, ‘The hardest working Robot in Hollywood.’ However, it wasn’t the history that intrigued me. It was the toy robot’s wind-up mechanism – surely a very popular gizmo for budding toy collectors. Observing from a safe distance, I shuddered at the grown-up gleefully clapping his hands together when the shopkeeper presented him the child’s doll. The look of smugness on his face, brought back a sudden rush of heavy contempt seeping through my body. I remembered that arrogant grin. After all these years, it slapped me in the face once again, but this time it lit a roaring sense of wanton desire that clouded over any reasonable reasoning with determined malevolent thought. Just as he turned to leave the shop - proudly holding the doll, I pretended to be interested in something at the back of a glass cabinet, shielding my face from view. At that moment, I decided to follow him home, privately present him with an offer he’d be mad to refuse, then leave with my acquisition. I intended to offer him double his investment. How could he say no? I was sure there were other similar dolls to be found - if one was willing to wait. I couldn’t. I had an eight-year-old’s birthday present to buy, and it was going to be that doll. The drive took exactly nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds. I pulled up at a modest distance from his house and looked on as he exited his car, walked up the few steps to his front door, then disappeared inside with the doll. Waiting five more minutes, I calmly collected myself, as I quietly approached his house. His doorbell surprisingly played the theme tune to Star Wars. This made me despise him more as only a geek would have such a gadget doorbell. It made me even more determined to pay whatever he wanted for the doll. Answering the door, his inert sense of perspicacity immediately recognised me. While energetically shaking my hand, he discussed generalities such as, “Haven’t seen you around since high school,” and “Where are you living now?” Those were gross untruths, as eight years prior, he had ignored me at our twentieth high school reunion. Also, he knew where I lived because he had to pass my house on the way out of town to get to his. I would often see him drive past when I mowed the front lawn, and he would just sneer back, like his victorious moment at the Cabbage Patch Doll crush back in ’84. Yes, he was a shrewd customer, and I never liked him. However, to his credit, he invited me into his Lion’s Den. “How could someone so vile be so suddenly friendly,” I thought to myself. Nevertheless, I accepted his invitation to step over my adversary’s threshold and was immediately overwhelmed. The interior of his house and its collection of items put to shame the store we were in earlier. Jammed from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, was a fantastic assortment of toys, games, dolls, signed photographs, signed baseballs, and other memorabilia. It was a collector’s heaven. “Isn’t it magnificent,” he asked without requiring an answer. “I finally have him back.” “What do you mean by that?” my confusion detractingly asked. “I had one briefly… when I was nine years old… but sadly lost it.” “Lost it?” His words made no sense to my muddled state of mind. “Enough about my childhood… tell me about you…” Curious as to why I should show up on his doorstep, “ After all these years, ” I explained my predicament; however, I couldn’t take my eyes off his prized possession still in its box, sat alone on a plinth in the middle of his living room. An overhead light illuminated the star attraction among all his paraphernalia. A despairing, sinking feeling in my gut told me this was going to be a difficult negotiation. “Oh,” he suspiciously remarked. “You want him for your granddaughter… You know, toys were never for kids. That’s what my father taught me. ‘ How could anyone that outgrows a toy be deserving of one ,’ he used to say… so, I’ve made it my life’s ambition to surround myself with every little thing I was denied of as a child.” “Five thousand dollars!” I uncontrollably blurted out. “I’ll pay you five thousand dollars for him.” “It’s not the money,” he explained. “It’s the chase… My mother taught me that one… You remember when that lesson was, don’t you…? You were quite the pathetic little creature cowering in the shop window. I remember you – all those years ago. Tears rolling down your puffy, red face as we took Barry home.” “Barry?” “His given name.” Realising why he invited me in, I started to get a little flustered. He wanted to gloat, to wallow in self-congratulation of a long-gone quest to claim ownership of a stuffed rag doll. Looking for a deal to be done, I upped the ante. “Ten…” “Ten?” “Thousand.” “Dollars?” “Dollars.” He held back his reply, studying my face for any sign of insincerity. Convinced I had found his price, I opened my banking app on my smartphone and proceeded to log in. “Just let me know your bank details and I will deposit…” “…No!” The short repulse incensed me. “Why the hell not?” I yelled back at him. “Because… I don’t like you.” “Well, we have finally found common ground. Sell me the old one, then,” the desperate thought made me demand. “What old one?” “From my pathetic face day… It must be well used by now.” “I told you, you dumbshit… I lost it… or, more accurately, I threw it out.” Realising that the doll I coveted had been callously discarded by the same vile creature facing me, who also beat me to it twice, I couldn’t contain the rising anger building up inside of me. “You did what!?” I spat. “My father made me... said boys don’t play with dolls .” “Did you ever think to find me and ask me if I wanted it?” “…Well… No.” “You passed me on the way out of the shop, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.” “That was very wicked of me, wasn’t it,” he smirked. “Did I stick my tongue out at you, as well?” A rage of hate-filled anger exploded outwardly from me. Picking up the closest thing to me, I recoiled like a baseball pitcher, then hurled the signed Hank Aaron baseball at his head. The resulting sound resonated like a batter hitting a home run. The sound a wooden bat makes as it connects to the sweet spot on the baseball. A few more noises followed as the ball ricocheted around the living room. Broken glass, smashed porcelain, and the thud of a body hitting the carpeted floor. Arriving home, a short time later, I paused in my car to catch my breath. The fresh memory of what had just happened lingered like a bad smell, as my mind replayed the aftermath of the event in my head. I had remembered to wipe the door handle clean as I exited the house. Then, shutting the front door, I kicked it open again to make it look like a robbery had gone wrong. Looking toward the passenger seat, I smiled seeing the doll safely buckled up. I wasn’t going to leave it to be sold-on in an estate sale. No, he was mine. Labelling it a masterstroke of genius , I had replaced my doll with the Hank Aaron baseball, brightly highlighted by sixty watts of display downlighting. It looked so perfect there, that I delayed my exit for a few more seconds, just to admire it. “Guilty in the First Degree!” Was the verdict of my peers. I never thought for a moment that my fingerprints and DNA would be found on the ball. I must have spent too much time admiring it and forgot to wipe it clean. I should have just taken that too. The doll was never mentioned at my trial. It was assumed that I just panicked and ran away empty handed. The receipt from the store was in the box, you see. No-one knew anything about ‘Bartholomew Darrell,’ the name printed on his birth certificate. It took a year for the evidence to catch up with me. By then, Bartholomew was safely in the hands of my granddaughter to be cherished forever. Hopefully, she will pass him down to her children, because a Cabbage Patch doll is not just for Christmas and birthdays. It’s for life. Each month, she sends me a new photo of her and Bartholomew on their adventures around town. I proudly display all fifteen of them on my cell wall. I estimate that when parole time comes around, my Granddaughter may be a grandparent herself, my collection of photos will be wall to wall and floor to ceiling, or I may be fighting whatsisname from eBay over some needless possession in the afterlife…