"Roses are red, violets are blue. Everything is falling apart and I'm here, stuck with you." Sutton wrote in her little black leather notebook which she kept on the little brown table that stood at the corner of the room. A room she shared with her boyfriend, Charles. The year is 2020, February 12th and there's been a little gossip or rather some ''birds chirping'' in and out of town about a virus spreading, quite deadly if you ask me. There have been reported cases of infected patients however, no data as to where this virus is coming from or its causes. The cases have been rapidly increasing and so, a national lockdown of 3 weeks has been imposed by the president. This means that absolutely nobody is allowed to go out in public for whatsoever reason as the virus is rapidly spreading and risks are not to be taken especially when almost 3.1 million lives are at risk. People were advised to strictly wear masks when going out and get what they needed and head home immediately. Outside was shooting with heat and you could tell by the way Sutton quickly moved away from the window metallic bars, that it was indeed hot outside. She couldn't help but drift away into thoughts and memories while staring out the window. Her mind was clouded with them and she wished she could somehow turn back time and relive them. Memories of her and Charles. They had a fight last night and she didn't know how to feel because for the first time, things actually seemed to be turning sour between them. You know that feeling when you drink lemonade and you feel a sudden citrus bolt of lightning in your jaw? Yes, things were definitely turning sour. Her and Charles had been high school sweethearts and have been together ever since. It has been 3 years after high school now and they're both in their final years of university, graduating next year...fingers crossed! Back in high school, Charles and Sutton were the school ground's power couple. Everyone wanted to be them, everyone wanted what they had, oh you know: Rainbows, candy floss and unicorns. Everything was beautiful...then. After high school, they have since moved to western part of Cape Town in order to attend the same university, University of Western Cape Town. Furthermore, they hoped it would be good for their relationship. It has been a good three years, until recently. Before the lockdown, Charles was always busy. He was hardly at home, he never wanted to do anything with her and it was almost as if he resented her. Their fight yesterday wasn't verbal nor physical. It was silent. Like the dead night. Sutton had made Charles his favorite dinner. Mac and cheese, with chicken on the side. Charles hadn't touched it. It sat there on the table, covered and almost lonely looking. He said he wasn't hungry but hell, they lived together and she hadn't seen him eat anything all day, apart from cringle scrapes that might have been in the cupboard for who knows how long. Their apartment was big or rather comfortable. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen and living room, which were kind of one room but, they most of the times made their room, their home. The extra room was being used as a storeroom and they enjoyed being together. It gave them a picture of how they'd actually be after graduation. A real home, a pet and in the far future maybe kids? They enjoyed the comfort of their small little room. They enjoyed each other. Two peas in a pod. A four walled pod. Recently however, today, now more than ever, there's nothing more that Sutton wanted than to be away from this man. This cold man that she no longer knew. It's almost as if Charles had become an old poem. A poem she thought she understood. A poem she thought she could analyze. She was wrong. She didn't understand him anymore and she couldn't read him either. In less than a month, Charles had become a stranger to her. Charles fell for Sutton the moment she entered their commerce class in 11th grade. Which makes sense because they're both doing a bachelor's degree in Chartered Accounting. They were both honest and hardworking students so there was no surprise that they fell for each other, I mean who's not attracted to brains right? But that's not quite what attracted her to him. Sutton had a way of getting to him, and into his head. She was kind and understanding and was one of the few who knew how to tear down his walls. He was intrigued by her. Fascinated! Sutton has always been living in South Africa however, Charles originally was from Namibia. He moved to South Africa when he was 13 when his dad got a promotion and had to move here. He is part of a wine producing company. In their final year of high school, they decided to attend the same university as they feared losing each other. The thought of long distance? Charles couldn't stand it and he's sure Sutton couldn't either. They haven't really spoken thoroughly about it after high school but it seemed like a pretty good decision then, until now. Charles was starting to feel distant. From Sutton and himself. Maybe it was the lockdown getting to him, but as far as he was concerned, everything bored him. He was irritated! He wanted to go out. Out of this room. Out of this town. Out of South Africa! It was now June, and as expected the pandemic wasn't getting any better especially because it was winter and the virus spread even faster than before. Restrictions became more intense and borders were closed, meaning no travelling into or out of the country. Charles cleaned out the storeroom and was now sleeping there. Sutton wasn't at all happy about it, but she didn't have a say. They spoke less and every time they did, it always sounded so formal. No good morning kiss, Sutton no longer prepared food for Charles and everyone minded their own business and focused on their school work. School was a bit hectic this year because everything migrated online, which meant no face to face learning. This was frustrating, especially for Sutton. She was used to being on campus. The air there felt different. It smelled of independence and educational tranquility which is weird because this course was very stressful and challenging but Sutton preferred it to this air. The air in that room. Colder than the air outside. This air...inside, was dead. It was angry and it had no love. This air was filled with resentment and she was tired of breathing it. She wanted to go outside. She wanted to be free of this air inside. It was a beautiful winter morning outside. It was snow white and quiet. You could hear yourself breathing and thoughts were three dimensional. You could hear yourself think and there was no escaping it. Charles came into the room and took the charger which they shared. Sutton's charger had broke and due to the pandemic, it was taking time for a new one to be delivered. She had ordered it online. Charles had taken the charger from the socket, removing her phone. It was fully charged and he abruptly placed it at her table. Without even looking at her, he walked out of the room. Sutton's heart sank. She couldn't believe it, but it has been like this for almost five months now and it was almost as if Charles hated her. But what had she done? During the past months, Sutton tried to create small talk with Charles. She'd try with jokes but the energy he returned was always sour and cold like the winter outside. They'd greet each other and maybe talk about formal things like how many toilet rolls were needed and that's it. Charles wondered why he was so cold towards Sutton. Why he was so distant. Why he was so tired of everything. This made him even more angry with himself because he was being this monster to this woman that he loved so much. The only person who understood him. His best friend. His girlfriend. What was going on? What was the problem? Sutton was seated outside on the stairs and next to her, brown autumn leaves were falling. The cases have decreased and people sort of started to embrace the pandemic. This was their new normal. Inside, Charles was glued to his laptop screen reading through some summary slides. He wondered why Sutton was sitting outside for so long as if they didn't have a test scheduled for tomorrow. She hasn't been studying- Yes he's been secretly watching her, I mean what else was he supposed to do when not busy studying? It was only the two of them in the house so it was only normal that he noticed everything she did. Like how all of a sudden she'd become shy when walking back to her bedroom after a shower. She'd hurriedly trot from the bathroom, almost as if she were afraid for her towel to fall in front of him, even though he has seen her naked before, so he didn't see any reasons for her to be shy. ''Do you want to end this?'' Sutton's voice whimpered from the stairs. "I assume we've both been thinking about it and it was only a matter of time before one of us brought it up. Us. This. What is this, Charles? " Asked Sutton. "What have I done to you? For the past few months, the energy has been off in these walls. You don't talk to me, you look at me with resentment in your eyes and you've even moved out of the room...our room, Charles." Her voice was breaking now. "I can't do this anymore. In fact, I don't want to do this anymore." Charles was quiet and shocked. Perhaps he didn't expect her to be the one to say this? He couldn't say. The room filled with silence and Charles stood there, eyes white, wide and open. His throat was dry. He didn't know what to say. Assuming she wasn't going to get a reply from Charles, Sutton was ready to walk away until he finally said something... ''Being in here, for almost a year, stuck inside this place made me realize. It made me realize that I miss home. My real home. I miss Namibia and I think I want to go back. I am going back.'' Charles exclaimed. "What-" Sutton interfered. "No, let me finish. Being stuck in this room, it made me realize how caged I've been feeling ever since I moved here and I want to break down those walls. I want to be free. I want to be at home. This is not home for me. It never was. I'm sorry." Charles said quietly. Sutton was frozen at this point. Her whole world was shattering in front of her and she didn't know what to do. Charles was her world and now he was saying all these things that came out of nowhere. "I'm sorry for taking it out on you. At some point, I blamed you for what I was going through. That it was your fault I moved here. That I'm studying this course, but the truth is, we both played a part in making the decision to come live here and I'm deciding to change it, for my sake. I don't know who I am here. Its been almost 8 years since I've been here and I still have no idea who the real Charles is...I'm sorry." Charles said. Sutton was quiet, standing pale and still. She didn't know what she was feeling, but it wasn't a bad feeling. She was feeling...free, liberated and lighter at heart. She slowly moved closer to Charles. She stood in front of him, so close she could smell his after shave. She gave him a long, tight hug. "I forgive you. Maybe a bit too fast, but I forgive you. I have immense love for you and I want you to be happy. That feeling of confinement you've been feeling? I've been feeling it too. You're all I've ever known, and I think its better we separate and continue this journey on our own. We deserve it. Once his pandemic is over, I too will travel the world and just...you know, explore things!" Sutton said. "Are you sure? You're okay with this? you agree?" Charles asked. "Yes, I think its for the best. You and I are one and the same person so trust me when I say, I understand you." Sutton said, smiling. For the first time since February, the year almost being over, the tension in the house was gone. The air in the room felt lighter. Like a summer's breeze. The pandemic was still here, but the toxicity was gone, finally! By December, the lockdown restrictions were changed and the borders were opened. Exams were finished and Charles had left for Namibia two weeks ago. Sutton was now at her Dad's in Johannesburg for the holidays. She too has moved out of the apartment that she had shared with Charles and was ready for new beginnings. Charles was home now and there was no better feeling. He and Sutton still kept in touch here and there and he was busy job hunting, trying to keep himself busy. He was able to reconnect with his mother and the rest of the family that side in Namibia. He promised to visit his father back in South Africa at least thrice a year, or whenever time allowed. Life was indeed beautiful. Namibia was experiencing a lockdown as well, but now it was different. He didn't feel trapped anymore. He wanted to be here. He was free. He was home.


I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a ri I’m supposed to write it ten times but my left hand starts shaking so I can’t hold the pen steady and the back of my head is buzzing and I have to do deep breaths like Dr. Spinoza showed me. In for four counts, out for five. In for four, out for five. In for four, out for five. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. it is green and slimy and slightly pulsating. I wear sweatshirts to try to hide it, even in the summer, but I know people are staring at it anyway. I have to keep my arm tense and outstretched a little, because it is actually a tentacle and it is cold and slimy and I don’t want it touching anywhere else on my body, and I have to keep the fingers on my right hand in a tight fist because if I unclench them they might not come apart since tentacles don’t have fingers.

I’m not crazy or stupid, I know that people have two arms and no tentacles. But I can’t help thinking that I might have a tentacle instead of an arm, and that’s why people stare at me. When I had a girlfriend she would tell me that people weren’t staring at me because my arm was a tentacle, they were staring at me because I was holding my arm funny and clenching my fist and also I smelled a little bit bad. I can’t get in the shower without walking past the mirror, and if I look in the mirror I might see that my arm is a tentacle, so before I started seeing Dr. Spinoza I only showered once a week and squeezed my eyes closed the whole time. When I first met Emily, I only thought I had a tentacle for an arm some of the time. I told her about my thoughts on one of our dates and she laughed at me, and I laughed too. But then when I started to have the thoughts all the time she started pushing me around in front of her friends, and pretty soon she decided she didn’t want to date a guy with a tentacle instead of a right arm anymore and she broke up with me. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I finish my ERP therapy exercises for the night and decide to reward myself with a cookie and a glass of milk before bed. I have to wake up early tomorrow for work. It was hard to find a job that someone with only one working arm could do, but I finally found a job at a call center selling herbal supplements. I don’t think they work, but at least over the phone people can’t see my tentacle arm. In the kitchen, I open cabinets and get down dishes one-handed. It was weird, at first, using my left hand for everything, but I’ve mostly stopped dropping stuff. I opened the fridge and pulled the half-gallon of milk off the top shelf. But the movement was clumsy, and my left arm sent a bottle of ketchup tumbling towards the floor in the process. I have excellent reflexes. As soon as the ketchup topples, my right hand shoots out and snatches it from midair. It is cold, probably the coldest thing my right hand had touched in months. Condensation is already beginning to form on the bottle, making the plastic feel slightly slimy. Or is it my hand that feels slimy? It must be my hand, turning into a green slimy tentacle. The floor slips from beneath my feet. I open my eyes but don’t see anything at first, my eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. There is no floor under my feet; I stretch my toes as far as I can but feel only… what? Water, I think. I’m suspended underwater. The back of my head buzzes. Breath in for four counts, out for five… The water is warm. I’m underwater and breathing fine. I have to go to work tomorrow, I need to get out of here, but as I raise my arms to swim upwards, I see that I don’t have arms, I have tentacles. They are green and slightly pulsating. They are covered in mucus, allowing them to slice cleanly through the warm water. I am so much stronger than I have ever been, with no bones in my arms weighing me down. I could lift a car. I have tentacles for arms and as my eyes adjust I can see that everyone else does too. In the distance I can see more people moving effortlessly through the water, propelled by tentacles that cover their body. They are happy. They do not stare at me. One man is closer than the rest, and he is looking at me, though not unkindly. He has red tentacles for arms, and a dozen other tentacles coming out of his chest, his shoulders, his back, his groin. “I need to get back,” I tell him. “I have to work, and if I leave the milk out for too long it will go bad.” He doesn’t respond, but keeps looking at me, not unkindly, and a moment later gravity returns I am lying on the kitchen floor in a puddle of milk. I sit up. The back of my sweatshirt is soaked. I shiver, chilled by gusts of A/C. I hug my arms to my chest, attempting to warm myself. I have two of them, thin and bony things, a bit grimy and now half-soaked in milk. I miss my tentacles.


“This never would have happened if you would have just-” “What! If I would have just what, Linn? Please oh please, enlighten me of all of my shortcomings up until this moment!”

“Hey! I am trying my best over here! You think if I could go back and change everything I wouldn’t?”

“Just admit that some of this is your fault too! It's not all me!”

“Oh really? We’d be a happy family right now if you wouldn’t have always put work first all the time, and maybe you could have paid attention to the kids at all? Not just thrown presents and money at them as a sorry for missing every basketball game and birthday?” “At least I was doing something to support us! Sorry I couldn’t be there at e

avery stupid little legue soccer game, I was busy making sure they didn’t starve!” “Don’t pretend we were ever going to starve! I bring in an income too, you know! And-” “Oh, now that ridiculous little Etsy shop is a source of income now? I thought we both decided a long time ago painting portraits for the internet wasn’t a reliable source of money!” “It became one! You just wouldn’t know because you haven’t even talked to me in weeks! Half that money went into the kids college funds.”

“I thought we decided the kids wouldn’t get handouts when they went to college! That they would find scholarships or pay for it on their own?” “That was always a ridiculous idea and you know it! You were just too cheap to put aside money from every paycheck that you couldn’t use! Well now you have your stupid wish, you don’t have to put three kids through college anymore-” “Hey! That’s not fair!” “It is fair! Money was always more important to you. You didn’t go to Erica’s daddy daughter days at school, you didn’t see Tyler take his first step, you didn’t watch Alex start in his first high school football game, and now look! There's no more do-overs. You can’t go back in time and sit at his parent teacher conferences, or give him a hug when he graduates, you can’t pick him up from school and listen to him tell you about his day. Those opportunities are gone! You’ve got two other kids but hey, you can just pretend that this never happened and redeem yourself with them. But I’ll know. They won’t remember how you forgot they existed until Alex died, but I’ll know.” “I am not-I am not like that! I loved Alex! Just like I love Erica and Tyler and… it's not my fault that work is so time consuming! And it's not my fault that he died! Stop blaming me!” “No, it's not your fault that he died. You didn’t tell him every teenage boy goes out, drinks and has a one night stand, just don’t be stupid like you were, right? You didn’t tell him to take his car to impress the girls, or that being a teenager is the time to be crazy and have fun being irresponsible while you still can, before you hate your ‘life and your wife’, right? No, it couldn’t be your fault he died. You didn’t text him any of that, did you?” “You-you looked through his phone! You are not blaming me now, you’re just bitter you were a stupid teenage girl who got pregnant with a man you’d just met and you’re mad you're stuck with me. I could have left you and Alex with nothing but no! I worked for you two to survive while you grieved your lost childhood! I lost my childhood too!” “You were 25! You were almost done with college and I was a naive 18 year old college freshman! I was drunk! And don’t you dare switch this up on me. Alex didn’t get a girl pregnant, Mark. Alex crashed your precious mustang, sometimes I wonder if you’re grieving the investment you made in that dumb first car than you are for your own son!”

“I am grieving the loss of my oldest child! I don’t care about the car! I don’t care about the $90 whiskey he took with him to that dumb homecoming party! I don’t care about anything other than the fact that my son is dead! And it is not my fault! How could I have known that telling him to have fun was going to kill him!” “But it did, didn’t it!” “You haven’t been a model mother either, have you? You’ve-” “No! I don’t want to hear about how because I was horribly depressed over dropping out of college to raise my son and marrying a man who has been involved with three women on the side since we got married 17 years ago! Don’t tell me about my shortcomings, I was there for every moment of their lives. Every scrape on the knee, every school project, every victory dinner after a football game. I have been living virtually by myself with a senior in high school, a 3rd grader, and a toddler and they made every day feel worth living! And yes, sometimes I would drown and forget to send Erica a juice box in her lunch or have to yell at Alex for not cleaning his room, but I was trying! And that’s more than you can say! I don’t blame you for Alex’s death, I just blame you for only deciding to show up after he was gone.” “Do you think I wanted it this way? Do you think I wanted him gone? That I wanted to be gone so much? I saw those women because you cared more about the kids than you did about me!” “Don’t you dare say that to me. I showed up first to that hospital to tell him goodbye. The moment I got the call. You were with her two hours away. You can admit it. Because I know.” “So what if I was! All that matters is that I left her! That I’ll be here from now on. Isn’t that what you want?” “No Matt. What I want is for you to get out of my life. I want a divorce. I want to bury my son, and I want you out. I don’t care if we have to split up the kids on weekends and weekdays and you fight to see them for holidays. Hell, I don’t care if you never see my children ever again, marry one of those women you love more than me, have children with them and pretend the last 18 years of your life never even happened. I don’t care! I just want to grieve my son!” “This never would have happened if you would have just-” “What! If I would have just what, Mark? Please oh please, ‘enlighten’ me! No. I’m packing the kids up and going to my mom’s until this is all figured out. For now, I can’t even look at you anymore. See you at the funeral. If you feel like that’s an important enough thing to go to. If not, I’m sure Alex would enjoy a gift with an ‘I’m sorry I’m working, champ’ text. I’m sure that will fix this." "Linn, wait," "Goodbye Mark."


trigger warning- death Miriam sat in her car and waited for the shock to wear off. She’d always known it was a possibility that the family she worked, for would decide to send their youngest child to that awful academic preschool down the street, but to be told it was a certainty felt like a slap in the face. Why couldn’t parents understand the harm that occurred in those types of school environments? Nothing about formal learning in preschool is necessary for later success. Play is enough. Miriam thought of sweet little Brody, and tried to picture him at that horrible school. It was gut wrenching to imagine his happy, free spirited self being forced to conform. Instead of climbing trees and skipping rocks, he’d be sitting at a desk, tracing endless worksheets. He would be forced to accept just one right answer, where he was used to finding many possibilities. Brody would be working for gold stars, or rather red stars, because those terrible teachers graded each worksheet with red pen. His learning should come from internal motivation, and not from the promise of a red star. Most baffling of all, Brody would be trading fresh air and sunshine for a classroom that smelled of mildew. She always wondered why all those wealthy families were willing to overlook the obvious mold problem in the building, just so they could say their child attended Silver Years. Why were they all so giddy about sending their children to a place that sounds more like a retirement home than a preschool? Young children are designed to learn through play. Science supports this notion. Play is enough. Of course, it wasn’t all the parents’ fault. Silver Years preyed on the false parental fears that their child will show up to kindergarten already behind in life. That just isn’t possible. Children are unique, and they develop at different rates. Kindergarten is a beginning. There is no way to be behind at a beginning. Children shouldn’t be assessed in this manner, anyway. Children are supposed to play. Play is enough. Miriam was disappointed in herself for letting Brody down. She had worked so hard to provide him with the childhood he deserved, while simultaneously trying to educate his parents on why play is so vital to development. She had been one of his primary caregivers from the time he was 2 weeks old, and truth be told, spent the most time with him out of anyone, every week, for the last 4 years. Miriam made it a point to immerse him in nature right from the start. Now, at nearly 5 years old, he could identify all of the common local birds by song and sight. He was thrilled each time he found deer tracks, and was fascinated by the little bones he could extract from owl pellets. Brody loved to go into the woods, and just be. He didn’t need anyone to tell him how to play or what to do. He was a master at entertaining himself, and inventing his own games. He was observant, and empathetic. Brody adored worms, slugs, and beetles. He was strong, physically, and mentally. He didn’t give up easily. Brody knew how to stand up for himself, and also how to be fair with others. He could write all of the letters of the alphabet, and knew what sounds they made. He was even beginning to learn sight words. He developed these skills purely through play, because play is enough. Miriam had been the family’s nanny when their third child had been a student at Silver Years. She remembered how Chloe had cried and pleaded with her parents not to make her go for the entire first 6 months of the school year. Chloe had to be bribed with treats at the end of each week if she went without fuss, and even then it was a lot of work getting her out the door. Miriam remembered how much Chloe’s physical endurance had suffered while she attended that school. She was pale, with sunken in eyes, and tired easily. She had been 4 years old and should have been a bundle of endless energy, but she was weak from sitting on her butt at a desk day after day, week after week. She should have been outside, moving her body. She should have been playing, because play is enough. Miriam opened the door and vomited onto the snowy street. She couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to her sweet Brody. Why hadn’t she done more to stop this? Why hadn’t she better articulated that all a child needs to be kindergarten ready is plenty of play? How had she failed so terribly in spreading the message that play is enough?

Miriam shifted her car into drive. Acting on autopilot, she pressed the gas and the car began to roll down the hill. Miriam was so deep in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice that her headlights were off. Her mind was racing. It was true that parents who chose academic preschools for their young children thought they were giving them a leg up. They were doing what they felt was best. Miriam couldn’t just let it go though, because she knew that all of the research showed that there are no long term benefits to early academic training. Children who go to academic preschools score higher on tests, initially, in kindergarten (who cares! Kids should not be tested in kindergarten!), but by 3rd grade, there’s no difference in scores, and by 6th grade, those who attended academic preschools tended to score lower on tests, and have more behavior issues. Boys, of course, struggled the most, and Miriam was watching this pan out with Brody’s 11 year old twin brothers. The older boys are not motivated to do much of anything. They were already burnt out from years of high pressure formal learning, especially because they started that when they should have been playing. The twins were afraid to try anything new if they thought they might fail. They were strict rule followers, to the extent that it was a detriment. They had zero ability to be flexible in their thinking. If the twins had been allowed to play in their preschool years, they would be better off than they are now. Miriam knew this in the depths of her soul, because play is enough. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to stay on as the family’s nanny come fall. They had offered to pay her for full time hours, and allow her to have a few paid hours off during the school day, but Miriam didn’t know if she could go through with it. Having received no raises in over 2 years, she was extremely underpaid as it was. She didn’t want to watch Brody turn into a worksheet tracing robot. She didn’t want to be broke, AND miserable. Her heart ached to think of Brody’s absence in her daily life if she were to quit her job, but dropping him off and picking him up from that dreadful school 5 days a week wasn’t something she wanted, either. Play is enough. Miriam shook her head in disgust. When will parents learn that play is enough? She turned onto Main Street. Lost in her despair, Miriam blew right past a stop sign. A pickup truck going 60mph t-boned her car, killing her on impact. As emergency crews arrived on the scene, the first thing they heard was a clip of the podcast Miriam had been listening to, stuck on a loop. The host repeated one sentence over and over again: “Play is enough!”


Snowdream A benevolent King and his wife, the Queen Consort, reigned in a far country. But the Queen died from a mysterious illness. Their daughter, Princess Snowdream, was blessed with great beauty of sleek raven hair, violet eyes and a heart-shaped face. The young woman also had a gentle, caring nature. She spent many hours working in a shelter for the homeless and returned as dusk fell. Her limbs were heavy but her heart light. The King’s subjects admired her, cheering as she passed by.            However, the King missed his Queen’s soothing presence and razor-sharp mind, a foil to his tendency to melancholy. An avaricious Lady in Waiting for the deceased Queen had long-held designs on this weak-willed King. The canny old Queen had spotted the woman’s deceitful nature. She demoted her to a kitchen maid when she caught her stealing an emerald ring. Burning for revenge, the woman rubbed her hands with glee when, after cornering the King in the palace gardens, she had her way with him and won his heart. They were married in a grand ceremony in the Cathedral. The new Queen wore an exquisite satin and lace gown made by the King’s dressmaker, her body glittering with jewels.                However, in truth, the new Queen did not desire the King. She despised the man and wished to dispose of him and Snowdream to reign in her own right. So the Queen consorted with the military behind the King’s back. She learned that one of the King’s military aides, a balding Colonel, desired power, too, so they plotted to kill the King and Princess. The Colonel hired a sniper who hid in bushes by the lane where the King, on a white Stallion, and the Princess, on a chestnut mare, often rode. The sniper shot the King dead as he passed but missed the Princess. She galloped away until a talent scout, out on a morning ride, saw the mare approaching him. He stopped the frightened horse and impressed by Princess Snowdream’s figure and grace, and offered her the girl the leading role in his next movie. The Princess accepted and moved away from her wicked stepmother to film sets in exotic locations.             When the Queen heard, she became incandescent with rage, hurling several priceless silver candlesticks at the castle’s marble fireplaces and smashing mirrors. Then, despairingly, she hired a private detective to find the girl and ordered the sniper to kill her. But the sniper, having seen the Princess’s beauty, fell in love with the girl and could not carry out his mission. He became afraid the Queen would have him arrested and water tortured or worse. So, he committed suicide, his body rotting in the hinterland, where it attracted flies and circling birds of prey. With her blood boiling at men’s weaknesses, the Queen plotted to kill the girl herself, using poison. But first, with her beetle-browed, red-veined face screwed up, she consulted an astrologer and asked him who was more beautiful, she or Princess Snowdream? He consulted his crystal ball and pronounced the Princess the most beautiful. Incandescent with rage, the Queen lit several candles, which she threw at the bed in The Princess’s chamber, setting it alight. The Fire Service was called to save the castle. But the Queen’s room was destroyed too, so she called in an interior designer, decorated the walls with pale blue silk paint, and commissioned dark blue silk bedding to coordinate with the blue velvet drapes and sumptuous carpet. She had sweetmeats delivered to her chamber to taste their delights whenever she fancied and entertained the Colonel whom she promoted to General. But the jealousy of Princess Snowdream’s youthful, sensual beauty consumed the vengeful Queen, who visited the astrologer twice more. Each time he reported the Princess had the most outstanding beauty. So, the jealous Queen poisoned him with black mamba venom she bought from a snake handler and dripped on a $100.00 bill. The unsuspecting astrologer kissed the bill in thanks. He died in agony, his limbs contorted, within the hour. The Queen cackled with glee. Weeks passed without sight of th e Princess. Ascending to the throne as Regent, the Queen ate taste-bud tantalising caviar and drank head-dizzying champagne. She slept in isolated splendour in her slinky silk bedroom except when entertaining the General. The Queen considered cosmetic surgery to make her face youthful with cat-like eyes and made an appointment with a surgeon. She ordered a curfew on all women between eighteen and twenty-five, hoping to catch the Princess on her return from filming. Then she would poison her with the black mamba venom and watch her die. “Ah, it would be sweet revenge,” thought the Queen.            However, the seven homeless men from the shelter learned of the Queen’s plots from a palace gardener and decided to act. They were all military veterans of the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan down on their luck. But armed to the teeth with assault rifles, grenades, and other military hardware, they surrounded the castle. They broke in and assassinated the Queen asleep in her sumptuous bed. All her flunkies, holding a party in the castle’s dungeons, were assassinated, too. In time, the Princess completed filming and took her rightful place on the throne. She married the youngest of the seven homeless men, who became her King Consort. Travelling in a golden coach drawn by four palomino horses, they were crowned in a ceremony of splendour and grace, the Cathedral glittering with candlelight. The six other men were knighted in the Queen’s Coronation Honours and given land and property. Each married a kitchen maid and elevated her to a Duchess. The film in which Snowdream starred,  ‘Snowdrops and the Warrior’, was a box office hit, won an Oscar and a Golden Globe and was released on Netflix. In the streaming charts, the theme tune ‘ Snowdreams get in your mind’ went to number one. So do not be avaricious and jealous. Revenge can trample on snowdrops and destroy your dreams.


Sensitive content: The story mentions the current wars in the world. Do You Remember? My best friend, my beloved husband, Today, I woke up with the memory of our visit to your parent’s home. Your mother had made your favourite foods and spoke of your naughty childhood days. She narrated the story of the stray puppy you adopted when you were six. You fed him, played with him and named him ‘buddy’. She said you cried for days when he was hurt in a street fight with bigger dogs. Our eyes were moist when we looked at each other. A soldier and his wife. Do you remember? You left for war the next morning. It’s been weeks. As I look out of the window at the garden in our front yard, I notice the pretty Marigolds and Zinnias blooming. You dug the soil for me and I planted the seeds. I watered them regularly, just as you wanted me to, and the seeds sprouted and grew. I wish you could see them, yellow, orange, pink. I’m sending you a picture. How I miss you. Red used to be our favourite colour but you will notice that there are no red flowers since I snip off the red buds before they bloom. Please forgive me, Now, that colour reminds me of blood and it hurts. I must admit, I water the garden sparingly, just enough to keep the plants alive. Why? My darling, I’m going crazy. I think of the people trapped because of the war, with no food and water. I hear they are drinking impure water, whatever they can get. The lady on television said there is a danger of disease. Imagine, being thirsty for days and days. The images form and disappear and come back. I push them away but they swirl like a sandstorm in a desert and leave me changed, unrecognizable even to myself. Sometimes, I wonder if you will know me when you return. Will you love me still?

You gave me so many flowers when we first met. You had explained that for you they were a manifestation of divinity. I had a lump in my throat when I heard the sincerity in your voice. Do you remember? Where you are now, amidst the fallen buildings, the destroyed roads and bridges, with toxic smoke in the sky, can you see flowers growing around you? Do the tanks swerve to avoid flowers in the field or do they single-mindedly move forward, leaving every living thing squashed into oblivion? When will flowers grow there again? Who will grow them? Perhaps there is no place for beauty in a world such as this. Is there a tear in your eyes? Yesterday, I saw the images of what is left after a bombing. Why would I not be shocked? The world was horrified. My beloved, I saw the mayhem. Even thousands of miles away, I gasped, my skin prickled. Those bodies, cries, blood. Children, dead children. And what about those who are forever disabled? I shed tears for their suffering. I cried more when I thought of the mothers and the families. These civilians, people like your parents and me. Were they alive, only to mourn their dead for a lifetime? I could not bear it. I switched off the television and hugged our child close. Our child was safe. I kissed her cheeks, once from me, once more from you. They speak of war crimes and there are protests all over the world. Thousands of people are demanding this war be stopped. No one from their family is out there; their loved ones are not in danger. Yet the news and images have stirred up enough passion to bring them to the streets. Is anyone listening? I thought of the protests we joined during our University days, asking for better cafeteria food. It’s laughable now. At that time, you had said, “Decide for yourself, don’t get carried away by public sentiment.” We had both left the protests because we did not live in the hostel and hardly ate in the cafeteria. We were spoiled by the delicious food made by our mothers. Do you remember? Now, you can understand my reaction to these “Stop the War” protests. Indeed, I’m sure, though I sit inside and the front door is locked. Our neighbours, the nice old couple who sent us sweets on weekends, no longer speak with me. I know they have loved ones across the border – dear family members who they have not heard from because of the breakdown in telecommunications. They look through me and shift their gaze as if I am responsible for this war. I want to tell them how I feel but then I pause. I remember your words, “Be brave, you must be brave. Hide your fears behind a smile. You have a beautiful smile, my dearest.” Yes, I smile a lot. I smile till my lips tremble, my muscles ache, and beads of sweat form on my brow. It’s like a workout, then I laugh. I will not let you down. Your letters tell me so little. You only ask about me, our family – Is everyone in good health? Do I have enough money for all I need? Do I feel safe? You don’t speak of yourself, your days and nights, your state – physical and emotional. I can’t imagine how busy you must be. Busy – such an imbecile word to describe your life as a soldier on active duty. A time when days and nights are one, when killing is a mission, when you are not yourself but a man in uniform, a tool to carry out a leader’s decision even if it means fighting ordinary people, not just the enemy’s army. Sadly, you must obey orders. Oh, God! I don’t know what to say in my prayers. You had said, pray for victory. But often I sit silent. I have stopped praying for victory because in this tidal wave of brutality, I no longer know what victory means. Then I pray for peace. I pray for life. I pray for your safe return. I know you understand how desperate I am for you, for your touch, your gentle gaze, your calm, just as you must be to come back home to me. My darling, return soon. Can you tell? I’m so confused. But I see, like me, you are a victim: of complexity, lust for power and selfish gains. In your darkest moments, when you see our child’s face in the enemy, the screams of the wounded echo like a blade within you, the blasts obliterate your love for music, and your soul is filled with questions, think of me, my love. Take heart, I am here, waiting for you. If I am alive, I will be by your side through the rest of our days, whatever form they may take, however many or few there may be, and we will traverse the rest of our journey together. That was a promise we made to each other. I remember. With all my love, A soldier’s wife.


"Get your lazy ass up Ruby or you will be late for your wedding . God! what am I supposed to do with her !" 3 2 1, the door of my room opens with a bang , so ladies and gentlemen let me present you my dear mother her face mirroring an expression of shock and surprise . Yes  surprise, because I had been late to many important events of my life like my graduation and many more, but here I am all showered and ready to go to the venue. Oh ! wait did I introduce myself ? alright I have short term memory loss just kidding . As its an important day of my life so I am just excited and nervous .Okay enough with my rambling. Hi , am Ruberia  Ann Collins , graduate with forensic biology degree ,soon-to-be- 25 and as you know  the  Bride . Everything is just perfect my dress, cake , venue, food ,its like a dream come true . Not to mention my groom , love of my life. Never in my wild dreams have I thought to find someone like him , someone who would love me more than himself , someone who would comprise his dream for me. Can you believe it ? even I was speechless ! I still clearly remember that   day. On 18 January as I returned home form another "interesting day " I saw him , Nicholas James Kingston, sitting on one of the love seat deep in thoughts with an envelop sitting at the coffee table opposite to him. " what's wrong ?" I ask as I approach  him. He gives me a small smile and motion towards the envelop for me to read. Taking a deep breath  I open and read the letter with neutral expression which soon morphs into into wide grin but as realization dawns upon me the smile slowly starts to falter but I  refuse to show him my sadness knowing its really a best offer and he deserves it . With a heavy heart and as much as I can I plastered a sweet smile on my face and look up to meet his eyes which are already fixed on my face trying to gauge my expression . His eyes shining with unshed tears as he waits for my response . To say I was upset would be an understatement because I was feeling an tsunami of emotions . The moment I read the letter I knew we would be over since I won't stop him from pursuing his dream, I love him so much to be selfish but my heart is not agreeing. All I want to do is scream "Don't go ! Don't leave me" but all I say is "Congratulations , you deserve this. Accept this offer" , knowing very well that this weren't the words he wanted to hear , knowing very well that my heart was broken. " I haven't decide yet ,love . I have a day for decision ." " Please don't Nick. Accept it ,its for your best go chase your dream." " Ann I haven't decided give me some time " he pleads . I nod my head allowing tears to fall and hug him as my life depends on it , well my life  in a kind surely did! I place my head on his shoulder as he tenderly strokes my hair and soon sleep takes over me . I woke up on my bed feeling more tired and drained. Sitting up on my bed I found a note form Nick saying he will call me when he had made his decision ! This led to new stream of tears. After 2 to 3 more hours of self wallowing I decided to complete my remaining work. And I do just that trying to keep myself busy doing chores of house but my mind refuses to think anything else other than Nick and as hard as I try not to cry my tears just can't seems to stop. With each passing second am becoming a mess cursing myself and Nick for making me dependent on him so much that I can't help and  be selfish . After waiting for almost 12 hours , which wasn't easy cause trust me these hours felt like months and every time my phone buzz I become a nervous freak , my door bell ringed startling a bit I opened the door to find my neighbor's  12 year old daughter smiling shyly at me with a bouquet of my favorite flowers in her hand. She offers me flowers which surprised me, yet I accept it as she  drags me towards the terrace of our building . I silently follow behind her but as soon as we reach I gasp seeing it beautifully decorated with lights and petals and Him in the center looking good as well as nervous . Wait nervous , Is he seriously breaking up with me in a such a romantic setup ! I wanna punch him !! But he surprise me again when he pulls me and we start swaying to soft music , God knows from where its playing . I close my eyes trying to memorize each moment and a sad smile grace my lips as music comes to an end . I open my eyes to find him on one knee with a ring , I was taken back by his position , he clears his throat and says " You are more important to me than that job .You complete me and my happiness lies with you . So will you  Ruberia Ann Collins do me a favor of being officially mine....." I don't even let him complete his sentence as I start repeating "yes" over and over again . I surely would have looked like mad women with tears falling but smiling  broadly . And this moment I realized we were destined  to be  and will forever me together . "You may kiss the bride ". I was pulled out of my revivery by priest's voice . So here I am standing at alter in front of my Nick saying my vows and promises. The ceremony is over in a blur and now we are heading towards our  home to start a new chapter of life  thus our happily ever after... Though that was the day I felt as a never ending one but the wait was worth it !!! by AMZ


When I was in my late teens tennis was my obsession. I began playing tournaments. Here in Manitoba, Canada there used to be 3 levels: A, B, and C. I lived in the middle level, B. At tournaments though there were no cliques, everyone socialized together. I watched Glen’s matches often because he played a style of tennis I liked. As an “A” level pro there was a lot I could learn by watching him play. He won the Manitoba Open at least once in the late 70’s. In terms of tennis, we didn’t have much in common and we remained acquaintances. In the early 90’s I started playing golf regularly, played less tennis, and gradually drifted away from the tennis crowd. In 1998 I had recently joined a golf club and as I walked out to the driving range one morning I noticed a tall familiar figure hitting balls. I hadn’t seen Glen in over a decade. Unlike with tennis, we shared similar golf skills and formed a close friendship as we began playing regularly. As an added benefit Glen introduced me to his golf buddies and soon I was part of a regular group of a half dozen players. Soon we were phoning each other to arrange epic “Shell Wonderful World of Golf” matches against each other but also to discuss any number of other topics. Our friendship came along at a crucial time as I was going through a divorce. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t make friends all that easily, I’ve never had a wide circle of people who could be described as close. Looking back on it I never formed friendships with fellow teachers because I preferred a separation between my work and private life, plus I got enough shop talk at work. There has always been more acquaintances than friends. It’s strange sometimes how people are going through opposite experiences. While I was adjusting to life as a divorced father of two, Glen had begun a new relationship and seemed to be on top of the world. Soon he was newly married and talking about the new house they were building. It was great to see him so happy and I took some encouragement in seeing that it was possible that I could one day be in a good marriage too! Eventually I began getting “out there” a little. I joined a singles club and began dating. Each week Glen and the other golf buddies would ask about any dates there may have been since we last played. I had some interesting stories about some uncomfortable evenings out and my endeavors to wrap them up as soon as possible. Since I was only one of two single guys in our group, they looked forward to hearing any “reports” I had to share. After a few years of single clubs and dating I had come to the conclusion that I needed to take a break from it all. I had one purchased event left and I figured that I'd just go and at least eat the included dinner and then stop going altogether. Then everything changed! I met Lorraine at this last event. I still remember how striking she was in the white jeans and pink top she wore that night, how easy she was to talk with, and her sense of humor. I remember seeing some of the attendees playing shuffleboard and asking if she would like to partner up and play. “We’ll kick their butts; they’ll never know what hit them!” was her reply. As if this wasn’t enough, she golfed too! When I asked her out for nine holes of golf and dinner afterward her reply was “Sure, but you’ll need to bring your A-game!” I was hooked! Glen was happy for me and soon made the suggestion that led to some of the most enjoyable days of my life. He said “Freddie (his nickname for me that he and our golf buddy Brent had given me after the tour pro Fred Couples), the four of us should go play”. Soon it was decided that the most even way to make teams would be Glen being a partner with Lo, and Brent and I would be the opposition. There were numerous matches with taunting and teasing. Often Glen would phone to set up all the details of a big match and then he’d say “Ok, put my partner on, we have to talk strategy”. He always called Lo “Partner”. He would joke that if it was too tense for Lo to drive out to the golf course with the opposition (me) he could come by and pick her up! If Lo told him about shooting a good score he would laugh and advise her not to post the good games on the handicap system until after our match in case her handicap went down! We also began taking four or five-day golf trips to Detroit Lakes. Glen, Brent, Wade, and I would play at four of about a dozen terrific courses in the area. We would play each day with a new partner and then rehash all the highlights (and bloopers) over dinner. Our favorite place was Zorbas in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. I knew even then that those would be some of my most cherished memories later in life. When I suffered with back issues for about six years Glen would always phone to see how my recovery was progressing. We would talk in person or by phone for hours about health, golf, and sports. We didn’t always agree but I always enjoyed the conversations. Especially about the Winnipeg Jets concerning the team’s players, trades, and draft choices. When Glen was diagnosed with kidney cancer in 2021, I would call to chat about how he was doing. He never complained about getting sick or asked “why me?” He was always upbeat saying how it was one step at a time and that he would get back to a full recovery day by day. Although there were several setbacks along the way he remained positive. When I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and was recovering from surgery the roles reversed and he encouraged me, and met me for lunch often helping me to remain positive. We were both surviving cancer at the same time and encouraging each other. In early September 2022, we met for lunch with another friend on a flawless fall day. Glen and I were feeling that we were on the home stretch of our recoveries and that we could perhaps play nine holes and ride a cart so that we didn’t try to do too much too quickly. It would feel great to return to doing something normal and we agreed to arrange this on the weekend for the next week. When my phone rang that Thursday and I saw his name on my phone I answered as I always have: “Ernie…how’s it going?” (Ernie was his nickname because his height and swing reminded me of the South African golfer Ernie Els). It wasn’t Glen though; it was his wife. I just knew by the sound of her voice… He had suffered a brain hemorrhage as a complication of his recent gamma-knife surgery. He was unresponsive and quickly lapsed into a comma with no measurable brain activity. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for her to have to make the decision to take him off life-support. Even though we knew that his long-term odds weren’t that good, it was a shock how suddenly it happened. One month later my golf partner Brent passed away of esophageal cancer, going from initial diagnoses to his last day in less than three months. It was a tough fall and it hit me hard. Late last October we had some beautiful warm days past the usual end of our golf season here. I woke up and looked out my window and almost reached for the phone to call Glen and figure out when and where we should play. I still have these moments where I blissfully forget for just a second that he’s really gone. The Jets will play a good (or bad) game, Donald Trump will do another ridiculous thing, or as just happened last weekend, Nick Taylor (a Canadian) won the Canadian Open. Just for a second, I find myself thinking I should call “Ernie” or half expect my phone to ring. We still meet his wife for dinner every now and then. The last time I asked her if I could buy his Ping driver from her. Glen and I used to joke about him selling it to me and he used to say “Freddie I can’t do that – it would come back to haunt me!”. Her response was “I want you to have it but you can’t blame him for any shitty shots!” I assured her that I wouldn’t, but that I might here his voice from somewhere asking “Freddie, what happened there?” That driver is in my golf bag now. As I walk the fairways and see it there all the memories of our epic matches and wonderful trips to Detroit Lakes come back to me. It feels good to have Glen with me out on the course.


Darren Wolf is the kind of man that runs in routines. He wakes up at precisely 6:30 in the morning, and the first thing he does after opening his eyes is fixing his bed. How he knows it is precisely 6:30 in the morning isn’t because of some alarm clock on his phone (his phone can only call his only daughter who lives a city away from him and when absolutely pressed, an ambulance when he needs it), but because of the sounds of his neighborhood that immediately tells his mind to wake up when he hears it. There’s the two high-pitched barks of the terrier monster his neighbor Matt arduously walks in the morning before heading to work because Cyril sleeps in, and the incessant beeping of some other neighbor’s hand-me-down car because they can’t handle parallel parking after a graveyard shift at work. Younger folks who just moved in like his neighbors Matt and Cyril like to stay in this district because of the quaint rural landscape it boasts as an escape to the metropolitan city, but what they’re really doing is dictating Darren’s schedule. Basically, he doesn’t have a choice but to wake up, because his house doesn’t really sound-proof well, considering it was built back in the 1940s. The next order of business would be breakfast: rolled oats and a hard-boiled egg. Completely bland and yet entirely satisfying. His doctors warned him against coffee in his age, but he knew that the thing that will get him in the end will be his smoking history. Younger Darren thought it was cool to smoke a fag but while he doesn’t regret the experience, he’s an idiot to continue his habit well after his 50s. Even now, his chest needs a few pounds directly to the lungs to remind them their integral role to Darren’s continued life on Earth. The house doesn’t bear any marks of his precious cigarettes anymore, his ash trays he let his daughter sell in her garage sale. These days, he just follows his routine. By eight, he’s itching for a walk, and he makes sure to leave food and water for his cat, Basil. Darren doesn’t care for that tall, curly-haired twat in BBC calling himself Sherlock, Basil Rathbone is the only Sherlock Holmes that matters. He leaves with his running shoes meticulously tied, his knitted cable jumper fresh from the fancy laundry machine he got over the holidays, and nice pressed trousers. In spring, the sun hits the sleepy rural town with just the right amount of sunlight, and the air feels light as it breezes by on his weathered cheeks. Living riverside, there’s just enough boats that it’s considered charming, but the tourists do get on Darren’s nerves. He’s more of a fan of autumn walks where time seems to halt every time a golden leaf flutter to the ground, but Eleanor loved spring and its gentle warmth that kisses their snowy town awake after winter. He does a quick circle around his street, sometimes he shops. He would pick a sandwich or maybe chips to eat for lunch and to save for dinner, but he’s had the habit of making extremely detailed groceries ingrained by his mother when he was younger, so spontaneous shopping isn’t in the daily routine. He’s known to be gruff and silent, and he could feel some schoolchildren staring at his back as they go to primary school when he ventures nearer to the more populated streets. He doesn’t mind It most of the time; Occasionally when he catches their eyes and they stop staring and reluctantly gives him a hesitant smile, it reminds him of his daughter Donna and simpler times. Most of the time, he’d finish his circuit and be back from his jaunt by late morning and Basil will be laying on his corner of sunshine by the hall. A book, shared in silence between a man and his cat, is slotted in the routine until he feels his stomach grumble for lunch. He takes his lunch outside in their porch, with an awning that makes the afternoon sun a bit more bearable. Today is a Wednesday, which means his neighbor, Cyril will be outside too. “Darren! Heard Basil meowing a bit earlier. Did you forget to feed him again?” Ever since his recent run in to the hospital, his neighbors have made the point to talk to Darren when they see him at least once a day. Maybe Donna has forced them to do it, fearing for her father’s self-imposed isolation after the death of her mother last year and the reoccurring nightmare of him dying without anyone noticing now that she’s gone ahead. Maybe Cyril’s decided to be neighborly after living next to each other for two months. They moved in and settled by winter, and were very courteous, but Darren’s not a fan of the cold and stayed indoors where the heat was reliable. Cyril’s what Eleanor would have called sweet if she was still around, and she would’ve given him an extra marmalade jar when she made them in batches. Luckily for Darren, Eleanor’s not around to swat him in the arm when he’s being rude to people who interrupt his lunch. He gestures at the empty easel in front of his neighbor, “Planning to finish this time?” This usually gets Darren the intended effect for the past week: Cyril’s embarrassed grimace and death of awkward conversation between two people defined by their generations. Cyril’s a painter, or he valiantly attempts to be one every day. Darren isn’t entirely sure what he actually does as an occupation, but on weekdays, Cyril paints quite erratically; unfinished portraits of the river, the little wildflowers dotting the edges of the riverbanks, even an incomplete portrait of his husband in front of the idyllic rural background. He starts with an empty white canvas, and when Darren peeks at his neighbor’s work (which if he’s asked, he’ll vehemently deny) he’s done some work that somehow vanishes the next day. This time however, Cyril smiles. “Actually, I’d like it if I could maybe paint you,” he eyes Darren up and down, as if sizing him and placing him already as the subject of his painting. Darren gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, which can’t possibly be the pudding he’s eating. “And don’t worry, I hear your doubts. This time, definitely, I’ll finish painting, and you can even keep the end result for absolutely free.” “Why on earth would you paint someone like me?” Darren incredulously asks, his lunch forgotten beside him. “Surely, there’s better candidates for painting. Just wait for your husband when he gets home and paint him!” He could feel a dangerous flush of embarrassment tainting his usually gruff face. Eleanor has always said the he embarrasses easily and reddens like an angry tomato that just about to drop from the vegetable vine. He gestures uncomfortably and shrugs, “Paint the sky, or some car, or even Basil, for god’s sakes.” “I’ve painted those lot already, and Matt’s a terrible model. He moves around and isn’t at all interesting; He just frowns at his mobile and talks about the stock market. I know I married him, but he’s dreadfully boring,” Cyril amusedly says as he continues to regard Darren with continued interest. “You, on the other hand, are incredibly interesting. I’ve been trying to paint outside ever since spring made it easier to set up my easel and paints while every day without fail, you sit outside for lunch. When you stare at nothing and everything, I just want to capture the moment where you here and yet aren’t here at all and feel what you feel. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but you only ever smile during lunch time, and it can’t possibly be because of what you’re eating, “he stops suddenly and gives a sudden belly-aching laugh that startles Darren, “I realize I sound like a stalker, and I swear I’m not, I just really want to paint you.” Silence seems to have descended into the conversation, as Darren grapples with the fact that his neighbor is more astute than he realized which puts his self-taught inquisitiveness from his love for crime solving books to shame that had made him think he’s slightly more superior to his younger neighbors. His neighborhood has changed as the ties caught up on them, and Darren and his quiet corner has stayed intact. Maybe he has always felt that his age made him felt wiser and more enduring than his flighty neighbors who change as seasons come, but he’s never been caught off-guard like this from a conversation before. Worse, his ears betray him as they distinctly hear Eleanor’s amusement as if she’s right beside him as they would’ve been sitting together at lunchtime, look at you, making friends! Told you, you could do it. Cyril looks more and more uncomfortable as the silence stretches on to minutes than the seconds he had initially hoped for and Darren’s mouth remains locked and his whole-body tense, like a tightly coiled spring. “Listen, forget it, it was a stupid idea, I’m sorry to bother you--” “Alright then.” Darren interrupts what would have been a more embarrassing conversation for the two of them. He could pretend to himself that he’s only acquiescing to dodge another nuisance, but to be honest, he feels a bit curious to see how his neighbor sees him. Eleanor would’ve loved the idea, too. It would be something new to tell her when he visits her on Sunday after mass instead of recounting the same old routine he’s been telling her and which no doubt, makes boring conversation for her. Cyril’s face starts with to slight confusion to surprise and complete delight. “Wonderful! Absolutely—I don’t know what to say really, excellent!” Darren eyes him and he immediately stops his chatter but the happiness on his face remains. “Just… sit there and eat? I suppose? I haven’t really thought ahead after asking you really,” Cyril keeps his steady stream of chatter and while his neighbor fixes his painting things that looks unnecessarily complicated to Darren, he resumes his lunch and wonders if he’s too old to make a new friend and decides that if Eleanor were here, she would have told him in between Cyril’s chitchat to already invite the poor thing over for dinner, and that’s what he’s going to do.


I am inexplicably powerful. And I am one of so many, there are not stars in the night sky can outnumber us. Sometimes, one of us ends up in your pocket. Other times we get dropped but we move around anyway, cradled by the great forces. And after countless centuries, I have become the most beautiful form of myself I could ever have dreamt of becoming. I'm how I always hoped I would be. I am smooth, polished, sleek, potent. Funny how ageing gives me the properties that the land herd lose with the passage of time. Maybe, if I could condense the process, and sell it to them, I could become very rich indeed. I'm over a hundred thousand years old so I've learned a thing or two about the land herd. They covet money mostly. But I deal in a different currency; I am in the business of luck. Good luck, bad luck, it's a compelling business and I have found my niche in this particular type of commerce. My present familiar, Elliot, is very attentive, very considerate, he's quite a relief. There have been too many landys who had the perplexing preference for keeping me out of sight, hidden, boxed or otherwise wrapped up. In the dark. I hate being on my own. It gives me time to think. And I think about things that make me sad. Like how much I miss my brothers and sisters. We were a big family when we were young, so many of us, and all so different at first. But when you all come from the same volcanic eruption, you're tight with your siblings, you come to understand the commonalities you all have and your differences become less and less important. It's a basalt thing, it's in your formation.

Before I was with Elliot, I was kept for a few brief years by his lover Carly, which was pleasant; Carly understands my power and respects it. It’s funny how so many of the land herd have had a similar reaction to me over the past few centuries. Sometimes it begins with a brief tactile pleasure, when they realize that I fit neatly into the palm of their hand. Other times, when they notice the small holes in my underside, I get collected and my value rockets from plain old beach pebble to lucky charm. And that's the sweet spot, the moment I know it's game on, I have the power and the next move is mine.

So how does a humble pebble like me make its way in the world? How have I moved through millennia, gone from prized possession to lost at sea and back again? By whatever means necessary and available. I've been hauled onto boats, washed over sea walls and gathered by little hands. I've been swapped for other treasures, sold at markets, bequeathed to grandchildren. I've been dumped like rubbish, buried, forgotten. I've spent many, many centuries amongst others like myself, in the places where we are born, growing and learning, and yet not once come across any of my siblings. It really is a big world after all.

It was around a hundred years ago that I finally resolved to find my family, or at least some kind of relation. With several thousand of us out there, and time on my side, this didn't seem like the most unachievable goal to me. I had been caught in a fisherman's net in the early 1920s and he had taken me home and given me as a lucky charm to his wife. They had been trying, unsuccessfully, for children for many years and the wife had all but given up hope for becoming a mother. Then I arrived. Her eyes shone as she rolled me in her hands, her finger following the line of the band of quartz that runs through me. I quivered at her touch. Such was her fascination with me, she kept me in her apron pocket from that moment on. Their first son arrived 9 months later. He was followed by another boy and finally, after a few more years, a girl. She gifted me to her when she was 18, clearly keen to become a grandmother without delay. But I knew the boy she was with was not the match she deserved so I found myself a new home, the daughter not holding the same belief as the previous generation. Well, why should she? There were no children for her! Just a stupid, shiny stone, her mother's superstitions proved to be just that. I was in London by then and the building I lived in was hit by an air raid bombing during the final months of the second world war. Another obsession of the land herd. War. And they are ambitious! For a second time, in not so many years, there were more herds than ever before engaging in battle. After the bomb, I was lost in the rubble for a time until some children came to pick over the remains for whatever treasures they could find. A small boy found the green wooden box I had been kept in - another reason this landy girl did not deserve any good fortune - and to my delight he took me out, rubbed me in the palm of his thin little hand and tucked me into his trouser pocket. He promptly threw the box onto a fire in a dustbin that some men were standing around, much to the men's approval, and mine. I stayed with that thin little landy until he was old, grey and a lot wider in the middle. When we first met, his grandmother had told him of my power and counselled him to keep me safe and warm, which, to his credit and hers, he did. And most wonderfully, once he had me, an obsession was born and he began to take any chance he got to visit the coast where his grandmother lived, spending hours wandering up and down the beach. After a number of visits, his collection had grown to include many of my contemporaries. And one day, a beautiful summers day, my dearest wish came true. One of my sisters was among the gathering from the days hunt. We couldn't believe it at first, what were the chances? Momentarily stunned, we struggled to know what to say. She was beautiful, more beautiful than I had ever thought any of us could ever be. Three snaking white lines of quartz running through her, criss-crossing, curving. So exquisitely polished you could see your reflection in her. And her colours! A blushing pink moved through to mauve and then deepest purple, all with a glistening shimmer that caught the light even on the dullest of days. We were soon exchanging stories, night after night; there was a lot to catch up on and we shared our adventures, reminiscing in memories of our early days and imagining what lay ahead for us. Eventually, we went our separate ways. Half the collection was given to a grandson and my sister was in that set. We bid each other farewell but not with heavy hearts, we knew we were both destined for great things, such was our power and beauty. I was gifted to a granddaughter, a land herdling with a notion for magic and the darker arts. I became her constant companion for many years, one of the few stones to remain in her possession after many were swapped for stickers or necklaces or lipstick. I decided it was time. I ensured that she got what all teenage herdlings want. First love. Then she recognized my power. A picture began to form in her mind, where Carly was calling the shots and making the moves. And so Carly and I set our ambitious course to achieve. Wonderful, powerful things. Everything she would ever want.


1 st person: My legs burnt from the long climb but the tyrant’s surprise and dread at seeing me made it all worth it. After months of on and off fighting, I realized this would be my final stand. Win or lose, no in between. I couldn’t afford to lose, I had a kingdom to rule. This selfish woman wanted to usurp my throne, however, I was determined to defend it with my life. She used to be my lover, my soulmate; every time I called her “my princess” she would blush so sweetly. We had planned our wedding for years but when my father died it had been postponed. I was the only son; the crown was mine to take. I wanted to rule and bring prosperity and wealth to my kingdom. Naturally, I accepted the crown. I had just scaled the hill this pitiful woman had taken refuge on and my breath was heavy. I could see her slowly backing away from me, fear evident in her wide eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek. 3 rd person: A huge crowd started gathering at the foot of the hill. Two figures could be seen on top. One was our beloved queen, the other a deranged madman. Five months ago, when the king had died, the young prince had taken control of the kingdom. At first, we had been glad to have a strong and young ruler but we soon learnt just how misleading appearances could be. He had been too young to take the crown, too inexperienced, too eager. He had declared war on nonviolent countries and attempted peace with bloodthirsty ones. He had brought a wave of destruction and horror to our weak kingdom. We had all started to lose hope. Nevertheless, when a woman had stepped up to correct the impossible situation, the light of hope had shone brighter than ever. A charismatic, beautiful, young girl. She wasn’t yet of age but after only a few treaties and gifts she had managed to calm the kingdom’s new, raging enemies. She had always worn a cheerful smile and encouraged us, she had promised that a brighter future was just around the corner, waiting for us. We had believed her and loved her, she had been an angel fallen to earth. The prince had been supposed to marry her but he strongly disagreed with the peace treaties she had made without alerting him. She had risked angering her king to shield us from the horrors of war and our gratitude was immense. We would have done anything to save her. However, as we all stared up at the hilltop, tears in our eyes, we understood we could do nothing to protect her. The prince clutched a dagger in his left hand and she backed away, even from so far away we could all see her legs shaking. 1 st person: “Why did you do it? Why did you betray me? We could have loved each other, a kingdom at our feet. You and I, queen and king.” I asked her desperately. I wished for nothing more than to hear her say sorry. “You were destroying your father’s kingdom, I had to do something, I was the only one that could save them.” She replied between sobs. I could see that a crowd had gathered below us, good, they would see me end this tyranny. 3 rd person: It is said that the prince went mad after his father’s death. No one had seen him mourn but we all knew just how much his father meant to him. The prince’s mother had died while giving birth to him and his father had grown him without marrying a second wife. We had also seen the young couple, now trapped in a deadly dance, stroll through the castle, hand in hand. Head over heels for each other. She was a mere a villager but she had captured his royal heart. We had enjoyed watching this young couple fall in love with each other, each day more. Simultaneously, we all gasped as our prince lunged, aiming with the dagger for her stomach. She backed away quickly but tripped on her white, long dress. On their wedding day the queen had been forced to flee. The naïve prince had threatened to declare war to yet another rich city. He had wished for money beyond anyone’s dreams. Jewels and territories. She had tried to talk sense into him but he had refused to listen. We had all heard the shouts when she run away from the palace, already in her wedding gown. He had threatened her life, his words cutting through the air so loudly the castle servants had heard. “Cross me another time and I will make sure you won’t say another word”. A humble family had given her safe heaven in their farm but evidently the steep climb and wooden fence hadn’t been enough to keep the prince from finding her. He had been utterly enraged at her escape and when he had ordered his guards to kill her and they had refused, he had gone after her himself. The tension in the air was almost palpable. It was obvious the crowd wished to surge forward and save their queen but they knew that wasn’t possible. 1 st person: In a heartbeat I was standing on top of her, my knife to her throat. I watched as a droplet of blood fell down her neck. The crowed screamed, I knew they wanted their king to end this peasant’s life but I needed to enjoy the moment and take my time. “Do you not regret it? Do you not wish to have used the people to obtain all the gold and glory there is?” I asked her, incredulous of her stupid choices. “A king doesn’t use his people, he leads them, he kneels at their feet and does as they wish. A king is there to make his kingdom powerful, a king isn’t elected to steal and condemn his warriors to a pathetic death.” She spat in my face these arrogant words. But I had enough of her stupid preaching. She may take the high road but I would never believe her words. With one swift motion, I plunged the sharp dagger deep into her chest. She gasped softly and uttered her last words in a barely audible whisper. “A good king protects his people with his life, a bad king kills his people to protect his life. You killed me because you couldn’t kill your regrets, you cannot save the people you sent to die, you cannot save the people that are dead because of you.” Her words hit me like a blow but the weeping and wailing of the crowd was what made me realize just how wrong I had been. I stared at the bloody dagger, tears cascading down my face. I had just wanted to make my father proud. Without thinking, I touched the pointy dagger to my chest. I had killed her, I had killed the love of my life. I had condemned them, I had condemned the people I was supposed to protect. Then, all went dark as I plunged the blade into my heart.


“Excuse me would be nice,” Oshun Kingston spat, as she looked down at her champagne glass that had fallen out of her hand and onto the floor as she was bum rushed by a large male causing the contents of her glass to make contact with the freshly polished cherry-wood flooring of the party’s venue.

Oshun had flown out from her New York brownstone to Atlanta for her friend, Natalie’s New Years Eve party. She and Natalie had met in high school, and while they remained in touch over the years, they hadn’t exactly seen one another in person. Natalie had invited her before the Thanksgiving holiday and Oshun being the type to keep her promises, she turned down all of her other party offers just to spend time with Natalie.

The man, who’d bumped into her stopped in his stride and turned on his heels to apologize, but it fell on blind ears when Oshun noticed that it wasn’t just a random man. Her eyes took in those insanely dark eyes, and the intense stare they had on her face--a stare that she’d grown to love years ago. Her eyes trailed over his full eyebrows accompanied by thin but long eyelashes. His full lips were plump and moisturized, something she’d taught him to do years ago, and a full beard filled the lower portion of his cheeks and chin. She didn’t bother to check out his body because his face was enough to make her knees go weak and have thoughts that she shouldn’t have, considering she was engaged to be married.

Faraj Mueller was his name, and the simple action of him smiling at her had her mind rethinking the past that they’d shared.

“Oshun? Girl, what are you doing here?” He asked her, as he filled the distance between them. Oshun couldn’t form the words to say to him before he wrapped his arms around her in a bone-crushing hug, squeezing her small body to his chest like he’d done millions of times before. Except they were no longer a couple now.

Oshun and Faraj had dated for a little over a year in high school. The two had ended on a good note during the summer before college. They’d collectively agreed that it was best to end their relationship there instead of holding onto one another since they had planned to go to two completely opposite regions for college.

After college at Georgetown University, Oshun had moved to New York having not wanted to return to Georgia where her family was located. Faraj, on the other hand, returned home after attending Xavier University to go to medical school at Emory University. Eight and a half years had passed since, and the two hadn’t seen one another since their breakup.

While they had mutual friends, Oshun hadn’t been a social butterfly like she had been in high school. She had piled work on herself, taking on different projects and assignments at work to the point that she barely had any free time. As a project manager and accountant--her dual majors at Georgetown--it was nothing for her to work ten to twelve hours a day, anyway. It was a wonder that she’d found time to date, and it was even more a surprise that she was currently planning for a wedding to her boyfriend of the last two years.

Faraj, on the other hand, had made a lot of effort to see their mutual friends and stay in contact with the people they’d grown close to in high school. Although he was currently in his residency as a family physician, even as a medical school student, he went out every once in a while just to keep the bonds strong.

Natalie was known for throwing amazing parties, especially for the holidays and this was not one to miss. Especially now that he was seeing Oshun for the first time since their split.

Oshun didn’t know how long they hugged, but at the end, she felt drugged up on his strong cologne. She held onto his arm to gain her balance and fight against her knees growing weak as she inhaled his masculine scent, having missed being in his arms. While Faraj hadn’t been nearly as muscular when they dated, he always gave her a sense of security and comfort whenever she was in his arms.

“Natalie invited me before all the holidays. How about you?” she asked him, as she dropped her hand to her side.

“Same here,” Faraj nodded his head. “It’s been so long since I saw you, but you still look like the Oshun I remember. I know you went off to New York and stuff, I was kind of expecting you to be a full-blown city girl.” Faraj’s southern accent was strong, lacing all of his words but it had been another one of the things she liked about him. Although she’d also been born and raised in Georgia, her accent was not nearly as strong even before going off to college. Since then, her accent had dwindled down even more.

Oshun chuckled, as she ran her fingers through her hair and pushed a piece that had fallen into her face behind her ear, “I might live in New York, but I’ll always be a Georgia girl at heart.”

“Mhm,” Faraj hummed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “it seems like you do more than live there,” his eyes fell onto her hand, the single-carat heart-shaped diamond ring glistening underneath the disco lights. “Congratulations.” Oshun gave him a tight-lipped smile, “Thank you.” Faraj nodded, “When was the big day?” “It’s actually this upcoming August,” she informed him. “Cool,” Faraj told her. “Did you bring the lucky man along?”

Oshun shook her head no, “He’s actually in New York with his family for the New Years. Did you bring anyone special along?”

Faraj shook his own head no, “My girlfriend is spending her New Years in Vegas with her sisters. So, I came alone too.” Oshun nodded, forcing a smile onto her face, “Well, it was nice seeing you, Faraj. I want to go get another drink since someone knocked the other one out of my hand.” Faraj chuckled, “I apologize for that. Let me buy you something, as a peace offering. Whatever drink you want, on me.”

“That’s quite a heavy offer. Let me think about what I really want,” she teased him, by plating her hand on her chin as she turned on her heels in the direction of the bar and strutted over with Faraj in tow.

The tail of her one-sleeve, sequined, designer mini dress moved from side-to-side with the sway of her hips and the small muscles in her arms flexed as she swayed her bare arm with each step. Her naturally long hair that reached her tailbone swung behind her, considering the slick-back, wet-look she’d sported for the night’s occasion.

Oshun was confident in her stride, gaining the attention of several other party goers, and she’d never lost Faraj’s attention since he realized that he’d ran into her. He tried to keep his eyes up ahead, but he couldn’t refrain himself from taking a glance at her derriere that was all the more full due to how tightly the dress hugged her body like a second skin.

Reaching the bar, Oshun slid into the stool causing her dress to ride up her thighs leaving even more skin exposed as Faraj sat down in the empty stool beside her. The bar was packed, full of party goers--some retrieving their first drink since arrival and others at the brink of reaching their limit for the night.

As soon as Oshun sat down, a male bartender was standing in front of her with a wide smile awaiting her drink request. Deciding she wanted something stronger than champagne, she got a mix of Vodka and Cranberry juice before Faraj added on a few shots of brown alcohol which sent the bartender on his way to make their orders.

“So how long are you in town?” Faraj asked her.

“Just until tomorrow night. I only get the rest of the weekend off, then it’s back to work on Monday so I want to prepare myself for this long week ahead,” she told him.

Faraj nodded, “What did you study again?” “Accounting and project management. Dr. Mueller in the making right?” She asked, remembering how much Faraj talked about becoming a physician.

Faraj nodded with a smile on his face, “Yes ma’am.” Their drinks were placed in front of them, and for the rest of the night they stayed at the bar sharing a couple of drinks--courtesy of Faraj. They caught up further with one another and even asked prying questions about their individual families and if children were a factor for either of them. They weren’t.

“So how is it in New York? I was planning to visit during the Spring, maybe you can show me around,” Faraj told her, as she finished off her second drink.

“Well, the winters are cold and the place in itself is crowded, but there's a lot to do. I don't have a car because I would be late to work every day with the traffic, but it's really become home for me. I like the fast-paced environment and the pay for my job makes it even better,” she told him.

Faraj nodded, as he ran his fingers through his freshly trimmed beard.

“Sounds like the complete opposite of things here,” he gathered. “You know, I really can't see myself now being here in Georgia. My whole life is here, but I admire you for going off to chase your dreams. That takes a lot of courage to do.”

Oshun smiled, tapping her medium-length acrylic nails against the bar.

“I wanted a change of scenery, and when I got the offer after graduating college to go to New York and start at a rate that usually isn't achieved until you have at least five years of experience, I knew it was an opportunity of a lifetime. I do need to travel home more often because this is the first time I came south for the holidays in two years, but hopefully after the wedding, my husband and I can alternate holidays with our families,” she told him, with honesty in her words. While Oshun had some resentment towards her parents for things unknown to Faraj and others around her, being home had brought a nostalgic feeling to her that she hadn't felt since signing her lease for her brownstone. That feeling alone let her know that she had to do better.

Growing up, her family had struggled tremendously and partly was because of her parents inability to communicate and listen to one another. She had a strong-willed mother and a father that wanted to be the wholesome breadwinner, which led to them fighting and arguing on several occasions. It wasn't until Oshun was in high school that her family had gotten to the best position in their lives, partly because church and prayer had grown more common among her parents.

Though she loved her parents, she hated the environment she had had to endure for the majority of her life before the peace came about. That had been part of her reason for wanting to go away for college, anyway.

Faraj smiled to refrain from visually cringing at Oshun’s mention of her future husband. He didn't know why, but he should have not been feeling like that especially when he had a girlfriend of his own. It had been years since he’d last seen Oshun in person, yet he still felt like a seventeen year old boy approaching her at the English table she shared with a few of her friends to ask her out on a date.

They’d gone to school together for years, but it wasn't until the near end of their junior year that he approached her with hope that she’d give him a chance. To his own surprise, she had, and the rest had been history until it was time to start preparing to go away for school.

As much as Faraj wanted to tell her that he wanted them to try long-distance and try to make their relationship work, he knew it was best to allow Oshun her space. So, he agreed and told himself that he’d get over it with time.

Honestly, he had never got over it. He’d simply just learned to suppress the emotions he felt and with Oshun across the country, it made it easier to move on. That was until he saw her tonight.

“Well, I’m happy you enjoyed your time at home. I’d really like for you to show me around when I come in March, that’s if you don't mind,” he persisted but remained cool in his stance, not wanting to come off as being needy. When in doubt, he’d just find his own way around New York.

“Sure, let’s exchange numbers.” Oshun picked up her phone from the bar with intent and looked to Faraj, who’d begun to recite his telephone number.

It’s still the same, she thought. She had never forgotten his number, and she’d even been close to dialing his number up during undergrad on multiple occasions just to talk. She never had though.

She then told him her number, which was different than it had been in high school simply because she changed her number after the move to New York. It was her way of closing the chapter of her life that contained her childhood, and while her childhood was definitely a huge part of her, she liked it better knowing that the majority of Georgia no longer had her number.

Faraj locked the number into his phone before shoving the device back into his pocket.

As their conversation continued, Oshun didn't know why but old sparks started to fly and her body began to do things that she didn't want it to. She had no control over it, though.

She was experiencing things with Faraj that even her fiancé hadn't evoked, and that alone was scary.

She just hoped that she was making a mistake. One in marrying her acquired New York love. Two in exchanging numbers with Faraj.