I sat on the platform, anxiously bouncing my leg. Mass transportation was never my thing, but now there was an added source of worry. Another doctor’s appointment, but this time it was in New York City. Although I had loved The City in my twenties, the excitement of my youth was since replaced with the awareness of a woman who’s experienced enough to know the risks. Okay, so I’m a worrier by nature, but life has given me a lot to worry about. Segue back to my appointment. I once read somewhere that the things we worry about are almost never the problems that come to pass. I have to agree with this theory; not that it’s stopped me from worrying just the same. I can think of a hundred reasons to fear illness or death, but somehow I managed to create a few that never made the list. Life is funny that way. You think you have control. That you can decide how your life will go, and who you’ll spend it with. But it’s only an illusion. In fact, while we futilely plan out our lives, our fates are being orchestrated for us. That’s not to say we don’t have any choices. We can certainly choose our jobs, decide where to live, and whether or not to shove another donut in our mouths. I’m talking about the stuff that will take us off track, and derail our lives in ways we couldn’t imagine. Losing the partner we planned on spending our future with, or the job we devoted our lives to, or full use of our bodies or our minds. Those are the things that fate controls, and fate can be a bitch. Luckily, though, sometimes she throws you a bone. So there I was, anxiously waiting for the train to arrive, when suddenly I felt that frightening but familiar rumble. Apparently my stomach was as nervous about my little trip as I was, but where to go? The tiny station house was locked, and there was not so much as a Porta-John in site. I clutched onto my bag and swiftly made my way across the street. It wasn’t ideal, but the CVS bathroom was going to have to do. After all, beggars can’t be choosers. I searched through the store until I found the magic door, and as I rushed to turn the knob I captured a glimpse of the “Employees Only” sign. I fumbled through the aisles; hoping to find someone to save me. Just as I turned past the magazines I came upon my hero. She chatted on about the weather as I held my breath and prayed, and finally I was behind the door. As I let out a sigh of relief and buttoned up my pants I suddenly felt the panic rise over me again. It was 11:01 and my train was due to depart at 11:05. I raced across the street, puffing and panting in stride as I watched as the train pulled away. At first I felt despair. I had hoped that this doctor would be different, and that this time things would get better. Now I would have to reschedule, and I had already waited 3 months to get this appointment. Plus, I didn’t have a ride to get home, so now I would have to call someone. Enter the dependable mom, who can always be counted on in times of crisis. Thankfully she was just checking out at the market, and she said she could come within the hour. As I crossed back to the drug store I could feel the anxiety leaving my body, and I knew it was trying to tell me something. Now, it’s true that at times we all have to risk discomfort in order to grow, but somehow I knew that there was more to this than that. I knew that I was not supposed to be on that train. But what now? I still had this rare illness, and all of the pain that went with it. I still had a part time job; struggling to work in my condition, and I still needed help from someone who cared and understood, but I didn’t know where to find it. I sat on the curb wiping my tears, when I caught the distant sound of my name being called. At first I thought I was just imagining it, but as the sound got closer I turned to see a friend. This was a very dear friend, but I hadn’t seen him in ages. As he sat down beside me I found myself unable to contain my words, and my worries came pouring from my mouth. He had always been so kind, and even though many years had passed I still found it easy to let the truth flow. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and handed it to me, and I pressed it against my new tears. Then I sniffled and smiled and told him I hoped that things were going much better in his life. He chuckled and said that they were, as he began to tell me of his success. Apparently after we lost touch he had opened a small business. It was a quaint country shop in New England. They sold pure maple syrup and honey, as well as tea and organic chocolates. Against all odds they had survived the pandemic, and become a great success through word of mouth. I congratulated him and shared that I had a passion for such items.  For as long as I could remember I’d been enamored by tea leaves and nature’s sweet candy. Friends were struck with awe at my collection of beautiful loose teas, barrel aged maple syrup, and sweet, delicious honey. This store was my idea of heaven! He went on to describe the charming neighborhood and peaceful scenery, and my eyes glazed over as I imagined what it would be like to live in that world. Just as I was coming back to Earth he proposed an idea… “Why don’t you come and work for me?”, he asked.  My heart began to race at the suggestion. “But where would I live?” I responded. “I don’t have any money to put down on a place”. Quickly my hopes began to dwindle, but once again his words eased my fears. “There’s a small room over the shop. We were using it to make gift baskets… something I was hoping you’d take on. If you don’t mind cozy spaces, you are welcome to it. There’s a place for you to work, and of course, you are welcome to help out in the store any time.” “What do you think?” I felt the old me creep up and try to stop me. It fed me a string of excuses; telling me all the reasons to stay put. “The devil you know”, it sneered. But I was not about to let this pass me by, so before it could speak another word I blurted out in exclamation, “Yes!”. It’s been two years since that lucky chance encounter, and the day I missed the train. The life that brought me tears and so much worry is now only a memory. Some days I still can’t believe how things worked out, but I know that I owe it to the train that put me back on the right track.


The feeling that was gripping Yuen’s heart as she pulled the comforter up around her chin was heavy - like an elephant was sitting on her chest. Her nose caught a whiff of something that was unmistakably her father, though he last used that comforter and pillow six months ago. It had been six months since he could sleep in his own bed, and three months since an insipid brain tumor shut his body down and took him away from her. She was sleeping in her dad’s bed because she’d flown home to help her mother prepare to leave the home they’d shared for more than 30 years. Yuen also spent the first 23 years of her life here.

The aching in her chest never left the entire day she spent with her mother. Indeed, every vantage point in this house reminded her of what used to be and could be no longer.

She lay her head down and could still smell the stale dandruff that had drifted from his head seemingly so long ago. Her mother never slept with the bedside lamp completely off these days. It was a remnant of her final months with dad, when that tumor took away his cognition in such a way he couldn’t find his way back to bed after going to the bathroom. She feared so much at that time. The fear, however unreasonable, still lingered. She’d turned the knob to LOW, dimming it to the bare minimum and had drifted into a restless sleep already, so Yuen closed her eyes. There was just darkness, but it didn’t frighten Yuen. She was curious and peered closer. A shape began to loom through the endless black and seemed to multiply around a single focal point. Yuen felt like she was looking through a kaleidoscope. The shapes rotated slowly, coalescing into of all things, the form of her father, who moved toward her with arms open. Yuen felt such joy and being able to see him and feel his warm and comforting embrace again. The narrative of her father’s long battle with glioblastoma was forever embedded in her head, but seeing him in front of her, healthy and smiling, superseded any concern she had about his health. “Dad, I missed you.” “Me too, Bao Bei.” “I’m so glad you came to see me,” Yuen declared. “How are you doing?” “I’m well,” he replied. His words were few, but the warmth coming from his face - and his eyes in particular - gave Yuen such peace she didn’t waste time on idle conversation. In the quiet, Yuen took advantage of the opportunity to assess him. In his last days, he could no longer walk. He had a catheter in place. His eyes were hollow, and he had even pushed her away from him when she tried to keep him from leaving his bed, certain he’d fall to the floor (which he did). He even tried to eat a napkin in a rare moment when he could sit still with the family at the dinner table. He no longer resembled that sick man ingrained in her memory at all. He appeared youthful, Yuen thought, almost like the pictures of him from when she was still a toddler. He walked upright and strong. Most assuredly, his face was open, his eyes were kind, and he looked like her dad again. Yuen thought of the grandparents who had also passed away in the last few years. He was alone here with her. “What about the others?” Yuen asked. “Why can you come see me but they aren’t here?” Her father replied somewhat cryptically, “sometimes people go into the hospital not knowing they’ll never come out again.” In her head, Yuen tried to jog her memory of how her grandparents had all passed. I don’t think that’s accurate, she thought internally, as one grandfather - her dad’s dad - clearly knew he wasn’t coming back out. But it seemed like such an insignificant detail to quibble over. “Can you please stay with me?” Yuen pleaded with him. “Don’t go away. Can you stay here?” “I’m always with you,” he said conclusively. The kaleidoscope re-emerged, and instantly, her father disassembled into many pieces and faded away. Yuen awoke a little disoriented but quickly realized she wasn’t in her own home but in her father’s bed. The visitation was not the freshest thing in her mind, but given a few moments to assess what was happening, a feeling of warmth and joy flooded her heart. Finally, she thought. He came to me. She lay in his bed and breathed in deeply, willing the visitation to resume, but coming to her senses it was a wonderful dream and most likely a figment of her own mind wishing to see her father again. It was only then it occurred to her it was still dark out.

She reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. The knob was turned completely to OFF, and her mom was still asleep on the other side.


February 3 rd Dear diary,          No. I believe I am a bit past the age where I should be saying “dear diary,” Perhaps instead, I should say, umm, Dear Silent Confidant. Yes, that is much better, though still not the best greeting. Still, that does not matter. My name is Hailey. Funny, I am a twenty-two-year-old woman and writing in a diary. I suppose it is not so weird, but it still feels a bit childish. No matter; the reason I got this diary , journal—yes journal sounds much more mature—is because I am moving to a new place. A new town. A new apartment. And a new job. The town is called Newford. It is a smallish town—not too small, where everyone knows your business, but not big enough to get completely lost in a crowd—with a lovely town center with shops and grocery stores. My new job is in that center as well. I believe I shall write here often now that I am heading for a new adventure, but for now, I must tuck you away as my plane has landed. February 10 th Dear Silent Confidant,          I have not written in several days as I have spent much of the time settling into my new apartment. The furnishings are sparse at the moment, but the view out my window is lovely. My room overlooks the town center. I can see the tiny people scurrying around down below like ants. I can see the shop windows and the wares that are within them. And the best view of all is the cherry blossom tree beneath my window. It is beginning to bloom and I get to watch it unfold from the comfort of my window-facing bed. Later, I shall tell you a bit more about the town and my new work place, but for now I shall leave my writing off here. February 21 st Dear Silent Confidant, I have met a man. No, that sounds too serious. What I mean to say is I have met someone. But not a romantic someone, just a person I crossed paths with. Well, I suppose I should explain in a bit more detail. I was walking to work—remember that I was supposed to write a bit about my new job, but I keep forgetting—I work at a bakery. It is called Sprinkled with Cinnamon. I suspect you were expecting me to have a more exciting job like a journalist or a company owner, but baking is what I love to do and this opportunity was too good to pass up. Anyway, I was heading to work when I saw this man. He was sitting on a bench two buildings away from where I work and I did not need to even pass him, but I was curious. I want to meet all the people I can, after all. But this man, he is not an ordinary man. He is…well how do I say this without sounding overly blunt. Though I suppose it does not matter since no one shall read this. (I really must find another word other than suppose, seeing it on this entry so many times would have driven my English teacher nuts. Oh, I can see his face now, eyes narrowed and looking down upon me as if I were a bug, lips in a tight line, wrinkles out in full affect.) Oh my, I keep getting distracted. Anyway, this man was homeless. Now before you begin to think (as if a diary journal could think) I have spoken to a random bum; I must tell you that he is not like the homeless people that are portrayed in movies. You know what I mean, covered in dirt, unkempt, rotten teeth, looking to steal from those who pass by. In fact, he looks quite normal. His clothes are clean, his hair is short and neat, and he is very polite. I haven’t gotten to know him much since I had to get to work, but something about him intrigues me. March 5 th Dear Silent Confidant, I have begun to talk to Eric Brooks—the homeless man—every day. I hate to use the word homeless because it paints him in a bad light. He has merely fallen upon a spot of trouble, that is how he describes his situation to me. I forgot to mention that he is a young man, twenty-four. Just two years older than me. He is a very handsome man, but don’t worry that I am getting attached. He is merely a friend. I know that there is no way I could date Eric, not because he is beneath me in any way, but because it would not work out. Still, he is a good friend. In fact, I think tomorrow I shall talk to him after the bakery closes. Maybe I should bring him some treats from the bakery and we can talk. I don’t know all that much about him, after all. Friends must learn things about their friends after all. Yes, that is what I will do. And then tomorrow, I shall write about it. March 6 th Dear Silent Confidant, After the bakery closed, I was preparing to buy some baked goods to share with Eric, pastries and the like. But when I told my boss what I was getting them for, she gave me a basket of the treats that did not get sold that day to take to Eric. He was grateful for the basket when I gave them to him, but insisted that he pay for them or work for them. I simply told him that those baked goods were not a charity offering. In fact, he was helping my boss. Those baked goods were usually given away or thrown out at the end of the day, because the bakery prides itself on only selling fresh items. He finally caved in and accepted the treats graciously and thankfully. And then, we talked. I told him about the reason for my coming to Newford, my family, and my new job. And he in turn told me about himself. I did not ask him—doing so would be horribly rude—but he told me how he came to be homeless. He had a business, a law firm. It was a reputable firm and he was a very good lawyer. However, his firm stopped getting much business. Then, the bills and taxes had gotten the best of him and he was forced to declare bankruptcy. He used some of the money he had saved from before and had gone to Newford, hoping to find work or a way to reopen his practice. He had found neither, which was why he now had no home. He still had some money, enough to keep him fed and clothed for a time, but he was still actively looking for work to no avail. I wish I could help him, (Not with handouts or anything like that) but I barely have enough money to pay my rent every month and keep myself fed and clothed. Still, I believe I shall do some searching of my own to see if I can find a place for Eric to work. He might not like my help—not because he is prideful, but rather because he doesn’t want to be a burden—but I would not be a good friend if I need not at least try to help him. August 3 rd Dear Silent Confidant,          I know it has been a while since I have written. A long while indeed. I have been busy. During this time, I have learned something. I am in love. With Eric. I know I was confident that this wouldn’t happen, but I could not stop my heart from loving him. (That sounds incredibly cheesy, but it’s the honest truth.) Now, I don’t know what to do. I wish you could tell me what to do, but you cannot speak, hence the name “ Silent Confidant.” I suppose I will just have to figure it out on my own. August 15 th Dear Silent Confidant, I didn’t know what else to do, so I told Eric how I feel. And to my astonishment, he reciprocates my feelings. I cannot believe it. We talked for a while after that, figuring out what we should do with these said feelings. Eric says that he doesn’t want to officially date me until he is more financially stable (I forgot to mention that he got a job). I told him that there is no reason to wait, but he is adamant, which shows me how thoughtful he is. When I went to Newford, I did not know what to expect—I definitely did not expect to fall in love, but here I am—and now that I’m here, I am glad that I decided to come.


Ted zipped his red suit up and looked in the mirror. If only the guys from high-school could see him now. Thankfully, though, the only people seeing him wouldn't even recognize him like this... not even Diane, who had no idea Ted was dressing as Santa for her holiday work party. He had just gotten the text the night before from his buddy at the company asking if he'd be willing to volunteer and of course he agreed. Almost immediately he'd made up his mind to keep the secret and surprise Diane with a reveal later on in the night. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when he'd pull down his beard mid-photo to reveal he'd come to celebrate all of her year's hard work with her. She'd already left an hour and a half prior, so the party was wrapping up and it was almost time for Ted's cue. He took one last look at the final product and laughed to himself lightly. 'Well, I guess you either die believing in Santa Claus, or live long enough to see yourself become him.' And with that, he was out the door and making his way down the limestone driveway out front. His Dodge Ram would have to be a sufficient sleigh tonight. All down the highway the radio blared festive tunes and Ted whistled and hummed along, bringing himself into the holiday spirit any good Santa Claus should have. The drive to Diane's firm seemed like mere minutes but as soon as Ted stepped through the foyer and saw Diane, time slowed to a stop. Not just because he had seen her, but because of how he had seen her. Cuddled up under the arm of Drew Sphinx. Her boss. Ted's heart couldn't help but drop to his stomach. Every ounce of excitement to surprise his wife was instantly replaced with so many feelings he couldn't quite place which was strongest. Rage... confusion... maybe even jealousy? But Ted was able to definitively identify one of his emotions: embarrassment. There he was, dressed as St. Nick in the presence of his wife's evident affair; there he'd been, actually, just standing in a shocked stare for about four minutes trying to gather any kind of composure to continue into the main event. Luckily for him, after those four agonizing minutes the buddy who'd invited him here in the first place tapped his shoulder from behind, startling him and breaking him out of his miserable trance. "Justin.", was all he said but it's all he needed to say. "Yeah, bud. Why do you think I asked you of all people to volunteer tonight? Di's been getting real cozy with him lately, and I couldn't let it go on behind your back any longer." Ted nodded, "Yeah, well, I think I kind of preferred it behind my back. Right in front of my face is too painful." Justin shrugged lightly and then attempted at cracking a joke. "I mean, technically, it's in front of Santa's face... not yours." Unfortunately, Ted's face spoke the words 'not now' for him, but Justin understood. Ted really didn't understand, though. He didn't understand why or how Diane could do this to him. Had he not given her enough? Had he not made her happy? Did she actually want the head of her law-firm instead of him? Was she even telling the truth all those times she told him his career in extermination was more than good enough to provide for them? He didn't have much time to go over all of the questions swirling about his mind because as soon as the others had noticed Justin wasn't back from the bathroom yet their eyes all turned to the room's entryway, gazing straight upon the two of them still standing in the foyer. A moment of awkward silence attempted to break out, but Justin swiftly saved it with a quick "Look who I found!" and pat on the back to Ted, prompting the most forced "Ho, ho, ho' the room had ever heard. Diane shrilled with joy as she faced Drew and exclaimed, "Oh, I love Santa!" How ironic. "Well, why don't you go ask him what he's bringing you this year, baby?", Drew flirted back. Baby? Ted's stomach twisted into a tight knot and he grew nauseous. The room was spinning and he just couldn't believe what was happening. The woman he loved had been leading him on in a life full of lies. The woman he laid in bed with every night, was somehow finding the time and indecency to also lay in bed with another man. The betrayal stung deep and the disgust ran rampant within him. How many times had he touched a body that had already been serviced behind his back? How many days did she spend under Drew's arm while also keeping Ted under her thumb? How many cakes had she had and eaten too? There were so many questions, but this was also not an appropriate place for those questions to be asked. The next fifty-three minutes of conversation with random members of the firm were a blurry haze, but one thing that Ted could diagnose as happening was the growth of his rage by the second. Every glimpse of his wife and her boss that he caught destroyed him, and he knew he wouldn't be taking her back after tonight no matter what she had to say. He didn't want to hear it. It was 10:00 pm and he'd come here to surprise her, yet instead he'd gotten the biggest and worst surprise he could have upon walking through that breezeway. And now, Diane was the one doing the walking. Walking up to him, that is, still completely unaware that he was indeed her heartbroken husband. It was her turn for the $3 photo-op with Santa and he grew more and more nauseous the closer to him she got. Her energy didn't feel like anything familiar anymore. Ted had to accept that he didn't know her how he'd thought he did and that things would never be the same, though now he was questioning everything they'd ever been through together anyway. Suddenly nothing about Diane felt genuine and it crushed Ted to feel himself dread her nearing him. They'd slept together just last night, and now they'd never be going to the same home together again. Diane was now standing with only a few inches between them, and she closed the gap further by pulling his red velvet suit into a hug. "Hi, Santa!", she smiled a toothy grin and though an hour ago he'd loved to see her smile he now couldn't help but think there was something grimy about it. Ted didn't even recognize the woman she was presenting herself as in front of him and immediately felt anxiety about how she'd always presumably acted when he wasn't around. He just tried to smile back. "Sooooo...", she trailed off to turn around and look at Drew, who was still sat across the room at the table they'd chosen to enjoy their appetizers, "what are you bringing me this year?" There was a slight smirk on her face, like she halfway expected this Santa to retort back with a naughty answer. Instead, Ted completely stepped out of his comfort zone and shocked himself, as well as the rest of the room, Drew, and most certainly Diane. Ted gathered every ounce of confidence still left inside him, pulled down the itchy white beard, removed his Santa hat, then announced in a boisterous and jolly voice: "Divorce papers."


She was left on the steps of the Humane Society in a garbage bag amongst her other siblings. I can only imagine how unloved and alone she felt; questioning why God had brought her into this world. I was neither left in a garbage bag nor on the steps of a homeless shelter but rather in a family of six, before God, questioning too why He had brought me into this world. You see, I have obsessive-compulsive disorder and it is called the “pure O” type. My thoughts control me. They are, as I have confessed many times, of the impure nature. I was not unloved and surely not alone; but in my own self-made garbage bag. How could I love anything wholly and completely without hurting it? In turn, how could anything love me back? I had been married seven years. No children. It was just me and my husband and of course – my thoughts. We had managed to make our marriage survive. My husband knew of my thoughts but also knew that is was “only” a disease. He loved me anyways but I always held back on giving myself solely to him. I was afraid of hurting him; physically. Although he would joke many times that he was a black belt in karate and could fend for himself I never truly trusted myself. I finally sought out counseling; tough, raw counseling. The person with whom I counseled had never dealt with OCD before; but with kindness and persistence he learned all about it – we both did. He would often give me assignments. For example, sleep tonight with all of the pillows on your bed not hiding them in the closet to keep from using them as a weapon against my sleeping husband. With much work and determination, I accomplished each assignment. Then, the task that would change me forever was discussed. Get a puppy. Love a puppy. You won’t harm a puppy. My husband jumped at the prospect. He is an animal lover and wanted a dog so badly. I had decided that he had sacrificed too much for too long. It was time to take this very scary and emotional step. We decided on the Humane Society because we wanted to rescue a puppy. Also, as one with OCD I had to act before I would obsessively think and worry my way right out of the decision. We called our local chapter and found out that they did have a new litter of puppies. They were black lab/shepherd mixes and they were available ASAP. It was a Saturday morning. We drove off in silence both playing out our own scenarios in our head but neither wanting to share them at that moment. When we reached the Humane Society’s parking lot it was quite full. I hurried my husband along; another OCD action. I had to do this NOW; I had to do this before they were all gone; before my mind changed; before others stole the opportunity.  As we walked in, I spotted the puppies immediately. They were in a cage to the left of me. There were only three left. I pushed my husband to go and inquire about them. The young girl took us over to the cage. One of them was spoken for, the other was a male and the third was a female. I immediately made eye contact with the female huddled in the back and she with me. I wanted her. The girl went to get the keys. I immediately felt possessive of this little black bundle of fur! It was getting quite busy by then. People were coming in at a steady pace. A little boy spotted “my” puppy. I quickly put my finger through the cage and started rubbing her front paw; as much as to say: “beat it kid – this one’s mine!” They brought the three of us back to a private room where we could hold and discuss whether we wanted the puppy. The girl said that she would leave us alone and check back in a little while. Once she left I exploded with enthusiasm. I wanted this puppy. My husband pointed out that I hadn’t even held her yet. Held her? Wait, I have to hold her? But what if I get a “thought” and the moment is ruined? What if I hurt her? What if I drop her? What if she doesn’t like me? What if she senses that I am a “bad” person? My husband ignored my ravings and dumped her into my arms. I was as awkward as a new mother holding her baby for the first time. He coached me; where to put my hands; to hold her close to me; to talk to her. And then it happened. Not one “bad” thought came to me and if it had I wouldn’t have noticed. All I could feel was the warmth, breath and love of this little creature. She licked my face; she cuddled with me --- she loved me. We decided that this was the one for us. The girl came back and my husband told her that we could come back tomorrow and pick her up. I looked at him – tomorrow? Yes, he continued, we have nothing ready; no crate, no food, no – anything!!! Once again, my OCD took control. We must take her now or I won’t come back. I have to have her now. I’m not leaving without her. My husband caved – he had learned quickly that fighting w/OCD is pointless. So, I made a check out for $50.00, filled out the necessary forms and left with that beautiful black ray of hope shining from MY arms. We stopped on the way home and got all of the essentials. The pup never left my arms. The next big task was naming her. We took her to see my mother. Mom suggested the name midnight. It was nice but I wanted to name her. I said Colby because she was dark like coal. My husband pointed out that was more for a male pup. He then said Shelby – what about Shelby? We liked it. Shelby was born. For anyone who has raised and cared for a pup I need not tell about all the incidents of both pleasure and pain. For each person, they are the same but very different.  I do, however, need to share with you how Shelby completed me and allowed me to grow spiritually and once again trust myself. Shelby was 10 years old. We had noticed that she was short of breath and not very playful. Like a parent knows their child we knew something was wrong. We ended up taking her to an animal hospital emergency room. As soon as we entered the ER, a staff member came out to check on Shelby. She checked her gums – she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. The young girl took the leash from my hand and she was gone. Just like that. The doctor came back out and said that she was stable and that they would be keeping her overnight and running blood work and tests. There was nothing more we could do – “go home” she said “we’ll call you if anything changes”. But didn’t she realize that everything was changing. I was losing my strength, my friend, my dog – my child. The next day we were called back to meet with the Veterinarian specialist on the case. They took us into a small room. There were comfortable chairs, low lighting and soft music. She began by telling us that Shelby was very ill. Her blood work showed that she had end stage leukemia. They presented the option of chemotherapy but said that she would still only live 6 months at the most. They left us to consider our (shelby’s) options as they went to get her for us to visit. My tears began to flow. I knew what we had to do but could only think of what I would be losing. Shelby had given me trust in myself. She had taught me that I could love something and care for it and not harm it. She had also taught me that I could be loved back; that I was worth that love. At that moment, I heard the click of her nails in the hallway. She entered the room; tail wagging and came right up to me. I gave her such a big hug. She looked happy. We had decided that the best thing for her was to put her down. They had told us that even if we took her home she would become worse within hours. They left us alone to say our goodbyes. How do you say goodbye to a part of you? To something that you love beyond all else? To something that has helped you conquer a horrible disease? You know what? You don’t – you just cry and hurt and cry some more. The vet returned. Were we ready? How can one ever be ready for this? The vet asked if we’d like to give her one last biscuit to get her to lie down. As I extended the biscuit to her I couldn’t help notice that she was smiling, tail wagging. I had to ask. I turned to the vet. We are about to end her life and she seems so happy – why? I don’t understand? And then, the vet said something that will always be with me. She said “that’s because dogs live in the moment”. Several weeks after she passed on, I slept with her dog collar and cried myself to sleep. Then,  one morning something came over me and I had an urge to write a prayer in honor of her. I would like to end with that prayer. Shelby was not only my dog she was a part of my heart, a gift from God an answer to my prayers. She inspired this prayer and still continues to inspire me each day. She will always be with me and when I get down on life or on myself I try to say this prayer and learn from her --- to live in the moment and trust not only myself but He who made me and that wonderful Shelby. Lord- Show me the way To best use my day Show me the how To live in the now Show me the love That comes from above Show me the light To choose what is right Show me the power To fulfill every hour Show me the why To continue to try Show me the peace To make worries cease Lord, show me the way to best use my day! Amen to God and Amen to my Shelby girl; my strength in this life and my weapon against OCD – where living in the moment used to be only a dream but was now becoming a reality.


We enter a living room through double French doors, satin curtains billowing in the ocean breeze. The beach is like a mural painting through the tall windows, framed by clear blue skies and palm trees. Inside, everything is white fabric and woven bamboo. Bright-orange, tropical-afternoon sunshine engulfs the space. A smartphone lies face up on the coffee table. A tinny voice, irritant like a flying mosquito, fills the room, the words indiscernible. A young man sits on the plump sofa, hands in fists as his excitement mounts. A low-volume football match is unfolding on the flat screen mounted on the wall opposite him. The mosquito-sounding voice stops suddenly and the young man reaches for the phone, fumbling in slight panic. He catches the end of a question. “Of course I’m listening, Mum.” He grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl next to him, throws it at the TV as the referee rules against the team he’s supporting. “Hang on, I need to feed Reaper.” He puts the phone back down. The black cat sprawled on the rug shots his head up at the combined mentions of food and his name, then goes back to sleep realising the ruse. On the screen, a white-clad athlete pierces through a red defence. Past the forwards. Past the midfielders. With every yard the footballer covers, the young man rises an inch from the couch. His mouth opens in slow motion. Now past the backs. Only two between him and the goalkeeper. He takes a shot— And hits the crossbar. The young man falls back on the sofa. One hand clamps his mouth shut and the other punches a cushion. Feet kick the air. The furniture rattles and Reaper jerks awake, paws braced against the perceived earthquake. Limbs relax in defeat as the succession of three whistles ends the game. Numbers count down the time before the next recording begins. The young man picks the phone up again. “I’m back… No, once every hour is not too much. He exercises a lot… Well, you know, doing cat stuff.” Another match starts. He takes a swig of beer. “What trip?” He wedges the bottle back into the ice-full bucket he took it from. “I can’t remember everything you say, Mum… Yeah, I know you’ve ju— Yes, I’m listening! The trip, sure… to…?” A new action begins on the screen, but it’s short-lived. An opponent tackles successfully and the ball rolls past the sideline. “Venice, of course. No, how can I forget? Same as every year. But I don’t think I can make it this time.” He lays the phone beside him. The sound coming from it is like the screeching of fingernails on a chalkboard. The young man hunches forward, on the edge of his seat. “Come on come on come on…” he whispers at the screen. A goal, a victory lap, and he punches the air twice before grabbing back the phone. “Sorry, you got cut off there for a sec... Bad weather, pissing it down out there… What voices? Oh you know, the neighbours… partying in the hurricane, as locals do.” Aims the remote at the screen. The mute icon appears in the corner and silence falls. “There, I closed the window. You were saying? No, I know it’s tradition, but we’ve being doing it since, what—1910?… 1912, sure, my bad. Couple of years make all the difference. No, I’m not being sarcastic, just an observation.” He pauses the recording and stands up. Through the corridor, followed by Reaper with his tail up. Into the laundry, and Reaper sits down outside, disappointed. Into the bathroom. Phone sandwiched between shoulder and ear. “Look, nobody ever gets the joke. Not your book club ladies, nor Dad’s Facebook pals… Every year he posts the picture of us in front of Saint Mark with the title as caption and not one—Trickling? I’m getting a glass of water, ignore it…” He flushes and washes his hands. “As I was saying, not one single person ever — Oh, for—! It’s the dishwasher, Mum… Well, it’s… one that flushes, alright? Yep, self-cleaning, there you go... I’m sure you’re about to tell me all about whatever Barbara paid for hers...” Almost trips over Reaper still waiting outside the laundry. He studies the cat for a moment, holds the phone against his chest. “I suppose you actually want food now, don’t you?” They both enter the kitchen. “Of course I miss you, Mum. And Dad, too. But I want to hang out with the lads. Watch some football. A good curry and a few pints… I am 20!… What do you mean ‘since when’? I’ve been 20 for forty years now!” He fills Reaper’s bowls with dry and wet food. The cat purrs and meows, and dives in with appreciative slurping noises. “I told you, he exercises a lot… Look, it’s just a tired old joke. Besides, Dad’s the only one who really needs to be there for it to work. It’s ‘Death in Venice’, not ‘Death and Family in Venice’… not sarcasm, Mum, observation!” He plunges back into the sofa. The recording resumes. “Why are you so desperate for family activities anyway? It’s not like we’re going to run out of time… I’m sorry, sure, your friends are, I didn’t mean to say— Of course I want you to be proud of me, and show me off to a bunch of old lady knitters before Dad’s call of duty, but can’t we do it in a different way this year? Please?” He eats a few popcorns, kernels cracking under his teeth. Jumps up as his team scores again. Almost sends the phone flying across the room in his excitement. “What did you say? No, I'm not eating... It’s static Mum… Well, that’s what static sounds like, munching crackers… You’ve got a rotary dial, I have a smartphone, you want to argue technology?… I told you, I’m not doing Venice this year. Been there, done that. New plan.” He fast-forwards through the half-time commercial break. “I don’t know… Death Metal concert?… Maybe not your ladies, but what about their grandchildren?… Fine, sorry, children… I don’t know what age you’re giving yourself these days! Last time we spoke you were 80!… Two weeks ago!… Oh sure, and I’m supposed to know it was your lawn bowls phase?” He freezes the frame as the second half is about to start. Pulls up the menu. The second file from the top is highlighted, five more follow. “Listen, I’ll think about it and call you back, I’m afraid the hurricane is about to hit for real and we won’t be able to speak— No, Dad won’t have to work overtime, they’re pretty good at dealing with that sort of thing here… Yes, they’re used to it, hardly any casualties at all… just a lot of… water, yes, and destroyed buildings. It won't even make the news... Yes... Yes... I’ll pass the message to the ‘squishy ball of black fur’… He’s not going to get fat, Mum, trust me. Yes. Love you too. Ye—” He dumps the phone inside the bowl of popcorns. Shakes it around for a few seconds, then hangs up.


This story is based on mythology of Galinthias, some detailes are true, some are added . I was mortal once, they said I betrayed Gods but I was only trying to help my friend. They would let her suffer, ah, my dear Alkmene, continuous birth pangs put on her by Moirai and Eileithyia almost killed me watching it. I was her servant, but actually, we were best friends. When Heraklo was born, I felt like he was a nephew to me, I wanted to hold him, but I couldn't. Moirai was mad, he was furious that I stopped their spells and, together with Eilethyia, they turned me into a weasel. I thought my pain would stop, but soon I realized my curse. Three years ago I gave birth, 5 little weasels got out straight through my mouth, reminding me never to mess with Gods again. It's been a few years since I was in the weasel body so I decided to mess with Gods again. I have been contemplating for a long time what should I transform myself into. My mind was stuck between alligator or some huge lion so I can more easily rip their heads of. However, I decided to be a bit more unexpected, but we will come to that. Since they also made me immortal, my kids will outgrow me soon. I was determined to be the weasel for the rest of my life with the most painful and disgusting births you can imagine. However, they don't know my powers, even as a weasel, I still hold the knowledge of the underground, from the times before, times when I was Gallinthias. I was thinking for a long time how to make them suffer since, unfortunately, no one still figured out a way how to kill Gods. And let me tell you something, Greek Gods are the worst, Ra from my fury friend in pyramids doesn't waste a time on some mountain, like some hedonistic garbage. So I ask myself: What is worse than death? I have to be original tho, no rock to push, liver to be eaten, even Artemis already did my idea of turning someone into deer and let dogs on them. But me, I have to be more creative, I have to make them suffer. I have to do this, for Alkmene, for Heraklo who built me this beautiful temple where I live, and for her, Hekate, goddess who protected me all this years. My thought process about transformation was intense, once I transform, my form will last for at least few years, also, potion that made me able to transform took a year to prepare. I always considered myself more God-like than mortal-like, therefore, there was only one logical solution: I transformed into a cat. *** Cats are amazing, if I didn't have my revenge, I would spend all day sunbathing on those big hot stones. I have been living like this for a week now and Alkmene doesn't know who I am and Heraklo doesn't know that I can finally live in this temple built by him in my honor. I love every part of this place as it is a symbol of love given to me by my dearest. The frieze above the columns is decorated with symbols of bravery, and pediment, the most beautiful of all, representing my protector Hekate. This temple is not ordinary, it has more details than the usual Greek style boring ones, also, it comes with the underground rooms. What more can I say than: My dearest Heraklo, you knew my plan before it even began. Moirai and Eileithyia will come anytime. They think they were invited here by Zeus so I expect confusion in them when they arive especially with the strict instructions to go downstairs. However, Zeus always does crazy stuff, he is pretty weird so maybe they won't suspect. I had to make sure Alkmene and Heraklo are gone by now and I that I have the perfect timing for my potion and plan to work. I can make all kinds of potions, but this one, is my best one yet. With my little black and fury body, infinite lives instead of nine, I go to the underground rooms. They are completely dark and I am almost invisible in here. My potion is ready. I take my paws and put them in a large copper pot full of bubbles and green slime. I let my paws rest as long as I can and I listen for the slightest sound of someone going down the stairs, just a little longer Moirai and Eileithyia, just a little longer. I prepare my body, put the claws out and wait in the complete dark. Steps are approaching. I always thought it was weird you could hear Gods, can't they just fly? Although I do forget Greek Gods are not as nearly as cool as the ones in the desert, and a bit stupid too. After all, I could trick them even as a mere mortal. Moirai and Eileithyia come to the rooms, I can feel their presence and I wonder if they can feel mine. They can't see me that's for sure, but the potion is hot and smelly, maybe they will come to the pot. They stand in the middle of the room and I can feel their confusion, stupid Greek Gods. I won't wait longer, my paws are ready. From the darkest corner, my little fury black body with paws full of potion comes on them, they start to scream and cover their faces. You can't kill Gods, but you can for sure injure them, and if you are a cat which knows potions, you make them suffer for the rest of their immortal life. I scratch their faces and whole bodies, enjoying their screams, and when I finish I step back. They are laying on the ground in pain, but pain is yet to come. Green slime from my paws penetrates their bodies. Their long hands start to disapear as well as their legs and turn into tiny pink ones. Oh, how adorable, meow! I can see their faces become covered in fur, I observe the formation of elongated snouts and tiny ears and I feel my saliva glands start to work. After screaming, it came silence, almost. I could hear the squeaking of my dinner. Two little mice are running around the dark room, but guess what you "Gods", cats can see in the dark! I start running and catching them througout the room untill I catch both, I feel them going down my throat, decomposing in my belly. Don't worry you guys, you are immortal remember? You will come out of me when my bowels start to move, reincarnate again from my feces, and make my lovely dinner tomorrow, and day after that, oh how much time will we spend! With my belly full of delicious Moirai and Eileithyia, I lay on the stones in front of my temple, waiting for Alkmene and Heraklo to return. My body starts to purr as I turn to the stars above my kingdom. Who is the king now you Gods? Purrrr.


She stood still in the aisle between two very old bookcases. They were built to withstand time and it showed. The small gaps and nooks were filled with cobwebs and their little tenants yet the bookcases seemed untouched by the unforgiving hands of time. Solid they stood guarding the old, musty books of all shapes, colours and sizes. The girl touched the wooden surface, mesmerized by the strength it carried with it. As she touched it she could feel something in the air. As if she was not alone. Her fingers traced the extravagant patter carved in the corner of one of the shelves. It was a beautiful floral motive, where the lilies had intertwined with ivy leaves. The girl smiled as her fingers traced each of the leaves, leaving soft streaks in the dusty blanket. The girl looked back at the aisle, looking to see where the shelves ended, yet all she could see was that they disappeared into the dark. It was dusk hour outside, and the sun had slipped behind the horizon a while back. With that the light had faded away slowly but surely. "Is that... mist?" the girl wondered looking at the dark. She thought that the floor was covered in a soft, white, fluffy carpet. The longer she gazed at the tiled floor where it was swallowed by the dark shadows, the more she could swear the mist grew closer and closer to her. "Boo!" a sudden slap on her shoulders and loud shrieking laughter filled her ears, making her jump three feet high. "Cas, you scared me to death!" she gave her friend annoyed look, and gazed back at the end of the aisle, yet the mist was gone. "Something is not right," was the last thought before the rest of their group came around. "There you are Clara," a young and very slim boy exclaimed, "we began to worry you abandoned our mission!" "And leave you all to fend for yourselves?" Clara teased back, "pff, someone has to keep an eye on you all!" It was the four of them. Best friends since they learned to walk, and like any group of friends they all had their roles to play. Cassandra, The Life Of The Party. No matter what occurred, her spirits could not be wavered. Whether the sun was shinning, or the world was ending, she always would walk the plank laughing, her blond curly hair bouncing. Tim, The Butterfly. The poor boy barely uttered a word in crowds. Most people had not heard him speak at all up to this day, however, once it was just the four of them, he blooms out of his cocoon like a little butterfly. Perhaps sometimes a little too much, for the things that come out of the boy’s mind surprised even his friends. Andrew, The Know It All. He was a slim and very young looking boy. Eager to prove himself to anyone and everyone. Although his smart brain had lack of breaks. The boy had no idea when to stop which often than not got them all in a mess. And there was Clara, The Mom. She kept them all together, and sometimes in line. She made sure they all got home safe, they all were okay. She'd be the one each of them would come to, to tell their secrets and worries, knowing she'd keep them till the day she died. She loved them all dearly, and they loved her too, though not a word of this was spoken. It was a feeling to be felt and experienced, not outspoken and paraded. "Where is Tim?" Clara asked, seeing it was just Cas and Andy. "Setting up camp," Andrew said walking back to where Cas and him had come from, "come! You have got to see this!" Clara followed them down an aisle of books, looking around at the shelves. Each one was decorated with a different type of ornament, yet all of them bare the same aura. One that demanded reverence. They took turns left and right, walking deeper into the maze, until they came to a circular hall. It seemed like it was the centre for the library. All paths would lead them back to this place. The floor was decorated with what looked like smoothed pebbles, of all different shapes and sizes. They covered the floor beneath their feet, painting a very abstract mosaic. Clara tried to see what it may be but the image was so large, that she could not work out what it looked like. Clara looked up. Above their heads the ceiling was high up, where it moulded into a dome, covered in stained glass. There were shades of green, blue, red, all coming together to pain a tree engulfed by an octopus. "What an odd combination," Clara thought. "Where is Tim?" Andrew looked around. In the middle of the opening laid four backpacks and three neatly laid out sleeping bags. The pillows seemed thrown wherever one may find them, yet the fourth sleeping bag was scrunched up closer to the farthest side of the hall. The light had started to fade, as the dusk had turned to night and the last scruples of sunlight had faded away, leaving only darkness and faint glimmer of the moon. It peeked through the dome into the hall giving the girls and their companion a very faint silhouettes of what was in front of them. "Maybe he chickened out," Cass giggled, tickling Andrew as she said it, "he doesn't like the dark." "Tim is not a chicken," Clara quietly said walking towards the sleeping bags, "something is not right." "Oh, don't start," Cass whined, "we all agreed. A night in this place to mark our last year in school." That was the pact. They all had agreed and sworn by it. This building sat in the woods, up in the hill, behind a thick stone wall, forgotten by all. Tales and myths roamed around the village folk about disappearing children, ghosts and wild animals that guarded this place. Ass usual with an odd building that stuck out like a sore thumb. However, as far as the four were concerned it was simply an old library, forgotten and abandoned. "Where is Tim then?" Clara asked waving her hands around as she looked back at the others. "Maybe he just heard a sound and went to investigate?" Andrew shrugged, "that's his sleeping bag over there." Clara walked closer to the discarded fabric, until she stopped, seeing the spider webs knitting the bottom of the shelf together with the tilled floor. "The webs," she whispered. "What's that?" Cas asked, confused. "The spider webs. They are everywhere," Clara looked around them. As far as she could see in the dim light of the moon, everything as covered in them. Well, almost everything. "Well, yes silly biscuit," Cas giggled, "what else would you expect?" "It is a pretty old place," Andre shrugged picking up his own backpack and looking for a flashlight. "Then why none of the books are covered in them?" Clara asked. Both Cas and Andrew looked puzzled. He finally found what he had searched for and turned on the small flashlight, casting a light towards one of the shelves. Indeed. Everything had cobwebs and dust over them yet the books sat almost untouched, their titles cast in gold glimmering in the light.  As if someone had placed them only yesterday. "That is odd," Andrew's brow furrowed. Cas suddenly grabbed the flashlight from Andrew's hand and cast it's light past Clara into the aisle of one of the pathways. "Easy!" he exclaimed, surprised by the girl's sudden move, "what is the matter, now?" "Look," she said, pointing to the dark. As far as the light could reach all they could see was the shelves and books. A second, two, thirty, and then a minute passed. Nothing. "What are we supposed to see?" Andrew asked, shuffling on his feet. He had started to get uncomfortable. He too hated the dark, and Tim was not a boy who would just disappear. "Wait," Cass whispered. Clara looked back at the aisle and finally noticed what her friend had seen. The mist. It was subtle, like a translucent fog, seeping closer to them, as if someone had spilt a bucket of it and it just slowly would make it's way towards them. Like water. Fluid and quiet. "When was the last time you heard of a fog in the middle of the library?" she looked at Andrew with piercing look, without shifting the beam of light. "It's possible with the right humidity and temperature," Andrew answered walking towards the fog. Clara stood up from where she was and walked with him closer to the fog. "Where is Tim?" she whispered. "He can't be far," Andrew gave her one of his crooked smiles, that showed off his dimples, "he probably went looking for us and ended up lost. This place is huge." "Guys," Cas shouted after them, her voice bearing a hint of panic, "this does not feel right." "It's just a fog," Andrew laughed, looking back at her over his shoulder. "Look," Clara said, pointing to the floor. There, covered by the fog sat a book. A few feet further there was another one, laying skewed on the tiles and half eaten by darkness there was one laying on its back opened to the middle of the story it hid in it's pages. "I must be dreaming," Clara whispered, "but I think the fog is coming from the book." "When has the fog felt hot?" Andrew asked, looking at his feet that were now engulfed in thicker clouds of grey and white. "You're asking me?" the girl looked at him as she kneeled down to pick the book up. Before her fingers could even brush over the pages a quiet rumble made her freeze. It was barely audible, yet they all felt it. A tremor through their feet. “We need to go,” Cass shouted at them. “Not without Tim,” Clara retorted. Cas’s shout had snapped her out of her panic, that she felt in her bones, she reached for the book again. This time the tremor was stronger, making her nearly loose her balance, and she heard a loud thud. As if a large boulder had been thrown on a soft grass. “Clara, we really need to go,” Andrew put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her towards where Cas was, when Clara saw a talon appear on top of the pages. The pages seemed to have become translucent where the talon sat. It was big, as long as her palm, black and scalley like a lizard. “Run,” she whispered getting up and backing away, grabbing Andrew’s hand as she did so. “What?” he exclaimed but one look at the book at the edge of the flashlights beam and he understood exactly. The talon had started to grown into two, three, out of the pages into the light, half swallowed by the dark a claw appeared. “Run!” Clara turned pulling Andrew with her and they ran, as they ran past Cas, Clara grabbed her hand and dragged her with them. They dashed down the aisles of the shelves into the dark, half illuminated by the pitiful beam of the flashlight. “What was that?” Cas gasped as they stopped on a corner of the maze of shelves. She had not seen all of it, but she knew something had appeared to scare both her friends and her. “I don’t-“ before Andrew could answer, a rumble of a bellowing roar shook the very core of the library. The bookshelves swayed under the power of that roar. “Give me that,” Clara quickly snatched the flash light and swithced the light off. “What are you-?” Cas shrieked, until Clara shushed her. “Do not move, do not talk,” she whispered, “it’s looking for us.” Another rumble, that sounded a lot closer, shook the bookcases more violently. It was so powerful that the trio held on to the nearest shelves to keep to their feet. It was a terrifying sound. Like a thunder that crackled above your head before the blast. They could hear wheezes and crackles coming closer. However, the closer they came the more they sounded coming from above. Until another rumble, sounding like a blast of electricity came from right above their heads. The power of it made all three get to their knees, to withstand it. Something had landed above their heads, holding onto the shelves on either sides of them. Cas had squeezed her ears shut, her teeth biting her lip as hard as she could not to utter a word and give away their hiding place. Andrew was sitting on his bottom, looking up in awe and horror. Clara looked up and felt like the air had left her lungs. The few skylights gave enough light to see a shape of a scaly belly, coupled with feathers, that looked as sharp as a knife, glistening in the dark. The creature was so large all they could see were the sharp talons digging into the bookcases as it held on to them. A great sniffing sound came from above, and a swoosh of air made the trio know the creature was moving it’s head to see where they were. Clara suddenly got on all fours and slid across the tiled floor. If she could make it a bit further away, she could distract the creature long enough for Cas and Andy to run for their lives. She slid further and further, listening for the sounds of the moving creature, until her leg caught a book, opening it. Clara suddenly felt a gust of wind pulling her backwards. She grasped and grappled for anything to hold on to, yet the smooth floor provided no help. She turned on to her back and looked at what was pulling her back, thinking it was the monster, yet to her surprise it was the book she had knocked. The pages had opened a hole in the ground where whirlpool of wind had formed, pulling her closer. “Andy, Cas! Run!” she shouted before the whirlpool pulled her in, as she closed her eyes. Yet once she opened them she felt as if she was falling. All around her were letters forming words that were falling along with her. She looked down, to see where she may end up and saw the world bellow her feet forming in all shades of black and grey. A world inside the book.


Lights Outs The only thing that got Ried moving that morning was his mother shouting about how he never does anything. “Worthless child,” she’d called him. “Yes, Mother,” he mumbled as he rolled out of bed. It was another school morning for the high school freshman. He worked part time after school every day to pay the bills for his disabled mother and she still didn’t appreciate or love him. “Good morning, Mother,” Ried said to her as he walked into the living room, seeing his mother laying on the couch.

“I want breakfast!” She shouted at him. She weighed an easy three hundred pounds while he was lean and muscular. It didn’t look as though they were related. His green eyes were contrasted with his dirty blonde hair while his mother, on the other hand, was a brunette with chocolate brown eyes. He had the voice of an angel while hers was loud and obnoxious sounding.

“Yes, Mother,” Ried said mournfully. If only I didn’t have to do as she says... He thought to himself. “Mother, what do you want this morning?” He slipped on his apron and began to wash his hands waiting for his mother to respond. She went downhill when his father died. She gained two hundred pounds and began abusing her son. She could no longer work as she gained so much, so Ried had to make the money for them. He had to pay the bills and buy everything his mother asked him for with his measly paycheck. “Pancakes, bacon, eggs, hash browns, and biscuits.” She responded after some thought.

“Yes, Mother,” Ried said from the kitchen. “Anything else, Mother?” “Orange juice,” the woman sneered. “Of course, Mother,” he sighed. “I don’t like that tone, worthless child,” she said with authority in her voice. “Yes, Mother. I apologize, Mother,” he said as he began breakfast, starting with the pancakes from scratch. “Mother, what would you do if there was a citywide power outage that last for quite a long time?” “Hah? I’d move to another city and leave you behind here so that I don’t have to take care of you anymore!” She responded. So all I need to do is cause a power outage citywide and mother will leave? She can’t live without electricity for more than an hour.

He thought. So I could be rid of you… Mother…

“Mother, breakfast is almost ready,” Ried put the food on a tray and carried it into the living room and set them on the table in front of his mother. “Mother, I have to leave for school now. Here’s the money for you to order lunch.” He handed her fifty dollars, knowing she wouldn’t accept anything less than that. “I need more than this, you idiot!” She screamed seeing only fifty dollars.

“Yes, Mother,” he handed her another fifty.

“That’s more like it!” She glared at him. “Now her going, I’m tired of seeing your ugly mug.” “Yes, Mother.” He had a melancholy look on his face. Ried left to go back to his room and get dressed. “Mother, why do you hate me?” He said aloud. He dressed quickly and walked outside to his bike. It was old and run down, but he didn’t have anything else. He rode to his friend’s house, like he did every morning, and used the shower. He couldn’t take one at home, his mother would yell at him.

“Ried,” Max, his best friend, walked into the dining room where Ried was sitting, eating a bowl of cereal.

“Yeah, Max?” He said.

“When are you finally gonna leave that house? Diana doesn’t deserve you. You do too much for her. You know that, right?” “Yeah, but what can I do? She’s my mother.” “She’s an obese pig who takes advantage of you, Ried,” Max stated. “She’s still my-” “Your mother, yes, I know, man. But that doesnt mean you should let her treat you this way. And I’m gonna be a senior next year, I won’t be able to help you as much with all the extra work they’re gonna give me. You know that.” “Yeah, but it’s not like…” Ried said slowly. “It’s not like what, man?” “I got an idea.” “Alright, continue...” “Y’know how the lights at school when out because someone tripped the breaker?” “Yeah, what about it? That was just last week…” “Well, I was thinking about that when I was making breakfast for Mother this morning. I asked her what she would do if there was a citywide power outage that lasted a long time. And you know that by my mother’s standards, just two hours is too long to be without power. She said that she’s move out of the city and leave me behind so that she wouldn’t have to take care of me anymore. So, what if, just what if , I caused a citywide power outage that lasted say, I don’t know, a day? She’s be gone and I’d be free.” “Ried, my man, you’re a genius!” “I have straight A’s and only AP classes, I think I know that, Max.” “Yes, I know that. And anyway, bro, we should’ve thought of this ages ago!” Max slapped his friend on the back.

“I know.” Ried smiled. “Wait, look at the time, I gotta go! I don’t want to be late! Bye, Max.” Ried grabbed his backpack and ran out the door.

“Oh, did he leave already?” Max’s little sister, whowas in the same grade as Ried, came down the stairs.

“Sorry, Viola. He’s gone.” “Hah,” Viola saighed. “I wanted to see him before he left…” “You shouldn’t have taken so long to get ready then, Vi.” “But, Max, you know I want to look good for him. Couldn’t you have stalled him for just a bit?” “Hey, I tried. I got him ranting about his mother for a bit, but you know how he his. He’d rather die than be late for school. And you know he hasd to work afterwards.” “I know,” Viola sighed again. “But I really wanted to see him and talk to him and-” “Tell him how you feel?” Maz interrupted her.

“No!” She shouted, “Maybe…” After Ried got finished at work, he went over to Max’s house. After, of course, calling and telling his mother that he had to work late and wouldn’t be home for a while longer. “Alright, Max, let’s make the plan,” Ried set his backpack down in the seat next to him at the table.

“Yeah,” Max got a notebook and pen out. “Alright, so we know the power plant is on the other side of town from where you and I live, so we’re not gonna have much time. I think you’ll have to call in sick to both work and school that day. When are we gonna do it anyway?” “No later than next week.” Ried said. “We’ll need to disable the security camera’s at the plant, but I got that.” “What y’all working on?” Viola appeared behind them.

“Nothing, go away,” Max blew her off.

“Hold on, Max, we could use all the help we can get,” Ried pointed out. “Ugh, true. Okay, but Viola, you have to promise to never tell anyone. EVER.” “I swear to never tell; cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” “...okay…” Max said hesitantly. “We’re gonna cause a citywide power outage so that Ried’s mom will move and he’ll be free of her.” “I’m in.” Viola said. “I’m head of the gymnastics team, you could use my help.” “It’s true, we could,” Ried shrugged. “So, here’s the plan…” he explained everything to them. The three of them spent the week getting everything they needed. Well, Max and Viola anyway. Ried had to work and take care of his mother.

“Ried,” Max started, “I know I’m asking this day of, but what about the back up generators?” “Already taken care of.” Ried gave his best friend a thumbs up. “We have everything that we’re gonna need to love without electricity for a week. We have to give my mother plenty of time to get packed and out of the house. She hasn’t driven in a year, though, so I don’t know how that’s gonna go…” “Don’t worry, Ried,” Viola put a hand on his shoulder, “it’ll all work out, I just know it.” “I hope so…” He sighed. “I already hacked into the security footage and put it on a loop. No one will ever know we were here. Everyone got gloves?” “Yeah,” Max and Viola said together.

“Alright then, here we go,” In the next few minutes, they’d managed to shut off the power using a strand Ried had spent the week secretly cultivating in his AP chemistry class. He released the strand into the power generators while Max and Viola stood guard. After that, the three of them set off to manually shut off the power. Ried messed around with a few things to make sure the power couldn’t be turned for a week. The back up generators had already been taken offline as well. They wouldn’t be working anytime soon. They got in and out as quick as possible. After the ordeal was over, they all went over to Max’s house for a little celebration supper, then Ried headed home on his bike, a little more energetic than usual. His mother was frantic when he got home.

“The power is off! I can’t turn anything on!” and of course, Ried had a battery powered radio that he turned on so his mother could hear the news about the citywide power outage.

“This is Jakob Giani from Channel-” it cut out a bit, “news. We have just gotten word that there-” it cut off again, “citywide power outage. Power plant workers have confirmed that they have no way-” the old radio

stopped once again, “online for another week at least until they figure out the problem. Once again this is Ja-” Diana threw the radio across the room, causing it to break. “That’s it, I’m leaving. You, worthless child, get my bags packed. Now!” “Yes, Mother,” Ried left to go to his mother’s room and packed her clothes and other necessities. He was finished within the hour. “Mother, your bags.” “Put them in ther car, you idiot!” She yelled at him as she struggeled to stand up. By the time he was back inside, she was standing and making her way to her car keys.

“Mother, what about-” “No way am I taking a useless child like you along! You’re staying!” “Yes, Mother,” he said, dejected. This was what he wanted, but it still felt terrible to hear his own mother say that about him. “Goodbye. Mother…”

Diana was gone and a week later, thre was power again. Ried had cleaned up the house and gotten on with his life. Everything that was once his mother’s was thrown away. He continued to work hard and pay bills, but now he had more money to spare. No one, except for Max and Viola, had even noticed that he was living on his own. He’d begun a new life without his abusive mother. It was all because of a power outage. It was because the lights were out.


Life’s a game, and love is the prize – or so they say. If that is the case, then why, of all things, is the first kiss the horrible, long snake that sends you tumbling right back to square one? Well, perhaps not the kiss itself, and more how the kiss ends: whether you’re interrupted, walked in on, broken apart fiercely by something. That’s always how it goes in novels. The character’s build up such a connection – oh, sparks are flying the size of deadly lava bombs – and they finally, after so agonizingly long, have that first kiss… but it’s ruined by something, not left to end when their hearts desire. The characters don’t get time to talk about their feelings after breathlessly breaking apart, and thus are left to worry, embarrassed, both thinking they disgusted the other, ruined their beautiful friendship. Both, of course, are wrong, but nonetheless they are right back to where they started. Awkward niceties. You could even dare to call them strangers. Just like in novels, the first kiss was exactly the unlucky dice roll that sent Rufus and me sliding back down an unnecessary snake to square one. * “Emery, focus. We have to have this finished by tomorrow.” “Sorry, sorry! I am focusing!” I blinked furiously, trying to concentrate on the screen. The dull set of paragraphs and default font seemed to stare mockingly back at me. “Are you sure this is going to be good enough?” “I hate co-writing. I don’t know why any authors do it.” I sighed. “Ruf, I’m sorry. I know how much this means to you. It’s just getting late, maybe we should leave it–” At Rufus’s stern glare, I corrected myself: “I mean, let’s get on with it and finish this. We can’t let all our effort go to waste.” Rufus turned his gaze back to the computer. It really was getting late: the sky visible through Rufus’s small shuttered windows was a shadowy shade, but Rufus was using the light pollution as a way of claiming that there was “still light outside”; the sun hadn’t “gone down yet”. I’d already tried several times trying to kindly persuade him – us, really, but he was doing most the work, the typing of our short story – to give up, to try next time such a glorious opportunity springs out of the blue. Every time the shadows cast from the weak lamp on the desk beside him seemed to cast darker shadows across his eyes, enhancing the cold look I’d get. His patience was running thin, I could tell, but I knew he appreciated me in teaming up with him to enter, though I was hopeless at creative writing. I could happily supply him with various ideas inspired by the multitude of books I’d read, but it was up to him to put pen to paper. Or, at least, finger to keyboard. I’d already given him the ideas and helped him plan the plot, so there wasn’t much else I could do but give moral support and the occasional thought on how a sentence turned out – thus why I spent the next however long blurrily gazing at the screen, pretending to read along. Eventually the soft clicking of the keyboard ceased. “There,” Rufus breathed, his eyes shining, the dim, artificial light causing them to look ringed with luminous yellow. Dark hair tousled at the back where he’d unconsciously rubbed at it, he turned his head to look at me. “What do you think? Is that a good way to end it all?” “Oh.” I hadn’t really been reading along. He did know that, right? “Yeah, that’s great, Rufus. Are you going to submit it now?” “I would read it through and edit it, but…” He fisted his hair, agitated. “No time. I’ve got to submit it.” I patted his head encouragingly, and in a silent wish of good luck, then set to heading off home. Rufus finally admitted, much to my exhausted relief, that it was perhaps a little late. * The awards were given out and the winners revealed at a ‘social’, exclusive to high schoolers. There had been several competitions – music, baking, art, dancing. I stood lost in the crowd of surging bodies, feeling drugged on lemonade like I’d had a fancy cocktail from a glorious novel. Next a beautiful man resembling Prince Charming would be parting the dancing teenagers like the Red Sea to come talk to me, to flirt with me. If books were ever true, of course. At one point I heard my name called out by nobody I knew - it was probably just the lemonade speaking, so I chose to ignore it. Several names were read out and strangers I recognized would beam and accept their awards happily on stage, the music and dance winners giving special celebration performances. I waited quietly for the identity of the poor person I’d have to act like was worthless and underserving for the sake of Rufus. He had determination but fragile confidence when it came to something he cared so much about; he hardly ever put his heart on the line. I’d always known that, always had to be the one to hype him up and tell him to keep going, but it didn’t bother me. The heroes always had their best friends, the secondary characters who everyone adores. Suddenly I noticed Rufus pushing through the crowd towards me, a grin curving his sharp, dark features. He was mouthing something, words I couldn’t catch on to until he was almost right up against me – “We won! Emmy, we won !” I put my glass down on the bar. I was only ever ‘Emmy’ if something outstandingly good had happened. “ What?” He ignored my confusion. “Where were you? I had to collect the prize by myself – Em, we actually won!” “That’s awesome, Ruf, I’m happy for you!” “Us.” His eyes were shining again, brown turned a million colors by the disco lights. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Em–” And then he was stumbling into me, from the mass of writhing bodies or from delirious glee, I don’t know which, but all I knew was that – that I was kissing him, frantically, happily, I didn’t have time to think if he was kissing me back, all I felt was my bones melting – it was a wonder I managed to keep standing – and it just felt right … But he had stumbled, and I had lost most my strength to support both of us - either of us - and so we tumbled back, and panic overtook everything. I felt my head smack - almost gently, it felt, but I must’ve been overwhelmed, high on adrenaline - on the bar… I slumped, shocked – shocked at the fall, but most of all at what we’d just done. I tilted my head up to see Rufus, and it was quite clear he hadn’t expected any of it any more than I had. I reached up to touch him lightly on the arm, to try explain, but he seemed to slip from underneath my fingertips, slipping like a shadow towards the crowd, and then allowing himself to be swallowed by their thrashing, dancing jaws. I stared after him wistfully. “Ma’am?” I glanced up. The bartender, peering over. “Did you hit your head? Should I call someone?” I reached blindly for my head, surprised to feel a stickiness. Blood? I tried to speak, but I just felt sweet and delirious, like the lemonade really had done something to me. If I absently moved my hand down, just to touch my lips, I could feel the phantom of Rufus’s. The bartender shook his head pityingly, muttering something about teenagers and underaged drinking, and then came to get my phone to call my parents. What a first kiss. * The social had been on a Friday night. I’d spent the weekend inside, it slowly dawning on me the severity of what had happened. Not my head. My head had been fine, but Rufus. Why did I have to have done that? Ruined his rare joy for my own impulsive pleasures? He had clearly been disgusted by my behavior, and rightfully so. Thinking back, I’d probably made him stumble – surely, I’d unconsciously pulled him against me, and far too roughly. God, I’d gone and got myself injured, even, and probably him too. The heroes weren’t supposed to work out with their best friends. They were supposed to meet someone just as special as them, and their best friend supports them through any hardships that come with that romance. Not try to be a part of the romance. His face before he turned and fled. It was all I could see, even when he kept his expression closed and his head turned away from me if we passed each other in the corridors, the only acknowledgement given, if at all, a nervous start and an increase in pace. Poor Rufus. He couldn’t even look at me: he was repulsed, perhaps convinced I’d attack him and kiss him again. I tried so hard to get him alone. I had to address it, I had to make it right, for God’s sake, I had to, because it was all my fault it had ever happened. I couldn’t bare to let it be the thing that destroyed our friendship. I had thought in the months before that Friday, in brief flickers I’d tried to ignore, that perhaps our friendship was blossoming into something more, and couldn’t help but feel hurt and confused in why now he didn’t seem to feel as I had thought he did. But I had no right to feel hurt, and I couldn’t ever tell Rufus that I meant it, that really I was pleased I’d felt delirious enough to do such a thing, in case he never wished to be my friend again. Eventually I managed to get him alone. Sickened by myself and the real world, I had taken to reading in the library whenever I had free time. It was the only way I could go away somewhere where even I wasn’t there. Usually, the library was scattered with at least a few other people, studying or reading, but this time there happened to be none. Rufus ducked in quietly – he knew me, knew I’d be in the library, yet had obviously hope there’d be enough others he could just ignore my presence – blinked once and then tried to make a hasty retreat before I noticed. Of course, I’d noticed, however. I couldn’t really commit to my book, only a fraction of my heart was in it; my eyes had only slid lazily over the same sentence, over and over again before I finally made some sense of it and managed to move on to the next. Most my focus was on my peripheral, any sign of Rufus, be it a flash of dark hair or the icy blue of his schoolbag, I was onto it like some sort of sniffer dog. I was already right there, following him swiftly out then stepping in front, cornering him. It wasn’t kindly to do it that way: he looked like an injured bird, cupped in a human’s imperious hands, the sharp angle of his nose like a beak. I took an unnecessary breath, for that’s what all book characters seem to do before diving into a long, thought-out apology. “Rufus, I’m so sorry – I kissed you, I ruined everything when you’d just wanted to share your happiness on winning–” “I fell into you, Emery, it’s my fault, and I saw you got hurt but I didn’t check if you were okay–” “No! I must’ve pulled you into me, and I kissed you, that was awful of me, I felt you weren’t kissing me back and yet I pushed on, in fact I pulled–” “What do you mean I wasn’t kissing you back? I thought you weren’t kissing me back!” His words seemed to be delayed in my brain. I paused, processing them. “I– you–?” “Yes,” Rufus mumbled, his eyes wide and bewildered. “I think we both misinterpreted how the other felt.” “You kissed me? Back? And you don’t regret it?” “And I’d do it again.” He added hurriedly: “If, of course, you want–” And once again, my lips were crashing against his, just as frantically as before. We stumbled back slightly with the force, but this time he managed to steady us against the library door with one hand, the other gentle on my back, propping me up. No panic gripped me, instead there was a bubbliness, a giddiness, and a looseness in my muscles and in my heart, lacking the tension I hadn’t even recognized had been there the past few days. Rufus was softly whispering things against my mouth, I don’t know what, all I heard was his gentle ‘ Emmy, Emmy’ , rare in itself, but even more so foreign to be heard so close. I smiled, pulling back to rest my forehead against his, my eyes still closed, sealed with bliss. It’s a great long snake to bring two people tumbling right back to square one, but this was like the jackpot dice roll that landed on the square with that one, really long ladder, right up to square ninety-nine. The closest possible leap to happiness.


"So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be."

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

by Stephen Chbosky. Oh the horror! To use an opening line belonging to someone else. I should be ashamed. I learned that opening one's essay with a quote or definition weakens the writing. I was sixteen and taking a pretest of the Advanced Placement English exam for high schoolers looking to gain college credit by scoring a 3 or above. I don't remember what the quote that I used to open my essay was, but my junior year English teacher handed me back my essay pocked with red marks. "Never," underlined three times the red pen wrote, "open an essay with a quote or definition." I was never told why, maybe it makes you look bad because you didn't come up with the quote yourself. Maybe I was stupid enough not to be the first one to think of what I was quoting, but I was smart enough to use it. When the time came to take the actual placement test, I found the opportunity to open my essay with a quote. And I used it. And I was in the top 5 percentile of students who received a score of 3 on all advanced placement tests I took. Two English credits and one History. My main point is that right now I can totally relate to my opening quote and I don't give a shit about conventional rules. I read Chbosky's

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

for fun

when I was a junior in high school. I drank every weekend and occasionally snuck a few shots in between classes during the week via a plastic water bottle. I vaguely remember passing out mid-lecture in Algebra II class. I clearly remember getting all A's in that class. I was captain of my soccer team. I was in a tight race for third place in my class. I got made fun of for being a teacher's pet. But you wouldn't catch me sober at a football game under the lights. I try to tell myself that I don't know how I managed it all, and as much as I hate to sound like a complete arrogant piece of shit, I know I managed it all because I was smart. I knew that if I pulled off good grades it didn't matter what else I did. Or so I told myself. As I was making horrible decisions with a clear water bottle in the side pocket of my backpack, I was being praised by my history teacher for writing an essay that "read like a Cold War novel!" Academically I was on top of the world, and personally I was itching to watch it burn. I did manage to possess third place in my graduating class and enrolled as an English major at the University of Maine at Orono. Again, I drank every weekend and Thursday nights, but I almost always ended up hungover the next day. This sometimes resulted in skipping classes or not completing my assignments on time, but I still managed to make Dean's List every semester. I never partied, instead, choosing to drink by myself in my dorm room or with my boyfriend from back home when we stole vodka from my parents. I never counted how many shots I took and always took it straight with a chaser. By the time I graduated with a 3.8 GPA I had many prospects for jobs but had a hint of yellow tinge in my eyes. I remember always wearing glasses instead of contacts to try to distract others from looking directly in my eyes. It was as if the teal framed glasses held a wall and the truth that prevented others from seeing my disease. If I hadn't quit my first job out of college from the complete misery it brought, I was about to get fired for constantly calling out. But I wasn't hungover; I would wake up after 8 hours of sleep and was beginning to withdraw. It would take two hours and multiples shots to finally settle my stomach and put to bed the awful pins and needles feeling that plagued my arms and legs. I'll always remember the first time I heard the saying "hair of the dog." I was fourteen when I hungover for the first time ever. The night before I had drunk with my brother and his girlfriend at the time. It was the second time alcohol touched my lips: raspberry flavored vodka held in my brother’s cheap shot glass that read Bar Harbor ME. When I told them I was hungover his girlfriend laughed harshly and said, "Hair of the dog!" Then she handed me another shot and cheers'ed me. I'll forever be haunted by the way her eyes turned dark and her mouth upturned into a snarl as she said it.

It wasn't long before "hair of the dog" stopped becoming a quick remedy until I could sleep it off, and instead turned into my always consuming alcohol. I legit would not stop. I could not stop. Near the end, it got so bad that if I slept more than six hours at night I would wake up violently ill with the withdrawals. I didn't know then that alcohol and benzos are the only two drugs that the withdrawals alone can kill you. And they did kill me, twice. I suffered two seizures when I tried to quit cold turkey and lost consciousness both times. One time I was walking my dog in the winter and my fiancé at the time came home from work asking me why I was covered in mud. I had flatlined in a ditch off the side of my road. I don’t remember walking home or why my dog didn’t run away. No one helped me. I like to think it’s because no one saw.

Alcohol continued to be my constant companion; it consumed my life. I was in and out of hospitals with acute pancreatitis and fatty liver, I almost lost two other jobs because of it, and my marriage was ruined within a year. The only thing I could claim as an accomplishment was the fact I had never been arrested for it. But I didn't stop. I went to a detox center four times. The first time I was able to stay sober for a month, but all the other times I would be discharged, find a hidden bottle somewhere (I hid tons under my bed, in my backpack, the place in my car where the spare tire is stored), tell myself I would just finish the bottle to get rid of it then be done. Before that bottle was even gone, I found myself buying another one. I was in it bad. At first, despite all the destruction the alcohol did, I didn't care. Whether it was denial or true arrogance I'll never know, but I told myself I'd be some kind of badass like Hemingway or Joplin if I died because of the disease. That's right, I might have died young but at least I

lived.

As if managing to literally drink and drive and lie to my coworkers about smelling like alcohol at work was that noteworthy. The last year of it all, however, I started caring. I was in constant pain even when I wasn't in the hospital. I was always exhausted. I was extremely unhappy. But I couldn't imagine having a life without alcohol. In the early spring of 2020, right before Covid-19 fully exploded and shocked the United States, I was told I had a huge cyst in my pancreas. The alcohol was literally eating away at it. I still shudder when I recall the terrifying back pain and how I tried to deal with it like a normal everyday occurrence. I managed to last three months until I checked myself into a hospital on June 3rd, 2020. I have told this story thousands of times and it never gets easier. It never will. On June 9th when the surgeon went to take out the cyst, they accidentally cut a major artery. I coded twice on the table and remember waking up from it in the middle of everything. My stay at the hospital extended six weeks and was riddled with frantic movings to the ICU, having a breathing, feeding, and draining tubes, and relearning how to walk. I was told that I would never be able to drink again. It really would be the death of me. Now, on December 3rd, 2020 I am six months sober. Four and a half months sober on my own. As the cliche goes, some days are better than others, and as time goes on it does slowly get easier. "So, this is my life...both happy and sad...still trying to figure out..." I am so grateful for the second chance I had been given, but the pain of losing my drug of choice, my

companion,

will forever haunt me. Even though I'm happier than I've ever been, especially with a clear head, I'm always mourning the piece of me that was lost when I left alcohol. I refuse to conform and say that stopping drinking was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because it wasn't. It was almost the complete death of me, and it was the death of a part of me that defended and protected myself. I guess I'll always be that girl who refused to listen to those words written with red ink over 10 years ago on my paper. I'll refuse to listen to Death's red inked warning that I should be grateful for a second chance, period. For me, there will always be a

but . I am grateful, but I will always mourn. And now I will end how I started: with a quote. Chbosky beautifully ends his book with a quote that is both positive

but  realistic, "...please believe that things are good with me, and even when they're not, they will be soon enough. And I will believe the same about you."


The world I lived in before was hard, but in a different way. Rushing to find the next coffee shop to fuel my belly with the next double latte and danish. Climbing the ladder at my job while kicking it down for those who were climbing behind me. Not giving up my seat to the poor old lady on the subway because I found it easier to respond to emails while sitting. It was cut-throat out there in the big city and I loved it. Not much room to wait for the next bus or worry about someone else's feelings. That was the life I had built and I got there by being, well, a dick. The thing that still surprises me the most to this day is how quickly it was taken from me. I still don't quite understand it. I had worked so hard to bring value to my name; a reputation. To have a PDF file of success attached to myself that gave me some strong sense of meaning and it was gone in a split second, and then.. nothing. Now I wasn't really one to be religious or anything. I mean, I was raised Catholic and went to church here and there, but never really considered identifying as religious. Reincarnation on the other hand, I had just assumed was some poppycock, Buddhist belief that gave hippies and hitchhikers a pass to smoke copious amounts of marijuana and take LSD on a Wednesday night, but I now stand corrected. I don't remember stepping out on the street that day. I must've been in a rush, or late. I don't try and dwell on it now, but I know that I was buried in my own self importance to notice that Civic coming straight at me. A fucking Honda Civic. Why couldn't it have been a Porsche or a Lambo? I would've felt better about that, but whatever, its over now. The next thing I remember is waking up in a tree. My hands small and hairy, feet gangly and bony, and my ass had a tail, fluffy and long that seemed to have a mind of its own. Twitchy and sporadic like, I examined myself in disbelief. I came back as a squirrel. A goddamn squirrel. I immediately started scrounging. It was my first direct instinct. I couldn't understand why, but I needed to move and move fast. As I peeked through the leaves in the tree I was in, I saw a giant drop a piece of hotdog bun on the ground. I bolted down the side of the tree, amazed at how agile and quick I was. I hit the sidewalk and started dodging through legs and shoes that looked like buildings and skyscrapers. I was almost at my yeasty destination when a pair of heels the size of a three story house came crashing down an inch away from me almost impaling my tiny body. As I tucked and rolled out of the way, I noticed another squirrel had beat me. He glanced at me and said, "Too late dick! Get your head in the game!" Whatever, I hate mustard anyways. I decided my best bet was to hit the nearest park. The trek was quite treacherous, but I made it. As soon as I got there, it was a hell of a shock. A battleground of squirrels, pigeons, mice, rabbits, and ducks. All fighting for the same thing; food. I had to learn and learn fast. I hit garbage bins, plastic bags, trees, tall grass, even the river banks. I climbed into other squirrels nests and stole stashes, and fought those pigeon bastards for seeds, ducks for bread. By the end of the day I was beat and the only thing I had recovered was a measly old sunflower seed I found underneath a bird bath. I decided I needed somewhere to sleep and started looking for a tree. My goal was to get high enough that I could enjoy my sunflower seed in peace. So I started searching. The first tree I focused on was a colossal oak tree directly in the middle of a clear patch in the park. As I made my way up it, I quickly understood that I wasn't the first one to have this idea. "Hey! Get the hell out of here! Are you new!?" "Find your own spot bud, this ones taken." "Listen pal, if you think there's room here you're mistaken." Every inch of that tree was being used and abused by many hairy bodies. That's when I heard a familiar voice call out to me. "Hey hotdog! Come here for a minute!" It was the bun thief. The guy who stole my hotdog bun while I was busy not dying. I swallowed my pride and made my way up. He was sitting comfortably at the very end of a long branch that seemed very far out of reach from anyone else. Very tactical. I admired that. "Don't be shy man come here. I've got some of that bun left for you if you want it." I sat beside him and he handed me a healthy chunk of bread. "I'm Terry. Sorry about earlier eh? First come first serve am I right? What's your name? How did you end up here?" "My name is Adam." I said reluctantly. "And I don't really know! I remember stepping out onto the street and the last thing I saw was a car coming straight for me." "A car eh!?" he exclaimed, as if I had one a prize. "I fell off my balcony piss drunk while celebrating a big sale I had made for myself. And Donny down there got stabbed and mugged by some kid outside of Starbucks." he looked at me devilish like and whispered "Watch this." He looked down and yelled, "Hey Pumpkin Spice!" and an angry voice yelled back. "Fuck off Terry!" Laughing he looked back at me and said "See? We've all died or been killed someway or another. You're lucky yours was quick! I've heard some real horror stories. So what were you? Wall-street? A shady Lawyer? I was in real estate and fucked over a lot of good people." I told him I was Wall-Street and he laughed and said "You poor sack! You were probably worth millions!" We continued on through the night talking and munching our hotdog bun. He told me how everyone around us was damned to this life because of what we were and what we did. Whether it be stealing from the rich or the poor. We were all selfish bastards only looking out for ourselves, and now we're forced to do it everyday. Bickering over the tiniest morsels of food. I fight and argue everyday with my snot-nosed hairy and feathered friends over tree buds, flowers, seeds, nuts, and bread and finally have confidently come out on top. I've made a pretty good life for myself out here in the park. I've got a big tree to call home and a reputation that will scare even the hawks. And now that I reflect it makes sense. It is basically the same life I was living except instead of a paycheque its acorns, and instead of lattes its puddles, and instead of coworkers, its coyotes. A cursed life brought by the results of our former. Don't be a selfish squirrel folks, because you may very well come back as one.