Bracelets chinking, Shirleen popped a slice of bread into the toaster. “Mum, why do we still have this kind of bread? Couldn’t we make some chapattis?” Bronwyn looked at her daughter as if she had just fallen out of the sky. With a puzzled frown, she said, “Shirleen, I don’t mind if you want to make chapattis, but we are a normal English family living in Dorset. Why would we be making chapattis instead of bread for toast?” She had to admit her daughter dressed more like an Indian girl every day. From the moment she got back from school, the metamorphosis took place. School uniform off and into a long floating skirt, a row of bracelets up her arms and an unusual gold pendant strung around her neck with a bright yellow cord. Once dressed like an off-duty Indian princess, she took her plate of toast up to her room. Soon the plaintive sounds of the sitar echoed around her room. The door to the kitchen slammed open, and two tousled headed boys popped their heads around. “Mum, please can you ask Shirleen to turn down the volume on her music?” Their Mum looked at them bemused. They looked so ordinary and so English. “Boys, don’t be so difficult. The volume of the music on your days is so loud. I’m sure the neighbours can hear it.” In the typical habit of twins, they looked at each other and both spoke simultaneously. “Mum, our music is normal, that wailing music of Shirleen’s is weird. Anyone would think we had an Indian living in the house.” Their Mum nodded her head. “I know what you mean, but she has as much right to express herself as you do. You agreed to the arrangement. She has her music on Mondays and Wednesdays, and you guys on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You have to put up with it, I’m afraid. Anyway, why aren’t you at football practice? It’s your day, isn’t it?” The boys clumped up to their room and the kitchen was quiet. Bronwyn sat looking out the window watching the birds as they swooped onto the birdfeeder and argued whose turn it was to peck at the fat balls. She thought, even birds have to put up with offspring fighting and squabbling. That’s not the soothing birdsong we all love so much. More chinking sounds alerted her to the arrival of her daughter, who slid onto a stool and looked earnestly at her Mother. “Mum, you know it’s getting close to the time you should consider suitable young men for me to marry.” Taken aback, Bronwyn looked at her daughter. She always drew her thick dark brown hair into a plait hanging down her back. Her lovely green eyes were her most striking feature. Her face was Caucasoid. What was this obsession with India and Indian? “Tell me, Shirleen, why do you identify as Indian rather than English? I gave birth to you. I know you are my child. There’s no chance of you being mixed up at birth. You were the only girl born that whole week.” The girls’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, “I don’t know, Mum, I feel so mixed up it’s as if there are two sides to me. Does that make me schizophrenic?”

“No, darling, I’m sure you do not have schizophrenia, but I don’t understand what you are feeling. I’m fine with you wanting to dress as you do and play music. I’ll try to cook at least some things you want, but you have to consider the rest of the family too. I'll speak to a psychologist friend of mine and see if she can throw any light on how you feel.” Later, when her husband came home, Bronwyn had a word with him. He said, “I don’t want you talking to all these funny people and putting ideas in her head. She’s a typical teenager. I expect she has a crush on some Indian looking celebrity or other.” Bronwyn knew she would have to help her daughter sort out this strange situation without the support of her husband. Shirleen's room did not look like any of the other girls in her class. They had posters of pop stars and masses of cuddly toys all over the bed. In contrast, Shirleen had a plainer looking bed with a cotton duvet cover decorated with elephants. Her desk was unadorned, but she had turned her dressing table into an altar. A white cloth, bought at a charity shop, covered the surface. There were carvings of a strange elephant-headed human and always a scattering of flowers. She recently took to burning an incense stick by the open window so as not to set off the smoke alarm.

Her brothers complained about the smell in the house, which they had to retract when their Mother reminded them of the chemistry experiments they had undertaken during the summer lockdown.

Upset, Shirleen arrived home one day early in Autumn. She went and changed into her ‘proper’ clothes before slumping onto a stool at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Her Mother was busy cutting bread for the ever-hungry boys. She knew they had appetites like swarming locusts. Then she looked up at her daughter. “What’s the matter, love?” Shirleen was rocking backwards and forward, her arms curling over her head and in an emotion-chocked voice said, “I can feel the despair of the wife after her husband has died. Soon, like her, I will have to walk to the burning pyre and lie beside my dead husband.” Bronwyn was shocked at her daughter’s identification with a culture alien to their middle-class English one. “Darling, pull back. You will not burn on the pyre.” The phone rang. “Hello, Bronwyn? It’s me, Angela. After our last conversation, I spoke to some of my colleagues. We wondered if Shirleen would be interested in talking to us about her identification with an ancient Indian culture. It won't be treatment, but after talking to her, if she is willing, we might try some hypnosis. Do you think she would be interested?” “She is here, let me see if she will speak to you.” Shirleen took the phone and listened to Angela. After a while, she wandered into the lounge with the phone for quiet and privacy. Sometime later, she returned looking a lot happier, “Mum, I’m going to meet Angela and her colleagues next week on Friday after school. Will that be alright?” On the following Friday, Shirleen took the bus to the University and wandered along various corridors until she found the Psychology Department. A brief tap on the door and it was flung open by a small woman with bright eyes which put you in mind of a bird, a Robin maybe. “Ah, you must be Shirleen.” Putting her hand out, she shook the young woman's hand then guided her down a short corridor into a room. It was the staff room. Three other lecturers were sitting in comfortable chairs reading. They looked up and smiled as she walked in. “Shirleen, these are my colleagues.” Pointing to a youngish-looking redhead. “This is Vanessa” to an elderly gentleman “this is Prof Fielding and there in the corner is Amy. Take a seat. Would you like a coffee? As it’s Friday, it will have to be black as I doubt the milk will be useable.” Shirleen smiled, they were a friendly lot and her fears of an academic inquisition evaporated. “Black coffee is fine with me, thanks.” She left hours later. They had talked to her about school and also about her identifying with an ancient Indian culture. She had agreed to go into hypnosis where they visited her unconscious mind, then they did a past life regression. Their surprising revelations showed Shirleen had lived in India about two hundred years ago. Like now, she was a young woman, unlike now that girl was married to a much older man who had died before she had a child. As was the custom, she had ascended the burning pyre and lay beside her dead husband as the flames licked around her. They felt that young life, snuffed out too soon, was leaking into this one. She agreed to attend more sessions to allow that other aspect of her to accept its fate and she to get on with this life. It worked. She still wore the floaty skirts, the bangles and burnt the incense sticks but did not feel the disturbing emotions from the past. Now she felt comfortable being a little different from her peers but could easily enter this life and go out in jeans and tee shirts.


The star assigned to Naija at birth wasn’t a particularly special star. It wasn’t one of the brightest, or attached to a fancy constellation. Her life would’ve been so much easier if she had an in with the Orion or Andromeda crowds, of course. But still, she couldn’t help but love the distant dim light of Hypellaen, the star that granted her a gentle spirit and positive attitude. She did feel lucky she had a star she could see all year, and every night she made sure to take time to look out her window and thank that sweet, faint light as it cycled across the sky. The year she turned 25, everything changed. She’d had a fun night, dinner at her favourite restaurant, and then drinks with her friends at their usual pub. Nothing fancy, but she wasn’t a fancy person. She was everything her star made her: kind, compassionate, caring, always willing to help another person out. Maybe a bit of a pushover, but she’d rather make everyone happy, and that was usually the best way. How could she be anything but grateful, as she tipped her head up to say good night to the star that had blessed her for so many years. As she looked up at Hypellaen, reciting her familiar manta of thanks, the star… brightened. It brightened so much it made the nearby Polaris look dim. She could almost feel the golden light, the rays stroking her skin, caressing her hair. It was only after several minutes, when she got out her phone, that she realized her face was wet with tears. She didn’t want to go inside, but she had to know, were other people seeing this? Opening her news app, she saw the top headline had already been updated. As she watched, another article popped up, discussing what may have happened to create such a bright flash. The forum she was on for her star-group was already popping, a new post every minute with pictures of Hypellaen for people not fortunate enough to see the beautiful phenomenon. “That’ll teach those Polaris pricks!” someone posted in reply to an amateur telescope photo of the gleaming golden light. Naija frowned and flagged the comment. You could always tell when someone was visiting from another section of the forum. No Hypellaen-lit talked like that. Sure, the Polaris-lit were proud of themselves, but they did have a lot going for them. You could hardly fault them. She skimmed the news article about nova events, explaining how sometimes stars expelled hydrogen and other molecules to create gaseous clouds in space, but she quickly closed it. She didn’t care how it happened. It happened. It happened while she was watching, on her birthday; it happened for her. She dragged her armchair to the balcony, and wrapped herself up in a thin blanket, determined to follow the star until it was blocked from view. — Naija woke slowly, a crick in her neck. She shivered, but the cool air woke her quickly. She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, but she’d stayed up for hours, moving her chair to follow the Hypellaen’s path. Part of why she’d rented this place was the excellent view it had of the path Hypellaen was on, especially in the spring months. She stretched, still feeling the glow of her star, like her pores had soaked in the warm light. For the next few months, she spent most days like this, unable to become jaded to the glow. She also had new status at work, and was a bit uncomfortable with the extra attention. It was nice to be recognized, but she didn’t like feeling like everyone was staring at her. Her co-worker Ryan, a Regulus-lit who was on the fast track with the Leo clan, made a few comments about enjoying the (subtext: undeserved) perks before the glow faded, but she was used to his comments. And nothing could pop the bubble of her joy, knowing the she saw and was seen . Of course, the bright glow was temporary. As summer dragged on, astronomers reported the expected dimming had begun. It was hard to tell, since it was gradual, but she couldn’t help being a bit relieved. She had felt the grace of Hypellaen, and she could’ve lived in that moment forever, but the expectations of those around her were a bit exhausting. It kept dimming, and on her next birthday, and her next, it continued, and eventually returned to its normal state. But then it continued to darken. Naija had resolutely ignored the doom-singers, the astronomers who had claimed it was possible this was not a nova but a supernova. The death of a star. The odds were against it, after all. Stars lived to like a billion of years old, and she was supposed to believe this one happened to snuff out the moment she looked at it? But Hypellaen continued to dim, and the chair she’d returned to the living room was dragged out once more. She knew it was silly, but she felt like if she paid attention, it couldn’t possibly disappear. She just had to keep looking. Her girlfriend, Myra, tried pulling her away from her vigil. She’d met Myra during those first few months, when everything had been so bright. It was serious, really serious, but it was hard to humour Myra with date nights, or staying over at her place. There were too many trees around her window, and it was hard to get an eye-line to Naija’s star. It made her feel like a traitor. No amount of Myra’s chastising or astronomer’s preaching was enough to convince her. Until, one day, she could no longer convince herself she could see Hypellaen all. A long time ago, she’d looked into becoming one of the astrogenetists that could determine a person’s assigned star. It was a complicated mix of math and biology, and the massive amount of formulae to memorize had intimidated her. Hypellaen-lit weren’t great with numbers. But knowing how complicated and precise the field was made this whole incident seem all the more ludicrous. How could one of these astrogenetists who were so educated, so knowledgeable, assign someone a dying star? Maybe this was a different step of the process of making a galaxy? Maybe there was dark matter in the way? She didn’t know what dark matter was, but apparently there was a lot of it, so surely it must block the view sometimes. Right? Naija fell down a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories, potential scientific explanations, and just plain nonsense as she desperately searched for any answer that lead back to the conclusion that Hypellaen was still there. She couldn’t… not have a star. Everyone had a star. Her search for answers was complicated by the fact that everyone around her had also become, for no apparent reason, quite difficult to deal with. Her energy was drained by the people in her life, who seemed to expect they could just do what they wanted and she would go along with it. Ryan had long been promoted, but his replacement, another from the Leo clan, was driving her to distraction with his smug attitude. Finally, she had enough, and snapped at him the fortieth time he tried to shove his work onto her, expecting that she would just do it and be happy to help. Did he think she was his personal assistant? She had her own work to do. He looked shocked, but learned fast enough to drop that habit. Myra was also frustrating her. Why did they always eat what Myra liked? Why did they always go to the movies Myra wanted to see? Naija couldn’t remember the last time they’d done something just for her. When she vetoed Myra’s movie choice, and asked to see something else, Myra looked even more surprised than her coworker had. She and Myra broke up a few weeks later, both confused about why they had been dating so long in the first place. Naija knew she should feel bad, and she did, a little. But she didn’t know how she had never noticed what a bully Myra was, completely incapable of compromise. Naija was laughing at a particularly sarcastic reply to a Polaris-lit, when she suddenly remembered that comment she’d flagged a few years ago, and her thought at the time. No Hypellaen-lit talked like that . But paging through the forum now, she could see a lot of them did now. She did. Not everyone did, but there were many different voices in the forum now. It used to be a calm place, a little online sanctuary she retreated to. Now it was filled with a multitude of voices a multitude of opinions. It was still a community she treasured, but it wasn’t the place of serenity it had been. She had been avoiding any article or forum post that discussed Hypellaen like it was dead. They seemed rude and dismissive, talking about a tearing of the soul in scientific terms. But what if it really was gone? What if she saw Hypellaen’s last gasp before it exploded and curled away into a black hole or whatever? Did that mean she had no star? Everyone had a star. First, she learned if Hypellean had gone supernova, it wasn’t a black hole, it was a white dwarf. Because of the reduced size, it would be very hard to see from earth. As of yet they couldn’t tell for sure if this had happened, due to debris in the system, but soon they would confirm. No one credible seemed debating the issue, and discussed Hypellaen as a white dwarf as fact. Because Hypellaen was now so small and dim, the light from it no longer reached Earth in any meaningful way. Of course there were billions and trillions of stars, but they don’t all influence people; only the ones whose rays are strong enough to be easily visible with the naked eye. So without the light, the energy and influence Hypellaen gave was gone.

Naija leaned back from her laptop, an emptiness in her chest. Her light, her constant companion… gone. Obliterated. She almost felt as if her heart had ceased to beat, that her star was her heart, it was her. A person could no more live without a star than without a heart, surely. At first, this thought was overwhelming. It was too much. She closed her eyes, and tried to go back to her daily life, tried to make herself fit into the edges of who she once was. But it was useless, it was like wearing skin that was too tight. Eventually she went back to her research. She had to know the truth. It seemed the last time a star had gone supernova was hundreds of years ago, but back then the study of stars was so primitive: most people considered the idea that stars could influence a person to be superstition. The articles about this event in history noted an increase in unrest over the next decade or so, but things fell back to normal. No one was ever assigned that dead star anymore, the astrogenetists didn’t even consider it. What did that mean? Did she have a new star? Did she want a new star? The thought startled her. It wasn’t just loyalty keeping her from wanting a new star. She did still love Hypellaen, the kind and gentle soul of that old star. But she thought of standing up for herself at work, and with Myra. She thought of the multitude of voices on the Hypellaen-lit forum, chaotic but also energetic. Exciting. She had something new. She had something almost no one else had. She had freedom. Naija, and all the other Hypellaen-lit, could choose who they wanted to be. Hypellaen-lit didn’t even make sense anymore, they weren’t lit. The children of Hypellaen were in the dark, but it was a wonderful, mysterious dark. Terrifying, but full of potential. They didn’t have destinies paved out in front of them. She didn’t have to be gentle, she didn’t have to accept others walking over her. She’d learned she actually hated that. She did still want to help people, and something in her warmed at that. She wanted to help people, not because she was led, constrained, to be someway by distant energy and light. It was what she wanted. It was what she wanted . She could finally be who she chose to be. That night, she again walked out to her balcony to star at the familiar patch of sky she’d watched for so many years. The darkness still looked empty, like a lacking in the universe. But she felt gratitude, so much gratitude with all her heart, for the greatest gift Hypellaen had ever given her.


Trigger Warning: Discussions of death in a way that might be considered offensive. A large gavel vibrated the tall desk in front of me, and a voice boomed, “Payment accepted.” A glimmering blue transparent being whose shape resembled that of a tall cloaked nun titled its head downward in a bow before turning to the left and disappearing into the boundless darkness around me. If I were not entirely terrified, I might actually have attempted to make logical sense of the physics of wherever I was. Technically, I was standing upright, but beneath me was the same pitch-black nothingness that surrounded me. I was in a starless night sky, with nothing before me but what appeared to be a ginormous judge’s bench. “Next!” boomed the voice sitting in the judge’s chair. I gulped, and willed my feet forward, the briefcase in my hand swinging at my side. “What can I do for you, human?” “Uh, hi, yes, Mr. Creator, sir, thank you for seeing me,” I stammered, pushing my glasses up my nose with the back of my thumb. The human-looking god stared back at me, a portrait of boredom. “I know you humans enjoy wasting your time, but I do not.” “Oh, uh, of course, sorry about that, sir. Yes, well, I am here to ask for your help, Mr. Creator. I was wondering if maybe you could help, um, save our planet.” I offered a nervous smile. “Please,” I added, clearing my throat. The god’s face did not change. “And what planet is that?” I meant no disrespect, but my eyebrow raised reflexively. “Well, I’m a human, sir, so—” “Humans are found on many planets, uh, Mr…” the Creator looked down at the desk, shuffling through a stack of papers. “Oh, Settinborough. Mr. Clark Settinborough, uh, well Dr. Settinborough, actually, but really you don’t –” “Mr. Settinborough, as I was saying, humans are found on many planets, but considering you don’t seem to acknowledge that, I’m assuming you’re from the planet Earth, is that correct?” One of scientist’s – no, humanity’s – biggest questions answered in a single second. I didn’t even have the wherewithal to process it. Instead, I just blinked uncontrollably and pushed up my glasses again. “Uh, yes, Mr. Creator. That’s correct.” Looking down at the papers in hand, the Creator said, “And why would I help you save your planet?” My lips parted, but no words came out. I was a little taken aback by the question. “Uh, well, because it’s dying, sir. It’s getting too hot, sea levels are rising, animals are going extinct…If it continues on like this, all of humanity – well, all of the humans on Earth – will die, and Earth itself will not survive.” “Yes, I understand what dying is, Mr. Settinborough. Death is a currency here, you know. You are asking for life, did you bring payment?” I glanced down at the briefcase in my hand. “Uh, yes, I have something to offer—” “Dead tree skin with doodles on it do not work here, Mr. Settinborough. Life and death, lightness and darkness, those are the universal currencies, and those are the only forms of payment accepted here. Surely, you were anticipating that?” My head still tilting down at the briefcase, I shut my eyes and let the weight of the words sink in. “We are a hopeful species, sir. But yes, I was prepared to offer alternative forms of payment.” Exhaling deeply, I opened my eyes and looked back at the god before me. “What would it cost to save planet Earth?” The Creator considered for a moment, then replied, “You are asking for life, and so in return, I must ask for death. It is the only fair request, the only one that ensures balance.” My heart sunk; I could feel it beating in my stomach. Reflexively, my eyes shut again. “How many?” The silence was an eternity. It felt like the inner workings of my organs were being projected onto loud speakers. “One percent,” the Creator said both confidently and nonchalantly. My exhale was like a dam breaking, and with it, a breeze. Through a relieved chuckle, I said, “One percent? Really? That’s it?” The Creator simply nodded. My grin grew wider. “Yes! Deal! I mean, wow, you’d really help save our whole planet for just one percent? Wow, thank you! That’s incred—” And then my brain, my scientific brain, the same brain that had spent several decades researching and running numbers and calculating percentages came to a halting realization. And I froze, my mouth and eyes wide open. “Is there a problem, Mr. Settinborough?” “Millions,” I whispered. “One percent of us, well, that’s millions of people, sir.” The Creator nodded again. “It is. But it would mean saving billions, and your beloved planet.” I considered this. Statistically, it made perfect scientific sense. One percent, relatively speaking, was nothing, hardly significant in some cases. But here, it was life-altering. Millions of lives altered. But for the sake of billions… for the sake of survival. What the Creator asked for was both dirt cheap, and extremely expensive. “As I said before, Mr. Settinborough. I do not like to waste time, and I do not bargain. What will it be?” I was shaking now. “I’m sorry, Mr. Creator, sir. It is a lot to consider.” The Creator’s face softened for a moment, and a sense of understanding briefly revealed itself. “You know, I know the Creator of your planet, and I can assure you the intention was never for so many humans to inhabit it. Even with one percent gone, there will be so many of you left, you will hardly notice.” I imagined my kids gone. My wife gone; my best friend; their families; my parents; all the people I would notice gone. The loss of them morphed into the thoughts of strangers, and those strangers losing family members, and those people losing more family members, and on and on until empathy coursed through my veins like a steady flowing river. “How will they die?” I asked. Not that it mattered. Maybe it did; I wasn’t sure. The Creator shrugged. “I’ll consult with Nature. That’s not really my department. I just accept the payment.” The answer didn’t hurt, but it didn’t help either. “And you’re sure you can’t accept cash?” I offered, half-heartedly. The Creator laughed loudly. “You humans do have a great sense of humor, I’ll give you that. But no. So, what will it be?” This kind of decision deserved a lifetime of consideration. But I didn’t have that. So, I squeezed my eyes shut and blurted out, “Deal!” I hoped I would feel a sense of relief, but instead, I heard a loud bang! as the Creator’s gavel slammed onto the desk. “Payment accepted.” As the being before me had done, I tilted my head in a bow, and exited the darkness. In an instant, I was back in my home, sitting on the couch next to my wife, who was scrolling through an article on her phone. I could hear my kids playing with Lego in their rooms down the hall. “This is crazy,” my wife muttered to herself. Feeling so happy to see her, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “What’s crazy?” I asked, planting a kiss on her temple. “There's something going around. Seems like a lot of people are getting sick.” My wife shrugged nonchalantly, and clicked her phone on lock. She set it down on the ottoman in front of us, kissed my cheek, and got up from the couch. “What do you want for dinner?” My body stilled, and my breath quickened. I slowly reached for my phone in my pocket. I unlocked it, and opened up my Settings application. Before I could stop myself, I turned off my news notifications with one swift swipe. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I called out, “Pizza sounds good.”


I've often thought about what all I would say if I bumped into you one day, Tori. You were a huge part of my life, and now with one broken promise after another, I don't know that I will ever get the closure I need, but do I even want that? As I sit here wondering where you are and what you are doing, I find myself nervous you may walk in. Would you over hear something I say to the empty seat next to me, where you used to sit? This is silly. You can't hear me. I don't know why I'm scared you would hear me, much less see me. You are nowhere to be seen in this town. But I must admit, I've missed you. I'm back. Did you know that? I came back. You told me to come back. I'm back. Where are you, might I ask? You said you would wait for me. You said you would. You didn't. You aren't on that street anymore. Did you move? Because I'm back. I've been waiting to come back, so I did. *** It took awhile. I had to get myself back together. After, what was it, 20 years, I'm ready. I'm not married, I don't have any kids. I kept my promise. Did you? We made that promise, years ago. You said "If we are both 25, no marriage, no kids, nothing, we would get married." You had just watched 'My Best Friend's Wedding', and were inspired. Honestly, I deliberately didn't get married to anyone. I did it for you. Did you know that? You didn't hold up your side, did you? *** I lived in New York for a while. I earned money. I got a good job. I unfriended you on Facebook. I wanted it to be a surprise; to see how much you've grown when I come back. Okay, I unfriended you on Facebook because your whole feed was full of you and your new boyfriend. It hurts, you know? To see the person that you have loved since forever to just instantly leave and become happy with someone new. You wouldn't get that. You unfriended me on Facebook just because. That hurt even more. As soon as I left our small town, it was like I disappeared. No texts. No calls. Nothing. It was as if we never met. Never talked. Never made promises we wouldn't keep. *** I don't really blame you. I'm forgettable. I'm replaceable. I was never meant for you. But, when you made that promise, I believed it. I believed I could be yours. That you wanted me too. There goes that hypothesis. Your new husband, the man who replaced me, is handsome. You always had the best taste in men. You could tell that I wasn't for you. You could tell I just wasn't it . I wish I was. I truly do. But, I'm currently walking down the street. Your street. Your empty street. I haven't seen anyone. If you still remembered me, you might have been walking with me, or at least sprinting down the street to see me. But you're not. *** I heard you have a kid now. What was her name? Gracey? Oh, and you have an older son. You had promised me you would name him after me. "His name will be Frank Lee Marcy." That was my last and first name. Not only that, that was my FULL name. But, you didn't. His name is Harold Greg Hawkins, the second. You named him after your husband. His full name. That hurt, too. I mean, you promised. Sure, maybe we had problems. Maybe you forgot. But, you should have kept it. *** I found your old house. Nobody lives there. The door was unlocked. I thought that everything would be gone from there. You moved, and every piece of furniture, accessory, and memory was gone. Even that little apple tree out in the backyard was gone. I heard it had its roots ripped up so you could have a pool. It never happened. Still, there was only one thing that was left. A lump of shaped clay, with bright colors. Red, orange, green, black, blue, and gold. The little face looked at me with what looked like pity. It had a little string through a hole and it had two other holes to blow through. You left the bird whistle. Intended or not, you left it. I bought it when I went to San Antonio. You were so excited, because it had your favorite color on it. The next few weeks, we would fill it up with water and go into the wooded area behind your backyard, looking for birds. That stopped after it got a crack in it. You could have taken it with you. You could have even shoved it in a box in the back of your closet and I would be fine. But you didn't. Another broken promise. You said you would hold it with you forever. You didn't. *** I decided to go back home. "Oh, you are already home," you would have said. No I'm not. There is nothing here for me. Your not here, and that's all that mattered to me. Honestly, it is hard to leave you. I mean, I left you in the first place. But, I didn't expect you to do it back. I hurt you, but didn't your mom always teach you not to hurt someone back? I keep thinking about that night. At Senior Prom. You told me we were going together. You promised. I showed up to the dance with a goofy grin and a corsage. You said I didn't have to pick you up. I waited for an hour . You didn't show. I walked to your house and went up our secret way to your room. I didn't expect it. You said you would come. Another promise broken. You were with Paul. The handsome guy from our school. You betrayed me. Maybe I made noise. I don't know. You turned to the window and saw me, and I went running. My pants got ripped from the branches of the apple tree and mud decorated my sneakers. I didn't care. I just had to get away from you. That's when we stopped talking. It was too much, too fast. I moved to New York, and I don't know what you did. I don't even know if you felt sad or bad. Did you feel pity or guilt? Did you wish I hadn't gone? Whatever. I don't care about you anymore. So what if I'm 38 now? So what if I didn't come when we were 25? Maybe you came back. I'm sorry I left you waiting. But, let's be honest, you had it coming. You can break promises, and I can too.


Ink’s Sorrow October 21st, 2021. Month 12 Week 52 Day 365 9:37 AM “Claire, today is the day… I heard you’re getting that promotion at the diner you’ve been trying at?! Head chef! Congratulations! You really do ” No, he shook his head as he made a line through the word, “did deserve it. I bet ya Shawn Sean wasn’t too happy to hear that. He’d been cooking there for a few years and you surpassed him in three months! Your dad called yesterday just to check on how things were going with school and the new move. He’s He was really proud of you and all that you’ve done and says your mother is too. They were out on a business trip to Washington. We all know “business trip” is was another way of saying vacation for them two. Don was excited he has had the whole house to himself while they’re out. He’ll probably throw some high school party and get busted for breaking a door or something. Don’t let them find out alcohol was most likely the cause, then he’ll really get it. I just wish it was something as simple as a door that had been broken… Anyways, ‘Hey beautiful, I woke up late today and didn’t see you on your way out this morning. I know you’re working and I don’t want to hold you for too long so I hope you have a great day Head Chef! Call me and/or text me when you can. I love you!’” “12:37 PM” “I had gone into work at 10:41. Late by eleven minutes. My phone says that you read my good morning message at 12:35 PM and responded saying ‘Hey love! It’s alright, I gave you a kiss on your head after putting some breakfast in the microwave for you. How’d you know I got my promotion today?! Are you secretly in on this? I love you :). Sean actually quit when Ms. Rose told us. I feel bad but if he wasn’t leaving us with one less cook every other day then maybe he could’ve gotten it. Just saying. I hope your day is going well at the store! I’ll talk to you soon! I love you!!!’ I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and my heart skipped a beat like it does did every time you’ve texted. I wasn’t able to read it immediately because I was checking out a customer. A strawberry lemonade store brand and a party size bag of classic potato chips. I had earlier found the breakfast you left me and you were right, I was in on your promotion. I’ve got I had my connections and made sure you would move up sooner or later. I always said I would do all that I could to make sure you were happy. And I did. Or at least, I tried. “ 12:59 PM” “‘No wonder I had such a good dream! My nose led me straight to the microwave when I woke up too. Thank you :). I’m so happy for you and proud of your promotion! They couldn’t have chosen a better head chef! The day you showed up, Shawn or Sean, however you spell his name, didn’t stand a chance at your position! We celebrate tonight with a movie and rootbeer float or three? The store is really slow today. I mean it’s a gas station. What else should I expect I guess. I get off at 7, I’m covering for Angela. Can’t wait to see you! Time literally couldn’t move any slower. I love you!’ I sent my response just as the bell jingled to a man in his late twenties walking in and heading straight for the back. “1:05 PM” “Adam Letterway 2115 Sedgein LN DOB: 04/23/1994 DL#: **-***-**** EXP: 5/03/2022 Eye: BRO HGT: 6 ft’ I remember all the details from his drivers license. He bought eight packs of cigarettes and three twelve packs of beer. A party ? .It was Friday and his birthday was is tomorrow. I didn’t think much of it, if anything at all. Not until he left and handed it all to five teens. I should’ve done something. I should’ve gone out and said something. What was there I could’ve said or done though? Maybe I should’ve called the cops? Maybe I should’ve screamed and shouted and made a huge scene? Anything. I could’ve done anything. But I didn’t. I’m sorry Claire. Adam disappeared and the five teens jumped into a Gold Honda Accord. A much older edition. License plate: JAJ-E61. Claire. Please forgive me.” “1:46 PM” “I didn’t think of it much after that. Now, it’s all that I can think about. ‘ROOTBEER FLOATS?!? I WOULD LOVE YOU FOREVER!!! I get off at 7:30 so you have time to set the mood in the apartment ;) Pick out a horror movie okay?’ Two separate messages both sent in the same minute. You’re You were always quick at typing, especially when you were excited. I wrote back, ‘You can’t even handle scary movies. Just want to snuggle in close with me huh? I don’t mind :) I’ll see you soon!’ The rest of my shift went by with nothing special happening. Customers came and went. ‘Fifty on pump 8.’ ‘Ten on pump 3.’ ‘I’ll take one of those down there. The pineapple flavor.’ All the usual stuff. I can could can only wish today was just as usual as… Well... As usual I guess. How could I have known that nothing would be ‘as usual’ today? Nothing was or would ever be as usual anymore. I’m sorry Claire. I love you. And I love you forever.” A tear wetted the letter mixing ink and sorrow. Two ingredients so often found brewed, “I love you forever.” “6:54 PM” “Dave came in for his shift early and allowed me to go home. I want(ed) everything to be perfect tonight. ‘Hey beautiful, I’m heading home now. Must be busy at the diner, haven’t heard from you in awhile. I hope you’re not working too hard. I love you! I’ll see you soon :)’ I texted you while sitting in the car. A red 2003 Buick Regal. Nothing fancy. Just enough to get me from A to C. From anywhere to Claire. Yet, where you’ve gone now—I can’t reach. I drove to the store and bought two 2 liter bottles of Rootbeer along with two 48 fl oz of cookie dough ice cream. I put everything away when I made it to our new apartment, 7410 E Callan Ave, apartment 203. I chose The Conjuring for us to watch tonight that night and set two blankets with three pillows neatly on the floor in front of our TV. My heart skipped a beat at the buzz of my phone. ‘I got dinner!!! Heading home now my love.’ I smiled to myself, ‘I’m looking forward to you :)’” “7:48 PM” “You came home… God, why does the night all seem to be a blur. You came home and there was food, there was laughter, there was happiness and Rootbeer floats and there were cozy snuggles and there was love and love we made and there was us and… There we were. And just as it came, so it ended. From what or who or why it fled, my memory for the first time has done the same. There was frustration and there were tears in your eyes. There was yelling and there were questions with no answers and then there was nothing. You left our apartment and I—I closed the door behind you… What happened? Why didn’t we just talk? Why did you leave and why did I let you? I promised to come after you no matter how far you ran but Claire… I let you go. And you…” His hand shook uncontrollably as he wrote the last words, “You didn’t come home.” “9:35 PM” “‘Claire?’” “9:38 PM” “‘I’m sorry. Where did you go?’” “9:41 PM” “‘Please come home. Forgive me or don’t just come home and we can talk. I love you.’ You never read that message. You never knew I forgave you. We never talked. I was never able to tell you one last time that I loved and I still love you.” “11:53 PM” “My heart skipped a beat when there was a knock on the door. I jumped up ready to accept you. Ready to embrace you and kiss you and tell you that we would make it through this too. There I stood in an open doorway and there you weren’t on the other side. ‘Ashton Coppen?’ How I wish I could be anyone else… ‘There’s been an accident.’” “12:33 AM” “At 10:21 PM, a gold 2000 Honda Accord ran into the driver side of a red 2003 Buick Regal. The driver and all the passengers of the Honda were visibly drunk and tried to make it through a red light. It was the Buick’s green light. It was the Buick’s turn to go. It was your turn to go and you went. It wasn’t your time to go… But you went.” 10:17 AM “It has been a year since today, that day. How much I wish I could’ve done. So much I wish I would’ve and should’ve done. I could have said something at the gas station. I would have held you close all night long as you slept in my arms like every night then. I should’ve never closed the door behind you. Claire, I beg that you have forgiven me. I’ve questioned it every lonely passing night. I hope we will one day meet again with hearts renewed and the memory of the love that I have had and always will have for you. Thank you for our time. Goodnight my love and sleep well. I will be dreaming about you. Ashton Coppen.” Ashton looked up towards the waters surrounding his small boat. A sorrow lightened but a weight nonetheless. He held the bottle he rolled his letter into and plugged it with a cork. He checked the time from the old swiss pocket watch Claire had given him on his 23rd birthday, it had been her grandfather's. “10:21” The hands pointed at the Roman numerals. He stepped off the edge of the boat and into the endless waters. To the bottom of the sea he was pulled, nothing but sorrow as the weight.


Special agent Scarlett Mason threw the case file on her desk in defeat and collapsed into her chair. She pulled the next case file in her stack. Opening the case file, she sighed, realizing this case will also be another dead end.               It was getting harder and harder to hide her vampire side. She was getting by on the blood her best friend brought her from her job as a doctor. She had been wearing contacts to cover her red eyes and she had been using spray tan. Drinking blood allowed her to go into the sun without burning if she didn’t have any exposed wounds.  Everything else about being a vampire did not really cause too many problems.               She had been choosing cases that she thought would lead her to a cure or at least to the man who had turned her into the blood sucking monster she was. Each case was leading her to another dead end.               “I have a new case for you.” Scarlett’s boss walked in holding a thick case file. “There is a series of murders where all the victims are drained of their blood. It is close to where that unsolved case was from a few months ago.”               “The vampire killer is back?” Scarlett asked surprised. “There hasn’t been a sighting since he attacked me.”               “We aren’t sure it is him, but the killings have to many similarities to ignore. I was hoping to send you and Agent Eugene Collins to investigate.”               “Are you sure about Agent Collins you know he believes this killer is a real vampire?” Scarlett did not want Eugene to find out that she was a vampire. “He could be a risk to this case.”               “He has put in just as many hours as you on this case and you will be there to keep him in line.” That was the end of the discussion.

              By the end of the day Scarlett and Eugene was sitting in the police station of the small New England town. They sat in front of a board that was filled with what was known of the vampire killer, which was very little.               “Where did you find the last victim?” Scarlett asked the detective that oversaw the case.               “She was found in the park. We thought it was strange that the killer would leave the bodies in the park when he or she left them in more open places before.” The detective looked at the board. “Also, this body has bruising when the others weren’t.”               “How are we sure this is the same killer and not a copycat?” Eugene said with skepticism.               “The victim was found with bite marks and seemed to be sucked dry of her blood. Not to mention the steak through the heart which was never mentioned in the news.” Scarlett knew was the same person who had turned her.               “Also, the cause of death is the same as the past victims.” The detective told Eugene.               “It says here that there maybe a witness which you plan to question tomorrow.” Scarlett read the file. “Is there anything else to do tonight?”               “No, I was planning to fill you in on the new information and then head home to try and sleep.”               “I will head to the hotel after I look at the case files more.” Scarlett told the detective. “We can hit the road running in the morning then.”

              In her hotel room Scarlett laid in the bed unable to sleep. Being a vampire, she needed only three hours of sleep. She had already had her three hours of sleep, but it was still too early to go into the police station to work on the case.               Scarlett got up and took a shower. Before she could get into the bathroom she was knocked to the ground. She used her vampire strength to push the corporate off her and threw him into the wall. In the darkness all she could see was two glowing red eyes.               “Scarlett, is everything okay?” Eugene asked outside the door. “I thought I heard something.”               The vampire trying to attack Scarlett charged her, tackling her to the ground before she could reply to Eugen. Without a reply, Eugene burst into Scarlett’s room. He amid his gun at the attacker, but he didn’t have a prefect shot.

              “Put the gun up and grab the stakes from my bag!” Scarlett screamed to the horrified Eugene. “Also grab the bottle and gloves from the bag!”               Hesitantly, Eugene did what Scarlett said. While he grabbed the items from the bag, Scarlett managed to overpower the vampire. She slipped on a pair of gloves and poured holy water onto the vampire in order to keep him from fighting back.               “What is going on?” Eugene handed Scarlett the stakes.               “Who are you?” Scarlett asked the vampire as she ignored Eugene. “Who sent you?”               The red eyed vampire growled and spit at the special agents causing Scarlett to stab the vampire with a holy water-soaked stake.               “You can’t do that!” Eugene yelled in horror.               “Watch me.” Scarlett stabbed the vampire once more with the stake.               “You want to find the man that turned you, but he doesn’t want to be found.” The vampire hissed. “I bet you want to find away to turn back.”               “Get off me!” Eugene yelled as a female vampire grabbed him.               “Have your little friend let go of my mate and then I will let you go.” The female vampire angerly growled.               Scarlett removed the stake from the male vampire’s arm and allowed him to get up. “Let him go.”               The female vampire let go of Eugene and pushed him towards Scarlett. The male and female vampire ran away.               “Why did you let them go?” Eugene question Scarlett. “Who were they and what is going on?”               “I let them go because I recognized that woman. She was the assistant to the local factory owner. I interviewed her last time I was town. I was suspicious, but I had no evidence.”

              “Why did they attack you?”               “Last time I was here the killer turned me into a vampire. He was interrupted before he could kill me. Now I want to find the killer and have him turn me back human and then kill him.” “Wait you have seen the killer? “It was dark and all I know is he was a man and he had a scar on his left hand.”  “You have to tell someone about this.” “I told you.” Scarlett placed the stakes and holy water back into the bag. “I think it is best to keep the vampire part secret. Most people won’t understand, and it will only slow down the investigation.”

“I guess that makes sense, but it seems like something local law enforcement should be aware of.” “I plan to handle this on my own without local law enforcement. This killer is a vampire so humans can’t handle capturing him.”

The police’s witness was not much of a real witness. She was a grey-haired old lady who complained about a man walking around the park, but the lady could not describe the man. This left the local law enforcement with no clues, but Scarlett had a lead. She took her lunch break and went to visit the factory owner and his assistant. Sensing she was going to do something, Eugene followed Scarlett. He stopped her outside the factory right before she walked in. “Where do you think you are going?” “I just plan to talk to him, vampire to vampire.” Scarlett pushed past Eugene. “I guess you can come if you are here.” “I was sent here as your back up.” Eugene reminded her. “You need to let me know when you are going to do something like this.” “You are human which means this isn’t safe for you.” Scarlett handed Eugene a bottle of holy water. “This will help keep you safe.” “Hello.” The vampire lady appeared in front of them. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Anderson?” Scarlett flashed her FBI badge. “I think this means I have an appointment.” “He has been expecting you Scarlett.” The vampire woman gave a sly smile. “Only you.” “Wait here.” Scarlett told Eugene as she walked through the door. “I will be right back and remember what I gave you.” The big doors slammed behind Scarlett, leaving her alone with Miles Anderson. He was sitting in his big chair behind his wooden desk. He was wearing white gloves. “I have been waiting for you Scarlett.” “So, I’ve heard.” Scarlett walked closer to Miles Anderson until only the desk stood between them. “I want to see your left hand.” Miles removed the glove on his hand to show a scar that looked like it was caused by a vampire bite. “How long have you known it was me?” “I was pretty sure it was you from the start, but when your assistant stopped by to see me, I knew for a fact it was you.” “Let me guess, you want me to change you back?” “That’s why you are still alive.” “There is no way to turn you back human. Why do you think I kill those who I feast on? It’s either kill them or have them turn vampire.” “How many vampires have you created?” Scarlett was thinking about the news she just received. “I lost count over the years. Does it matter, you won’t be able to stop them all.” Miles stood from his chair. Quickly Scarlett pulled out a bottle of holy water and splashed it into Miles face.  With Miles burnt and, in a daze, she pulled out a stake and put it through Mile’s heart. As he laid dying, Scarlett opened the blinds allowing the sunlight to speed Mile’s death. “I will kill all your monsters, but too bad you won’t be able to see.”


A Bit of a Traveller The year was 1969, and the graduating class had decided to put objects into a time capsule, which was buried on in the far corner of the property owned by the high school. It was where some of the students went to go to smoke. There was a large bush that they could hide behind, and not get caught. The plan was to dig the time capsule up and revisit it every ten years, to give it a look, maybe laugh. However, 10, then 20, 30 and even 40 years later, there had been no such activity, even though about half of those class members had come to the first two reunions, and a substantial minority to the last two. Some had even gone to the corner to have a smoke, ‘for old times sake’.  But they barely mentioned what they were standing on when they puffed away, although one or two would remark that there looked like there had been a little digging there recently, nothing much, just a little.. Most of the class had brought in fairly predictable things – vinyl records now worth quite a bit of money, fashion magazines, pictures taken at key events, like when the basketball team won the city championship, and a few snaps of people smoking behind the bush beside where the time capsule lay buried, that kind of thing. Larry Places a Mysterious Object in the Time Capsule But Larry had carefully placed inside the capsule something quite different. He had put it inside a wooden box before he brought it to the ‘incapsulating session’ as some smarty-pants student called it. A few were curious about what it was he had placed in the freshly dug hole, but no one thought to ask him about it. Although everyone knew of Larry, and they recognized him by sight as he had grown up alongside them year after year, no one really knew him at all.

He was a bit of a ‘Traveller’, to use the British expression. His parents had come from eastern Europe and it was rumoured that they had lived in a caravan or trailer, along with others of their kind. They had made a little money telling fortunes, and selling shiny goods on the street, enough to pay for their fare over the Atlantic. No one’s parents knew them, not even neighbours. And this despite the fact that Larry’s father eventually came to earn a decent living as a sales manager for a big box chain store, and they lived in a ‘nice neighbourhood.’ The Fiftieth Anniversary            It was 2019, the year of the 50 th anniversary of the class of 1969. Around twenty of them showed up, and some who had remained close friends over the years had decided that this would be their last chance to have a look at the time capsule. The reunion was on a Saturday, and they were going to do the digging at 3:00 p.m., the time when class usually got out. Larry left early, to arrive well before the starting time. He had something to do, and did not want to be seen doing it. He parked his car on the road beside the short path that led straight to the time capsule.            He still managed to get to the front door about the same time as most of the others did. There were people there from classes all over the years, but he had his eyes set for those who graduated with him. He had particular people in mind.            He saw Rick Jamieson first. He walked over to him. After the initial ‘hi Rick’ he jumped straight into a conversation, not something they had often engaged in when they were students, other than asking questions about homework: “How’s your wife Sally? And your sons, Bob, and Frank? They work at the factory where you used to work before your retirement, don’t they”

           Rick was stunned by this, as he did not expect what he was hearing. Once his suspicions settled, he got truly engaged in conversation. It wasn’t long before the two of them grabbed a coffee each, sat down on chairs nearby and talked about their lives over the last 50 years. To watch and to listen to them, you would think that had been the best of friends in school. After about fifteen minutes of conversation, they gave each other their cell phone numbers and e-mail addresses, both thinking that they might forget to do so later. Both then made jokes about how their capacity to forget was ever-growing.            Rick had to go to the bathroom. When he mentioned that, they exchanged one-liner jokes about a capacity that was ever shrinking.            As soon as Rick entered the ‘Boys Washroom’, Larry saw another classmate, ‘Stan the Man’ Martin and demonstrated a similar knowledge of what had happened in Stan’s life since graduation. Stan was just as surprised as Rick had been. He and Larry had never been friends, even though they had been in the same class several times. And Larry knew some personal details that were not part of general public knowledge, facts known to very few.            When three o’clock approached, Larry walked with the others from his graduating class, as well as a group of interested others who had graduated later, but had not created a time capsule and were regretting it now. Some of those celebrating their 50 th reunion were carrying shovels that had been supplied by the school for the occasion. When they arrived there, some noticed, but did not comment, that it looked like someone had already  done a little digging on their own. They did mention that the bush beside it had grown some since they used to hide behind it to have a smoke without getting caught.            When the box containing Larry’s item came to the surface, he quickly picked it up, hoping that no one was paying any attention to what he was doing. However, Rick and Stan both spoke up, saying as if they had one mind between them, “What’s in the box Larry?”            Just before Larry could complete his reply of “You wouldn’t find it interesting at all”, Rick grabbed the box right out of his hands. He opened it up quickly, then he and Stan flashed a surprized, and slightly shocked look on their faces.            Knowing that the cat was out of the bag, or more literally the crystal ball was out of the box, Larry winked at his new-old friends and said, “Give the crystal ball to me. We will walk around behind the bush where no one can see us, and I will show you something.”            Rick quickly handed the crystal ball over to Larry., and they walked full pace around the corner, where the bush shielded them from curious eyes. They stood together in a three person circle, around the ball that Larry held out in front of him with both hands. There was a cloudy swirling in the crystal ball, but that was as nothing compared to what appeared when Larry said “Rick Jamieson.” Pictures of Rick’s life literally flashed before all three of them. And there were sounds, barely audible but still heard, that added much to understanding what was going on in the scenes being shown.            After about five minutes of this spectacle passed by, Rick pronounced a telling phrase that they would later use often, “It is kind of like a supernatural Google search.”            Larry put the crystal ball inside one of the deep pockets of his brown leather jacket. The three former classmates, now on the road to becoming close friends, had something to share, the lives of their classmates over the years. Stan picked up a rock, put it into the briefly empty box. Then he handed the rock-in-a box over to Larry, who walked over to the newly-dug hole, and buried the box where it had once been.  But the past would not be so buried. It would be visited by a bit of a Traveller, and his curious friends.


He hadn't recognised her at first. Pink did nothing for her complexion and a waistline that high was a difficult look for any woman to pull off. Beneath that bell-shaped skirt and modest bustle he couldn't begin to guess at the shape of her figure. All he could go by was her face, now pale and dewy without the dramatic eyeshadow she had worn the last time their paths had crossed. Her hair was still long, but blonde this time and piled up in elegant curls at the back of her head. A brief look was all he had before the swelling of the crowd had carried her away. The ballroom was bustling and bright, filled with laughter and music. All that would change, of course, though not for a few hours yet. His objective for the evening would have to wait until then, and in the meantime there was little for him to do beyond enjoying the party and ensuring that there was no question of his belonging there. Avoiding that woman from the opposition would be an added bonus if he could manage it. He had made the acquaintance of a kindly old Lord and his wife who had put it upon themselves to introduce him to a few of their friends and see that a young gentleman such as himself was not left out of the fun. The conversation was pleasant and not too taxing. Rumours of the advancing army were already sweeping around the room, but the Lord's wife was keen to talk about anything other than the war and did so with little interruption, catching them up on all the latest fashions and gossip from her correspondences with friends back home. The band reached the end of their piece, and the room was filled with polite applause. The crowd began to stir once more as the dancers, flushed and giggling, left the dance floor to find their next partner or to rejoin one of the many huddled conversations happening at the edges of the hall. He could see that most people in his current circle were searching for a way to excuse themselves from her Ladyship’s inane chatter. "Oh!" she squawked with delight, Mrs Lloyd is here. Have you been introduced? Come now! You really must meet her. You must know her husband, of course.” And suddenly the crowd parted and there she was, standing alongside the woman returning her Ladyship’s wave. Their eyes met as she glided towards him in that terrible marshmallow dress of hers. He stifled a groan. "A pleasure," he said, forcing a smile and giving a small bow as her Ladyship introduced him by the name and rank he had borrowed for the evening. "Have you been introduced to Miss Wetherby?" asked Mrs Lloyd. "I don't believe I have," he said. Which was true. That was not the name she had been using last time. "She came over to visit her dear cousin. Quite tragic." "He passed before I could see him," his fellow imposter explained, "Mrs Lloyd and everyone else here have been quite good to me. I hadn't the heart to travel straight home." "Well," he said, "I do hope you are feeling up to leaving here soon. Your family will be missing you." "I think I shall be," she nodded, "Though not just yet. The parties here are far more interesting than at home." "Quite," laughed Mrs Lloyd, "He was an artilleryman like yourself, you know. Perhaps you knew him?" "I do not think that Miss Wetherby will want to talk of that tonight," he interrupted as politely as he could. He glanced around. The situation had the potential to turn slightly tricky, especially with the supposed Miss Wetherby there, who might decide to turn on him at any moment. He had made sure that the Lord's wife took him under her wing for the evening precisely so that he could avoid talking military matters and mingling with commissioned officers. Commissioned officers such as Mrs Lloyd's husband, who was surely here somewhere and would return to his wife's side shortly. Mrs Lloyd may not have recognised the name he was introduced by, but it was likely that her husband would notice the alarming disparity between his face and the face of the man that had been drugged and left sleeping soundly in a quiet, dark spot where no one need disturb him earlier this evening. He needed to excuse himself quickly and preferably remove the opposition agent before she had a chance to throw a spanner in the works. The band began to play again. It was a waltz. Young men and women flooded back into the centre of the room like the tide coming in. A solution presented itself. "Miss Wetherby," he said, putting on his best smile, "Would you care to dance?" "I say," laughed the Lord's wife, "How scandalous! Still. You’re only young once, I suppose.” The so-called Miss Wetherby looked down at the hand that was offered to her, then up into his eyes. She glanced towards the spot in which the Duke was sat, though they both knew it would be some time before he made his move and the night's work could begin. "It would be my pleasure," she said, taking him by the arm. *** We danced. The lights blurred as we whirled our way around the room. The people standing by were bright smudges of red and blue and white in the corner of my eye, but he was in perfect focus. He was as handsome as ever. It takes a certain kind of arrogance to successfully carry off white breeches, but he had always had plenty of that. I looked up into his face, searching for a sign of recognition, some hint as to which version of him I was dancing with. His eyes barely met mine. His posture was stiff, his head turned slightly to survey the room. Who was this man? Who was I to him? He bent his head and whispered into my ear. "Don't step on my toes." I shuddered, despite myself. He wasn't talking about the dance. The tone was far too curt for that, though he had never really been a man of words. I hoped I was mistaken, but knew deep down that I was not. "That depends on your lead, Captain,” I told him, smiling coyly to see his reaction. The look he gave me in return was icy cold. Gone was the pleasant fake smile that he used in polite company. I longed to see that rare and precious thing, that true smile that I had come to know, the one that lit up his eyes and revealed the dimples in his cheeks, but I knew there was little chance of that.

We danced. This was a man who knew who I was. I was the opposition. His enemy. I was the thorn in his side that chased him across time, foiling the grand plans of the Revisionists. I was someone who would stand by and watch a man die, gladly stopping anyone who would see that it be otherwise. I was the woman who would take a bullet for the murderer who was never caught or protect the baby who would grow up to be an enemy of the state. I was the woman who stole books before they could be burnt, who collected testimony from those that had not been given a voice in their own time. I was the woman who would stop them from creating the history they wanted or culling the facts they didn't like. Yes, this man knew who I was, but he did not yet know me . I felt his arm gripping my body and remembered a time when he had held me under very different circumstances. It was a night not unlike that which was about to unfold on the battlefield outside. On a night like that- one of death and violence- it was all too easy to become a victim of history, regardless of whether you had the gift of hindsight or not. Alone in a time you did not belong in and with little to no hope of returning home, you held on to the only other person who could understand, enemy or not. Amongst the carnage and before I could even think, I had saved his life. In return he had huddled with me in the dark and the cold and the mud, sharing his heat with me till sunrise. That was the first time we held each other, though not the last. In the end, he would save my life as many times as I had saved his. He would keep a tally, as well. He was that kind of man. We danced. This was not the man I had fallen in love with. This was not the man who had come to know me, who I had met for countless secret meetings in shady Parisian cafes or in ancient temples. He was not yet the man who would come around to my point of view and defect to our side at great personal risk. This man had not yet shared a joke with me, or brushed the hair from my face, or held my hand as we walked in the rain.

This was not the man who died in my arms, shot down as a traitor. We danced.

And then, like all things, the dance came to an end. He released me from his vice-like grip, knowing that neither of us could afford to make a scene out in the open. He bowed and I curtsied in return. ”So what now?” he asked. I blinked back tears. I could not tell him what was to come. Nothing I could say would make him fall for me that night. History, as we Preservationists say, must happen in its own time. He would have to wait, and I would have to hope that somewhere out there was a version of him that loved me who I had yet to meet. ”Yes,” I said to the stranger I knew so well, ”What now?”


The Cheeky Chair Here she comes. It’s old Annie McGoogan. The deadliest domestic in town. Ouch! She plumps me up with a couple of quick punches to my cushion and squirts her cheap polish on my poor wooden wings and arms. She rubs her yellow cloth, full of dust, with great vigour, no regard for the fact that I’m the oldest piece of furniture in Doctor Davidson’s waiting room. The patients called him young Doctor Davidson when I arrived as a brand-new chair with brown velour upholstery and a smooth, shining mahogany veneer. I had strong legs and a firm seat. I’ve been reupholstered many times. My favourite was the blue and yellow daisy pattern in the seventies. Now I’m a stripy grey and cream pattern, but my legs are cracked and wobbly – a bit like Milly McPherson’s mind – she’s the oldest patient to visit the surgery. She once turned up with her cat in her handbag. Another time she sat on me for three hours before realising she wasn’t in the library. You’d think the lack of books would be a give-away with only two Reader's Digests and a Take-a-Break magazine on display. Now Annie’s got the vacuum out and they’re roaring around the room. Henry Hoover is nearly as ancient as me and picks up nothing. In fact, there’s more fluff on the carpet after he’s rattled around. If you don’t suffer from asthma when you come into the surgery, you’ll sure as hell go home unable to get a breath from the dust in here. The coffee table cringes as Annie scrapes a sticky sweet off the scratched surface. Then she’s off with a flourish to torment the furniture in the Doctor’s own room.  The chairs in there will be trembling and the sink stinging with the amount of disinfectant used, by the time Annie's finished. At nine o’clock on the dot the Doc comes in and prepares for the day ahead, followed by Letty McIvor, the receptionist, who is plump and kindly and slips the kids a wee treat when their mums aren’t looking. First patient in is Frannie Flynn, with her varicose veins and three chins. She gives her name and please God don’t let her sit on me. Nooooo! Jesus, Mary and Jehosafat, I swear she’s put on three stone since last week. She has to lose some weight for her operation. Stomach stapling’s what she’s hoping for. She’s kidding herself. If you look in her massive handbag you’ll see three packets of Wotsits, a family sized bar of chocolate and a cheese and pickle sandwich. That’s just her mid-morning snack. The rolls of doughy blubber on her arms pour over my poor arms and she feels wedged right into my seat. Letty will need to prise her out when she’s called.  Wiggy Weatherall appears next and sits on one of the modern metal and purple chairs, fit only for skinny people. I remember when he came to the surgery asking for a hair transplant but had to make do with an NHS wig. It sits askew due to the high wind today. He throws a toothy grimace Frannie’s way and she proceeds to regale him with tales of her veins, stomach and wayward daughter. 2 Oh, Lord save us! Here’s Veronica Slattery who should be named sluttery due to the number of children she’s had with different fathers. At the last count there was Dennis the Menace, Pat the Rat, Dodgy Dan, Clatty Clayton and twins Spike and Semolina! The twins’ dad registered them and misheard his daughter’s name which was meant to be Selena. Veronica has two of her brats in tow. One is picking his nose and flicks a bogie onto my back as he passes and the other sneezes onto Frannie, who shifts her considerable weight around my creaking seat. The boys fight over the toys in the corner of the room, while Veronica puffs on her vape, then bites her nails.

Thank the Saints in heaven! Frannie’s called first, managing to squeeze herself out of me and waddle off. Oh, the relief. But not for long, as Spike takes a runner at my comfy seat and dives right on. He then proceeds to kick my legs with his wellies and pummel my arms with his sticky little fingers. It’s torture as Dennis joins him and they climb all over me, pretending to be wild Indians. Everyone tries to ignore them, until Veronica bawls, “Get off that chair you wee buggers!” Then she mutters to herself, “That new boyfriend of mine’ll be getting the snip and no mistake.” You don’t half see all the town’s misfits in here. You wouldn’t believe the number of hypochondriacs. Harry O`Donnell thought he had gout or at least an ingrown toenail. What he needed was his eyesight tested. He’d been wearing his son’s shoes by mistake and they’re two sizes too small. The eejit! Mary McPherson came in three times last week thinking she had pneumonia as she was wheezy and sneezy. Turns out she’s allergic to her daughter’s new kitten. Then there’s young Heaven-Lee Brown who just started training as a nursing assistant. She’s had a heart attack, appendicitis, encephalitis, and prostate trouble – all in her teeny, tiny mind of course. Heaven help her patients.

Anyway, I’m hoping to get out of here some day soon. I dream that one of our patients will be an Antiques Roadshow presenter and discover that I’m really a chair from the bygone days of the Arts and Crafts movement. He will whisk me away for a valuation on TV. Doc Davidson will sell me for great wads of cash, and I will spend the rest of my days being admired in a museum. I’ll never be sat upon by pregnant women with their waters breaking over me, puking babies or teenagers talking tripe on their phones. Someone will softly brush my cushion, polish my wings and legs with beeswax while looking at me lovingly. But who am I kidding? I’ll have to put up with this lot for a long time yet.

Here comes the worst patient in the world. It’s Wally Watson. His windy problem is silent but violent, he has a dodgy bladder and is deaf as a post. Please don’t sit here, please go to a purple chair. If there is a God, keep off me, Wally. Oh well, it’s a God-damned Godless world.


There are few places as pungent as a high school gym, especially during a boys’ varsity basketball game. The Jordan High boys were a talented bunch of players. Think more “hard work and tears,” less High School Musical . As team mom, I got to sit on the bench behind the team, organize the team volunteers, and keep my mouth shut. I love my kids and would do anything for them. Being team mom was one of the many little ways that I could demonstrate that small truth. So I sat in the bleachers, listened to the squeaky sneakers and the basketball’s rhythmic drum, and wondered why engineers who could make a computer smaller than the size of my hand could not make a more comfortable bench. I watched my son Michael sprint down the hardwood, his lithe, slim legs pumping with all their might as he tried to get open off the fast break. Michael was not a starter, but he had been trying all season to crack the starting five, which was dominated by two players: Jordan’s star point guard Connor Reilly and his best bud, forward Drew Lane.

Connor saw Michael up the sideline and lobbed the pass, hard and fast, halfway down the court. I watched hopefully as Michael reached out his fingertips, grabbed the pass, drove the lane … and ran right into the 250-pound power forward from the opposing team. You know Newton’s third law of motion? “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” In this case, complete stoppage of momentum. Michael threw up a layup, which bounced around on the rim and came out again. The opposing team’s Aquaman lookalike grabbed the rebound. My son’s shoulders sagged, his eyes reflecting doubt. The opposing team made a quick conversion on the other end. “Time out!” the Jordan coach bellowed. The team jogged back to the huddle, grabbing their water bottles, each one labeled with the name and number of each player. Madison, the team’s manager, moved around the outside of the huddle, offering extra water and towels. She saw me watching and shot me a sympathetic glance. “Michael, nice job, but you’re out for now,” said the coach. “Drew, go check in.”

The team started to head back to the bench, but Connor pulled Michael aside. “Once again, you suck. Why are you here?” I watched my son’s slump go even lower than his self-esteem. The agony of defeat, indeed. High school is hell, but being the parent of a high schooler is worse. There is nothing worse than watching your child be mercilessly bullied every day up close and personal, and being unable to do anything about it. Behind me, I could hear the parents of Drew and Connor sniggering at the insult. They always sat together, laughing and lauding their children, who (they were convinced) were the best basketball players ever created. Ever since Drew and Connor met in first grade, their parents had become close friends, even vacationing together at all-inclusive resorts where the liquor never ran out and the kids could entertain themselves.

At dinner than evening, Michael looked down at his plate and said, “Connor is getting worse. Today after the game he told me to quit because I am a terrible player.” Michael’s dad, Brian, sighed and asked, “Does the coach know this is happening?” Michael replied, “Of course, but Connor scores 30 a game. Coach isn’t going to bench him for a little ‘good natured ribbing.’” “Michael, you’ve got to stand up to him,” I advised. “He’s going to continue to act this way until you do.” Michael sighed, “He’s not going to stop until I quit the team. Connor loves Drew.”

“I guess that’s understandable,” Brian said, “but aren’t you actually the better overall player?” “That doesn’t matter to Connor. All Connor cares about is playing with Drew. Plus Drew is Connor’s source.” I looked up. “Source? Of what?” Michael looked at us with youth’s intolerant pity of the old. “What do you think? Weed, amphetamines, or anything else Connor wants. Connor drinks an energy drink before every game, and Drew always gets it for him.” My husband and I exchanged a look. “You mean Drew is a dealer?”

“Not a dealer so much, but he knows where to get anything, and he makes it easy for Connor. All Connor cares about is Connor. That and basketball. Drew, on the other hand, only cares about Connor and Madison.” “Madison? You mean the manager?” I asked. “Yeah, they’ve been dating for a while. Drew is crazy about her. I’m not sure what Connor thinks about it, though.” The next day, Michael came home from practice sweaty, fatigued, and even lower. “Coach let Connor lead the team in wind sprints. Do you know what the prompt was for sprints? We had to run every time we heard Connor say, “Michael sucks.” For 20 minutes.” His eyes filled with tears. I hugged him and said, “That’s it. I’m going to the coach.” Michael stepped back, horrified. “Mom, you can’t! That would ruin me! I would be known as a snitch! Then everyone would hate me.” I paused. “OK, I won’t go to the coach. But you don’t have to put up with this, you know. There are lots of fun things to do in the world that don’t involve this kind of pain.”

Michael looked at me and said, “But they’re not basketball, and I love it, Mom.” Case closed. Thursday, Michael burst into the house, all arms, legs, and news. “Connor hooked up with Madison last night at a party! Practice was crazy. Connor and Drew actually went for each other in practice – throwing punches! Coach had to pull them apart.” “Wow. I guess that’s going to make the game tomorrow a bit more complicated. And how were you?” I asked. Michael smiled. “Glad I wasn’t attracting attention for once.”

Friday was a cold, dreary day. Gathering my coat and gloves around me, I walked from my car to the gym 30 minutes before the game. The team was warming up, shooting baskets and doing drills prior to the game. The coach was going over last-minute strategy with the assistant coach. Madison walked past me, eyes downcast, with a suspicious sniffle. Had she been crying? She was loaded up with the team towels and water bottles. I walked over to the scorer’s table to check in with the volunteers and chatted briefly with a few of the other parents.

I looked up at the bleachers. Connor’s parents were sitting in their usual place, on top of the world on the top bench, absolutely convinced of their and their child’s superiority. Drew’s parents had moved towards the bottom of the bleachers and studiously avoided looking around. I headed over to my usual seat, looking over the bench to see if anything needed to be taken care of. Towels? Check. Water bottles? Check. Coach’s clipboard? Check. Everything in its place. I shed my coat and took my seat. The team came over to the bench with the usual pre-game energy, grabbing towels and water. Madison walked up to Connor and handed him his water bottle. I overheard Connor say to Madison, “Wasn’t it the best sex you ever had?” Madison quietly said, “Yeah, pretty good.” Connor grinned at her and said, “You’re welcome.” Madison’s face fell, and tears filled her eyes. Coach called for a team huddle, and the boys jogged over. “Ok, starters tonight are Connor, Drew, Kevin, Mason, and Nick. Whatever you have going on outside of this game, you need to let go. This is business. Let’s go, guys, and win this one.” Connor and Drew eyed each other uneasily, then went into the pregame huddle. The players readied themselves, took a couple more sips of water, rubbed the soles of their shoes with their hands, and went out to center court. Michael sat on the bench, quietly taking it all in.

The horn sounded. The referee tossed the ball up, and the centers battled for the tip.  It was game time.

The opposing team was strong and quick, but Connor was energized. He bounded up and down the court, making his first six shots and playing strong defense. He reacted with lightning fast movements, hands reaching for the ball, feet moving to stay with the defender. Jordan kept the game tight. With the up and down, back and forth, of the game, the crowd got into it. The cheering in the gym was raucous, the atmosphere intense. Despite the fierce defense, it was a high scoring game and everyone in the gym was riveted on the game and the action on the court. It was a relief to everyone when the first quarter ended with the score tied at 25. The team walked over to the bench. The starters sat down and gulped their sports drinks while the coach addressed the team, noting small deficiencies in play and lauding Connor’s relentless play. Connor grinned an especially cocky grin and wisecracked, “I got it tonight, Coach. I can feel it in my bones!” Coach steered the boys back to focusing on the next quarter. The starting five went back out, and Madison moved around the bench, refilling drinks and putting out fresh towels.

As the second quarter began, Connor was everywhere. He played with frenetic energy, almost a frenzy. He could not stop moving. He drove relentlessly to the basket, scoring three times in a row. He made the other team sweat for their offensive possessions.

Towards the end of the second quarter, the opposing team made a weak, slow pass at half court, and Connor quickly stole the ball and drove toward the basket. Suddenly, he stumbled to the court and stopped moving, the ball rolling out of bounds. An apprehensive silence came over the crowd. Jordan’s athletic trainer trotted out to Connor and bent down close to him, calling out his name. When there was no response, the athletic trainer picked up Connor’s wrist, checked his pulse, and started CPR, yelling at the coach to call 911. The team tried to crowd around Connor, but the coach kept them away to give Connor some room. Connor’s parents approached courtside. Connor’s mom had her hands balled over her mouth as if to stop a silent scream from coming out.

The paramedics arrived 10 minutes later. Connor was unresponsive, so they transferred him to a gurney and rushed to the hospital with his mom in the ambulance. As they were leaving the building, the crowd clapped respectfully for the fallen player. The crowd was abuzz. What could have happened to cause a healthy basketball player to collapse like that? Both teams were shaken, but the Jordan bench was in chaos. Michael tried to find me in the crowd, seeking reassurance. I gave him my “I’m worried but it will be ok” look. Drew looked horrified. His hands were shaking, and he looked like the ground would open up under his feet any minute and swallow him. He couldn’t stop crying. Madison was sobbing behind the bench. Coach signaled to me to get Drew’s parents, and they took Drew home. Down two players, Coach put in Michael and the backup point guard, Evan. With some substitutions, Jordan made it through the remainder of the game. The boys played well, trying to avenge their fallen teammate, and managed to pull off a close victory.

After the game was over, the coach gathered the team together for an announcement. Connor had been declared dead of cardiac arrest at the hospital. He had overdosed on caffeine. The police interviewed Michael and me the next day. We told them our observations about Connor’s behavior, how he played with even more energy and enthusiasm than usual, how he had collapsed on the court. My son cried, and I held his hand.

We found out two days later that Drew confessed to putting an extra energy drink in Connor’s water bottle. Sobbing, he told the police that, “Connor kept begging me for a boost to help him play better, so I thought I would get even with him for hooking up with Madison. I knew Connor drank that energy drink, and I figured a little more caffeine would hype him up a bit more, maybe make him too wired to play well. I knew the taste of the sports drink would cover up the taste of the energy drink, and it would serve him right for once. I thought he would just feel a little bad and have a bad game, make him realize that the world wasn’t all about him. But I never expected him to die! I’m so, so sorry….” Jordan held a memorial for Connor before the next game. The bleachers were packed with fans, who observed a moment of silence in honor of its fallen point guard. Jordan considered cancelling its season after Connor’s death, but after all, what was the best way to honor a basketball player than by playing basketball? So Jordan continued to play, and it was amazing. With Connor gone, the team began to act and play together as a team. There was a lot more passing, pick setting, and overall teamwork. Jordan had suffered a devastating loss of two of its players, but those kids managed to scrape together a winning season by sharing the load with one another. The team became very close, on and off the court. Michael became the starting forward, but he shared playing time with another kid. The boys learned a lesson that we couldn’t teach them without this experience.

That’s why I killed Connor. I realized it was the only way to rid that team of its worst enemy – its leader. No one noticed me when I laced Connor’s water bottle with two small extra bottles of energy boost drink while I was making sure everything was in its place prior to the start of the game. Organizing is what I did at every game. No one noticed it, not even with my coat and gloves still on. Once I poured the energy drinks in, I just threw the bottles in the trash, then went to the bleachers to my seat. I didn’t know that Drew had slipped in another energy drink, but in the end that helped seal Connor’s fate.

I chose not to think about Connor’s parents. Really, it was all for the best. I’m a parent. As I told you, I would do anything for my children.