Memory used to be my “superpower.” I could close my eyes and rattle off any facts or trivia I had learned at any point in my life, almost always as though I was reading straight from the source I had gained said knowledge from. I would astound my parents’ church acquaintances with my ability to accurately quote scripture from any holy book, needing only to know the general topic before spieling off with the exact chapter and verse they were looking for. And I aced every standardized test the teachers could set in front of me; especially helpful when I was pregnant, high, and trying to get my GED. In a world of lies, misinformation, and “fake news,” my memory felt like the best asset an autistic adult like myself could have. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one who saw my memory as a major asset; and the others who did, had no qualms about treating it like every other asset they have ever acquired. In other words, they used and abused it until it was no longer working properly, then they tossed it aside with the other garbage. Not really shocking, I suppose, to be used then disposed of by one’s government; still feels like a slap in the face when it happens to you, though. My memory issues are somewhat difficult to explain, but I will try my best to give you the run-down. You might be familiar with brain damage from traumatic brain injuries, or strokes, or seizures. Maybe you knew/know someone with dementia or Alzheimer's. Those disorders are, sadly, more straight-forward than what I’m dealing with. (Not to imply that these disorders/disabilities are straight-forward, or easy to deal with! Just far more well-known than what I am currently going through.) My memory isn’t spotty, I’m not confused about what year it is or who my loved ones are. I’m not a danger to myself, my confusion is not likely to lead me to wander unfamiliar streets thinking I’ve found my way back to a home that no longer exists. My issues are more along the lines of; was my childhood the one spent with 8 other siblings in a 1 room shack with a dirt floor, in a neighborhood so awful the cops wouldn’t even drive past it? Or was it the one where I grew up in a mansion, summering in the Hamptons, skiing in the Alps? Was I the refugee from a war-torn country, bullied for my accent and lack of cultural knowledge? Maybe I was the average, all-American child, who went to summer camps and applied for scholarships and student loans; maybe my childhood was nothing like any of these experiences. You see, my memory is still as strong as ever; I just have too many lifetimes of experience strolling around in there. And none of these experiences feels fake, or enhanced, or anything. They all feel equally real, equally mine. Maybe because there are certain threads that seem to run through each set of memories, marking all of the experiences, indelibly, as mine. For example, every single lifetime contains a government agent recruiting me for a new project; each time, due to said agency hearing about my unrivaled memory capabilities. Every childhood I can recall, included religion as a major portion of the family culture. These, and other minor similarities, seem to suggest that there must be some kernel of truth in all of these memories, but there’s just no earthly way I could have had 15 different childhoods! Okay, I’m breathing normally again, and now that the panic has subsided a bit, I think I know how to start putting some pieces together. I woke up this morning (in my house? A stranger’s house? Where even am I?) and saw a huge, overstuffed manila envelope sitting on the nightstand. I was so concerned about the number of childhood experiences (and entire lifetimes) bouncing around my brain, I didn’t bother to start trying out my short-term memory. My last memory from any lifetime in my head is being recruited by the United States (or equivalent country, depending on timelines) to be a part of a time-traveling project. Well, experiment, really, but that wasn’t how they phrased it during recruitment. At any rate, I have no idea what happened to me during my time with them, and that overly full manila envelope seems like it might just hold some answers to all of the questions swirling around my noggin. What’s that saying everybody declares when things don’t go the way you hoped? “Be careful what you wish for; it might just come true,” I believe is how it goes. Well, that cliche definitely seems to fit here. Five years of my life are documented in these files, but according to the newspaper on my doorstep this morning, closer to 10 years have passed since my conscription. Five years undocumented, aside from a minor note - “subject has missed 3 consecutive check-ins; assumed dead.” To be fair, it’s not like they would have had any way to find me, even had they wanted to; it just seems cold to have put it so bluntly. Not that they were necessarily wrong, though, if I’m understanding the rest of this correctly. While I was brought aboard for time-travel, it turns out there’s more steps involved than just, “I want to visit precolonial North America.” In order to travel to a point in time that is not your current location, you have to find a place for your energy to exist. The universe abhors a vacuum, which is what would happen if you tried to introduce a brand-new energy out of nowhere. But, you also can’t just “swap out” energies; you have to hit a sweet spot of somebody matching your energy dying or (far less likely) also traveling through the space-time continuum. But they literally have to be in the process of dying/traveling, otherwise you have to find a different time. Which, I think, is why I have so many memories of so many lives - the people whose bodies I inhabited, and those who inhabited mine while I was out. Then you have to factor in the reality that once you have traveled through time, you no longer truly belong to any time period. Even if you travel to the future, just by leaving your original timeline, you have irreversibly lost your place within it. So many things happened in the last decade, when I basically didn’t exist on this plane. I may never know if I even made it back to my original world, or just one that is remarkably similar. I think there are some minor differences, but how would I prove that they aren’t just things I’ve misremembered? And it’s not like I have anybody that I could bounce ideas/memories off of. All of my family and friends were notified of my death 10 years ago, when I joined the program. I haven’t exactly been making a plethora of new friends in my line of work, nor starting my own family, so I’m on my own now. The only people I even vaguely know are my latest handlers, and they aren’t exactly people you can just track down to reconnect with on a whim. Where was I? Oh, yeah, trying to figure out when and where I am, if not who I am. Well, this timeline seems a lot like the one described in the most detail in my file, so I guess this is where I’m from. This house seems as though it was custom-made for me; knowing our government, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, to try and keep me at least somewhat compliant. Obviously, they don’t want my story getting out; out of 100 fellow recruits, I was the only survivor, according to this paperwork. The house is 100% mine, no mortgage, no financing headaches. I will be getting a generous government stipend each month - more than enough to cover bills, expenses, and a reasonable lifestyle. I won’t be buying designer clothes anytime soon, but I can putter around the house without needing to try finding work, or assistance. That part is probably so they wouldn’t have to go through the hassle of providing me with a real identity. And there’s the kicker. I can do (almost) whatever I want, but I don’t officially exist anymore. The bank account where my money will be deposited each month is listed under an old, old alias of mine (fine, a childhood nickname that nobody alive knows about), I have access to that account via checks and an ATM/debit card. I can’t open a social media account (they hack every single one I try to create), I’ll never be able to fly or travel internationally. I never have to pay taxes again, though! As though that can make up for literally having no life. According to my files, I spent five years as an active operative. Meaning, for five solid years, I was hopping from timeline to timeline, reporting my experiences back to my handlers whenever I would “wake up” back in my own body. At the start, all of us were returning very regularly; after about a year, though, people slowly stopped “waking up” in our safe house. In that second year, maybe thirty people altogether stopped showing back up; after three missed check-ins, they would be presumed dead, their bodies disposed of. I vaguely recall hearing something on one of my check-ins about the disposing of seemingly alive bodies being a difficult pill to swallow, and maybe there’s a better way to be certain the person is actually dead before getting rid of the vessel permanently. I can only assume that this is what happened for me, since obviously I eventually got back here. In the third year, everybody else disappeared; within six months, all the operatives that were still with the project had missed at least three check-ins. For the next year and a half, I managed to make all of my check-ins, for fear of not having a body to return to otherwise. I still don’t know for sure what kept me from checking in for almost five whole years, but I have been trying to put together what pieces I can from my file. Not that there’s much to go by here; each trip is kind of a one-time deal, given what it takes to get there and back. I didn’t expect any clues to lie in the intel I gave them from my destinations; I went looking for clues about my last handler/s. Again, I didn’t expect to find much; ever try to look up a Secret Service agent? How about a CIA handler? Yeah, they don’t tend to come up on a Google search. Quite honestly, I would have preferred to find a fellow operative. Even if anyone else was still alive, though, I assume they would be as hard to find as my handler, or as I am. Since I no longer have an identity, or any social media presence, or really ANY online presence, the only people who would be able to find me would be whoever set me up in this house built just for me. Right now, there’s one thing that I know for sure - somebody knows that I am alive, that I am here, and that I have a story. They have no reason to simply discredit a woman who is already dead; if I make my story public, they probably will just kill me. There’s also one thing they don’t know, though, and that might just save my story, if not my life. You see, one of the lives I lived, was a software developer by day, hacker by night. The past five years are starting to come back to me now: I know how to force my story onto every newspaper’s headline; how to make my story trend on every single social media platform; how to turn my story into an integral part of the current zeitgeist. All of this is triggered the moment my energy leaves this plane; they can’t even force me to travel anymore, or they lose all control of the narrative. I don’t need to find the mountain; I know how to bring the mountain to me.


I had a dream that I was being chased by a huge chocolate croissant, but just before I woke up I managed to take a huge bite out of it and scare it off. I had nothing much on that day so I decided I would go to my favourite bakery in Manchester and get myself a chocolate croissant - a further act of revenge on the jumbo croissant in the dream. Blue Moth Bakery was part of a row of box-shaped, glass-fronted businesses facing onto the canal in New Islington. When I got there, it was about to rain and everything was grey; the sky, the surface of the water, the flimsy-looking apartment blocks that enclosed the whole scene.

I walked into Blue Moth and instantly felt better about the world. Quite often these days I found myself doing things to make me feel that way.

The bakery was practically empty because I was there so early. It was just me and one older woman of Chinese origin wearing a beanie hat even though they’d racheted the heating up in there. She was drinking a cup of coffee and using a fork to attack some kind of round cake with a mountain of icing on it like shaving foam. When she looked up, I immediately looked away. I wasn't there to chat. It started raining heavily outside and for some strange reason, this causd the old woman to drop her fork, gather up her things and leave. Perhaps she’d left her washing on the line. I drank my coffee slowly, sitting by a window that looked out onto the canal. The rain was rippling the surface of the water in a way that I found mesmerising. There was an old bike chained to a lamppost and the rain hammered it with such force that I wanted to run over and move it to more sheltered spot. To avoid having to think about the fragility of this bike, I looked at the barista behind the coffee machine, which was right by my table. He was staring out of the same window, perhaps he was thinking about saving the bike too. He was remarkably good looking, blonde hair down to his shoulders, eyes so blue that they were cartoonish, and one of those square jaws that male superheroes tended to have, to match their perfectly ripped bodies. Because of the way he looked, I was intimidated when he broke out of his daze and said: ‘Doing anything for Mothers’ Day? Mother's Day? Was it Mothers’ Day? ‘No.’ I’d sounded more surly then I'd meant to. The combination of the rain and the sky made it seem as if the whole bakery had been wrapped in a sopping grey sheet. I ordered another coffee, extra hot please. ‘I’m taking my mum out,’ he said, ‘I love Mother's Day. Love my mum. She's my biggest fan. She does everything for me.’ Part of me wanted to laugh; such soppy thoughts from such a macho-looking guy. But another part of me was distracted with thinking about my own mother. How long had it been? Eighteen months? nineteen months maybe? I wanted to turn over the situation with Mum over in my mind so to avoid having to talk to the Adonis, I looked out of the window again. A woman in a egg-yolk yellow raincoat with the hood up was walking a small white dog with twitching ears. A terrier maybe? I knew nothing about dogs despite having photographed far too many of people’s ‘beloved canine pals’ over the years. This woman was walking her beloved canine pal right into the full force of the rain. That’s dedication, I thought, taking him for his exercise on a day like this. ‘Why don’t you like Mothers Day? What does your mum have to say about that?’ The Adonis laughed. Was there no end to this guy’s perkiness? ‘I don't want to talk about it,’ I said, ‘well, I haven't spoken to my mum in a while.’ As I’d expected, the Adonis made a distressed face. ‘It's complicated,’ I said. The rain showed no sign of letting up even a little, it was like toothpicks coming down out there. ‘It goes back to my childhood. A longstanding argument.’ He nodded, sympathetic now. ‘It was about my dad. We fell out over my dad. Who's dead now.’ Was I going to go into the whole story? ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Child abuse.’ That ought to put an end to his questions. ‘Oh that's…really sad. Can I make you a coffee? On the house?’ His kindness made me feel self-conscious. ‘No, I've got to get going.’ I hadn't planned to leave so quickly, the last thing I wanted to do was go out in that rain. Five minutes’ later I was walking along the concrete path alongside the wide canal, towards the main road. The rain stopped suddenly and the sky brighted and turned milky. What a relief, I could hold my head up again rather than walking hunched over. A few minutes later I wished I’d stayed with my head down, because there on the road was the body of the small white dog, blood melting across the tarmac’s wet surface. The woman in the yellow coat was crying into a tall man’s shoulder, he had the uncomfortable gait of someone who has a complete stranger going to pieces in his arms. When I got nearer, I thought, shall I look away? But, like but most ordinary human beings approaching the scene of an accident, you cannot help but have a good old gape. That poor dog, its body was twisted like tissue paper and there was a poignancy in the way its nose was pointing into the air like it had just caught the scent of a cat that needed chasing. Twenty minutes ago it had nothing to battle against but the rain and now it had to battle with eternal nothingness. I had little concept of death, it wasn't something I thought about much. Probably because I’d been so unaffected by my own fucking bastard father's death three years earlier. But looking at that dog, and its owner standing next to it, sobbing as if her insides had been ripped out of her too, I thought, death comes to us all. There's no escape. And when it's over it's over. They’re cliches but they’re true.

By the time the dog was so far behind me that I could no longer see it on the road, I’d made my decision. I would phone Mum. Wish her happy Mothers Day. Keep it bright and breezy. Not even refer to my unexplained eighteen (nineteen?) months of silence. When I got home it took me a while to change out of my damp clothes, have a shower and put on my most comforting dressing gown and fluffy slippers, which were shaped like big cuddly dog faces. The more I thought about the call the more I needed comfort to prepare me for it. I couldn't believe how scared I was, and this made me annoyed with myself. But, if my sessions with Imelda had taught me anything, it was the importance of being kind and gentle to myself. With this in mind, I carefully prepared for the call. I sat on my sofa with all its velvety pillows in colours chosen because they uplifted me. I covered myself with my duvet and my summer flowers patchwork quilt. There were lit candles placed all along the mantlepiece and I’d switched on the fairy lights that were woven amongst the the leaves of the indoor tree next to the fireplace. In front of me was a cup of hot chocolate made with nuggets of Lindt chocolate dropped into boiling milk and stirred. If anything feels like going back to the womb, then this is it, I joked out loud. Hang on, it was the womb, and more specifically the woman who it belonged to, that got me into this mess in the first place. I looked around me, took a deep breath, and dialled The Sunrise Old People's Home. I'd always thought ‘Sunset Old People’s Home’ would’ve been a more appropriate name. Or maybe that would be too close to the bone? ‘Hello I'd like to speak to Judith Saffer? It’s her daughter, Lettice.’ The woman at the end of the phone sounded irritable and overworked. ‘Hold on, I'll get someone for you.’ ‘Someone?’ I said, but she'd gone. She must have left the handset lying on its side because I could hear sounds in the background that took me back to when I was at primary school and they were serving school dinners. Doors closing. Trolleys being wheeled along cheap lino. Bossy staff calling out instructions to their juniors. I looked at the round station clock I had above my mantlepiece. 12 pm. It had been a mistake to call at lunch time. Mum took her food very seriously and wouldn't want to be disturbed while she was eating it. I smiled at the memory of her describing the politics of Sunrise dining room to me. ‘You have to get there early so you can get a place at one of the tables near the back, the ones at the front near the serving line are ridiculously noisy. You have to bring a novel with you, and when Harriet, or Joan T or Joan F come into the dining hall, you sure as hell make sure you’re busy reading that novel, and you don't look up until they've walked past you and have sat themselves down to torture some other poor sod.’ Mum liked to refer to the Sunrise residents who she had a problem with - and boy, were there a lot of them - as cretins. I was still waiting for someone to come and deal with my call. After Dad died, I decided to tell Mum everything that he’d done. Me and her had been sitting in The Flowerbowl, this vegan café in Chorlton, god knows why I’d chosen that as the place to tell her. I never went there again, afterwards. When she stormed out, she left three quarters of her gluten free brownie and I remember thinking that she was probably grateful that our argument had given her the chance to abandon it. I’d been waiting on the line for almost ten minutes. In my experience with old age homes, you had to expect everything to take much longer than normal. But maybe I’d been forgotten about, with the staff caught up in the lunchtime chaos. Just as I was about to hang up, a deep female voice picked up the receiver and practically sang ‘hello?’ The jolliness of her tone threw me. I used my ‘dealing with clients’ voice and said: ‘I’d like to speak to Judith Saffer, please. It's her daughter, Lettice.’ ‘Yes,’ said the voice, ‘you’re Lettice Saffer? Judith Saffer’s daughter?’ The tone had become gentle and no longer cheerful, this immediately put me on my guard. I felt like I was about to be told how miserable my mother had been over the past eighteen months because of my silence. How much she’d talked about me. How much she'd missed me. I was all ready to be contrite. Not because I felt contrite (or did I?) but to get this woman off my back. ‘Is my mum available? If she's having lunch. I don't mind-‘ The woman interrupted me. ‘I'm so sorry. So very sorry. Your mother, she died five months ago.’ Without thinking what I was doing, I hung up. I pictured the jolly big bosomed woman, properly a senior figure in the home, standing there, listening to burrrr of a line that had gone dead. And she’d be wondering ‘What on earth? What on earth kind of person could this Lettice Saffer possibly be?’


### Gossip Central: The Hottest Scoop in Starlet City **Headline:** Love, Lies, and Longing: The Scandals Rocking Starlet City Dear readers, hold onto your hats and clutch your pearls because today's edition of Gossip Central is sizzling with the latest juicy tidbits from the glamorous yet tumultuous lives of our beloved celebrities. Grab your coffee (or maybe something stronger), and let's dive into the chaos, heartbreak, and drama that make Starlet City the talk of the town. **1. Star-Crossed Love Affairs:** It seems that Cupid's arrows have been striking with questionable aim lately. Our sources have confirmed that the dashing heartthrob, **Ethan Rivers**, and the sultry songstress, **Bella Monroe**, were spotted sharing an intimate dinner at Le Rêve, the swankiest restaurant in town. While Ethan is technically single after his high-profile breakup with supermodel **Victoria Lane**, Bella is still very much linked to her on-again, off-again beau, rocker **Jaxon Storm**. Eyewitnesses reported steamy glances and even a discreet kiss! Could this be the beginning of a new power couple, or just another chapter in Bella's tumultuous love life? **2. Betrayals and Backstabbing:** In a shocking turn of events, our inside informants reveal that **Tessa Hart**, the darling of daytime TV, has been betrayed by her closest confidante. Tessa's best friend and stylist, **Mila Bennett**, has been leaking details of Tessa's personal life to the press for months. This bombshell came to light after a series of particularly personal stories surfaced, each eerily detailed and undeniably true. Tessa is reportedly devastated and has severed all ties with Mila. Trust is a fragile thing in the world of fame, and Tessa's heartbreak is a harsh reminder of the cost of celebrity. **3. The Great Escape:** In a dramatic twist worthy of the big screen, action star **Derek Steele** has vanished from the public eye following a messy divorce and custody battle with ex-wife, actress **Chloe Kensington**. Rumor has it that Derek has fled to a secluded island to escape the relentless paparazzi and rebuild his life away from the spotlight. Sources close to Derek claim he is focusing on his mental health and reconnecting with nature. Meanwhile, Chloe is left to navigate single motherhood and a challenging career without Derek’s support. Will Derek make a triumphant return, or is this the end of his Hollywood saga? **4. Rising Stars and Fallen Idols:** Not all news is scandalous, darlings! Our very own **Lila Rose**, the sweet and talented breakout star, has landed a lead role in the upcoming blockbuster, *Celestial*. This role could catapult her to A-list status, and we're all eagerly watching her rise. However, not everyone is thrilled about Lila’s success. Her former mentor, veteran actress **Vivian Blackwood**, has been vocal about her disapproval, calling Lila “ungrateful” for allegedly ditching her after finding fame. A classic case of jealousy, or does Vivian have a point? Either way, we can't wait to see Lila shine on the silver screen. **5. Scandalous Reunions:** Fans of the once-popular band, **Eclipse**, are in for a treat as whispers of a reunion tour circulate. Frontman **Ryan Knight** and guitarist **Liam Hayes** were spotted together at a secret recording session, sparking hopes of new music and possibly a tour. This news comes despite their infamous fallout years ago, which led to the band's breakup. Can Ryan and Liam put aside their differences for the sake of their fans, or is this just a fleeting moment of nostalgia? **6. Hidden Addictions:** The seemingly perfect life of reality TV queen **Sophie Sterling** is crumbling as reports of her secret battle with addiction come to light. Insiders have revealed that Sophie has been struggling with substance abuse for years, hidden behind her glamorous facade. She has checked into a rehab facility under an alias to avoid media attention. This revelation is a stark contrast to the image Sophie has always portrayed. Her fans are left in shock, hoping for her swift recovery and return to the spotlight, clean and stronger than ever. **7. Fashion Faux Pas:** The annual Starlet City Gala, known for its dazzling display of fashion, was not without its blunders this year. The usually impeccable **Fiona Frost**, renowned for her chic and sophisticated style, made headlines for all the wrong reasons. Her choice of a bold, avant-garde gown was met with mixed reviews, some calling it a masterpiece, others a disaster. Fashion critics and fans alike were divided, and Fiona's risky choice has certainly stirred the pot. Love it or hate it, Fiona remains the talk of the town. **8. Business Ventures Gone Awry:** It appears that not all that glitters is gold in the business world of Starlet City. Entrepreneur and former child star **Jasper King** has seen his latest venture, a high-end vegan restaurant, fall into financial turmoil. Despite the star-studded opening and rave initial reviews, the restaurant has been plagued by management issues and declining sales. Insiders say Jasper is scrambling to keep the business afloat, even considering selling off personal assets. Can Jasper turn things around, or will this be another failed project in his portfolio? **9. Secret Babies and Hidden Relationships:** The rumor mill is buzzing with whispers that actress **Grace Delaney** has been hiding a secret baby! Grace, known for her private nature, has kept a low profile recently, leading to speculation about her mysterious disappearance from the public eye. Sources suggest that she gave birth in secret and has been focusing on motherhood away from the prying eyes of the media. The identity of the father remains unknown, but rumors point to a high-profile director she was linked to last year. Will Grace confirm the news, or will this remain one of Starlet City's greatest mysteries? **10. Redemption and Comebacks:** In a heartwarming twist, comedian **Max Turner**, who faced a career downfall due to a scandal two years ago, is making a remarkable comeback. Max has been performing at small comedy clubs, rebuilding his reputation and winning back the hearts of fans. His sincerity and raw talent are shining through, proving that everyone loves a good redemption story. Max’s journey from disgrace to grace is a testament to resilience and the forgiving nature of the entertainment industry. There you have it, dear readers—today's hottest scoops and scandals straight from Starlet City. As always, we'll be keeping our eyes and ears open for more gossip, intrigue, and sensational stories to keep you entertained. Stay tuned, because in this city, there's never a dull moment! Until next time, Gossip Central ✨


The first to arrive is Julia, I know her, she wears bright red lipstick and her hair is the color of the night sky. She looks like a porcelain doll, like the ones in the glass cabinets at my friend Beth's house. One that will never crack is what my mom says. Julia comes from what my mother calls hill billies. I don't know what those are but Julia sometimes talks real slow, and her words have a funny accent. One night after a couple of glasses of the bitter juice my mom always serves, she said, "I ahm a prohhhper Holly go Lightly, I left my sweet country husband for the bright lights of the big city, Ghabby." My mom's name is Gabrielle, I learned this on my sixth birthday, before then she was only my mom, the woman the woman who sings me lullabies and braids my hair. Now at the ripe age of nine I am more mature, I have responsibilities, I feel proud as I refill Julia's glass of bitter juice. The next to Arrive is my babysitter Lydia. My mom and Lydia have been friends since they were my age. They grew up across the street from one another on the Lower East Side. "Hola nina." She greets me with a kiss after I reach out a plastic cup of bitter juice to her. "I see you've broken out the fine china Gabriella." She says. "Delilah insists on joining us tonight, so she has a job to do." My mother shouts from the kitchen as she puts the finishing touches on dinner. "Delilah, you're a big girl now." Lydia says as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. I've always admired Lydia's big brown curls, ever since I was a little girl. I would lose my hands in it every time she would pick me up to cover my cheeks in kisses. Soft tendrils framed her face and her locks were soft and carried the fragrance of a tropical island, from the coconut oil she used as conditioner. The final twist to my mother's princess cut clan, arrived as julia and Lydia were in the throes of their latest relationship news. I'm not sure how she heard the faint knock at the door, but when my mother opened it, she received our guest with a huge hug, shielding her face from my view. "I'm so glad you could make it." My mother releases her embrace, and I can see it is Briar. I've met her before, she's quiet, not like my mom's other friends, who speak as if the grown up world is full of intrigue. Briar is also the most ordinary of the quadruplicate. Her skin is pink and fleshy in my mother's africanish hand. Her hair is thin and sandy blonde, much more modest than Julia's onyx retro curls, and Lydia's dusky ringlets. "I was just about to put dinner on the table." My mother says. As she's led to the table Briar gives me a brief wave, I wave back and follow them towards the dining room table, but stop at the threshold. Both Julia and Lydia stand up for Briar and my mom, but really just for Briar. They dote on her and stroke her hair. I wonder what's happened to her. She doesn't visit as often as Julia, and I haven't spent time with her as I have Lydia, and my mother never mentioned some sort of disaster happening to one of her friends. "Come Delilah." My mother beckons from the dining room table. "Put the wine on the table and wash up for dinner." I step over to the table as my mother heads to the kitchen. She has baked chicken, and as she opens the oven door the warmth and scent is enveloping. Suddenly my mouth waters and I rush to the bathroom to wash my hands. When I return the salad bowl is being passed around the table and I take my seat beside Lydia. My mother sits beside Briar, and Julia politely protests being at the head. "I only sat here for the cocktails, I didn't know I'd be the head of the table." "Enjoy it like a queen, and we're your loyal subjects." Says my mother. This causes Julia to throw her head back with laughter. "Grape juice Delilah?" Lydia asks as I fill my plate with crispy lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers. "Yes please." I feel like one of the ladies as Lydia fills my glass. Julia raises her's, "Let's have a toast to good friends who love and Suhhpport one another." She drawls out. "Who are always here for one another in a crisis." Lydia raises her glass, "You too Dee." She says to me and I raise my cup and toast with the big girls. " What kind of crisis?" I ask after taking a sip. "The kind that leaves you feeling all alone, but then you realize you have friends." Says my mother. "The earthquake and tsunami type of disaster in the form of a man." Says Lydia. "Tha kind where when you turn around, the village has your back." Says Julia. "The kind where your boyfriend disappears." Briar concludes. "Oh… I'm sorry…" It must be one of those times where I ask a question that mother says isn't polite, because there is an uncomfortable silence, although it took some time to get there. " I never told you, but Briar lost a loved on a while ago at this time." My mother tells me. "A while ago? When?" "You were just a toddler." "When I was a toddler Briar's boyfriend disappeared?" "Murdered, my boyfriend was murdered." Briar informs. The room is silent, I don't know what I feel, it feels like sympathy, curiosity and surprise all rolled into one. But mostly surprise. "You never told me about that." I side eye my mom. "Why would she tell you about that, you're just a baby you don't need to know about these harsh realities." Says Lydia. "I'm not a little girl anymore." The table chuckles. "It was a very unfortunate event, one that's been hard for Briar to put behind her. We're sooo glad you could make it out tonight Briah." Grins Julia. "It was rough on all of us actually, and I wanted to wait until you were older to tell you about it." My mother tip toes. "The truth is it was a horrible relationship and the authorities first pointed the finger at me." Briar says. "They pointed a finger at everyone at this table." Lydia says. "But none of us lost a loved one." Says my mom. "But it was a horrible relationship…" I ponder. "That doesn't mean I didn't love him." Says Briar. "Love is complicated." Says Julia. "So complicated you could die?" I ask. "Just turn on the news." Answers Lydia. "Of course you have to be careful who you see." Says my mom. "His name was Lane," Julia pauses, "is this ok?" She asks Briar. "It's fine" She answers. "And because of his actions we didn't approve of him, so the police questioned us." "What were his actions?" I ask. "Well," Julia continues to chime, "he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering or his hands to himself, and since I smacked him hard enough on the cheek to leave a mark, the police found me suspicious." "Did you get arrested?" "We weren't arrested, just questioned." Answers Lydia. "Why were you questioned?" "Because he was inappropriate to my baby niece at a family barbecue I invited Briar to and I fought with him." "That doesn't sound like a reason to suspect you of murder." "I told him I would murder him if he ever went near her again, very loudly, in a public park." "Oh…" "And since my niece was only twelve at the time, they couldn't blame me if I flew into a rage and killed him, at least that's what my interrogator said. "Yes, they said a lot of things." says my mom. "Did you fly into a rage?" "Yes but not in public." "Why?" "When you were a baby, Briar and I planned on embarking on a business venture together. Lane promised to invest our money and double it. Briar and I emptied our savings accounts and handed him the money. But his so called investments were bad, and we lost our savings." "So you fought with him too." "And since I was a single mother on a budget, that gave me motive." "And you stayed with him? I ask Briar. "I stayed with him through a lot of things. I had thought he would pay your mom and me back, but he never did. What he did do was hit me every time I asked him to try and repay us." Briar's eyes are sad as she tells me this. "So… You all pulled throughout it together?" "The same way his ass was pulled to his grave." Briar says. The table goes silent again. "Everyone ready for the main course?" Asks my mother. The table hums in agreement, and she goes to the kitchen. Today I am I big girl, today I have friends like my mother's and I've baked a chicken. I'm sipping my glass of bitter juice when the door bell rings. I've always liked dinner parties, ever since I was a little girl.


I hug my parents. They both look at each other astounded. My mother opens her mouth but no words come out. "Mom, I know" I laugh "You've just never acted like this before" My father smiles " I'm 22 now, It's Thanksgiving, I've had a little change in heart" My father pats my back. They both seem afraid I might change my mind. I hear my nieces and nephews chattering. I change my persona. "HEY! Have you guys been thankful?" "Oh yes yes yes" Precious announces as I let her hop on my shoulders. Dion simply nods. Imani latches onto my leg and Dion grabs my other one. I look over at my sister, Olivia. She looks completely exhausted. " You've got an awesome Mom you know!" I speak " The bestest" Imani conceres Olivia mouths the words "Thank you" I shrug my shoulders which causes Precious to start giggling. I walk into the kitchen where my mother is all smiles. She waves at me. "Only 3 hours until dinner so we've got to hurry!" She uses a fake military voice. I pretend to salute. One by one the kids get bored with me and go back into the living room to play. I put the turkey in the oven. I mash the potatoes. All through the day, I am thankful. Thankful I moved on. I used to despise my parents. Not like all teens do. I hated them. My mother is African American. My father is white. I hated them for making me a mixture. In 1987 Rose Valley Elementary school was still very divided. If you were white, That is who you sat with. If you were black, that is who you sat with. If you were mixed? Well, you sat alone. I always thought that was my parent's fault. When I was eleven, I came home sobbing heavily. Once parents found out what was wrong. They told me their story. It was the 1960's. They met in college. My dad needed a belt. Their was a local craft fair. He decided to go. My dad had never really cared much about race so... the fact it was mainly African American didn't bother him. He went up to my mother. She makes leather accessories and jewelry. It started out as a conversation about a belt. It grew into much more. They became Mr. and Mrs. Evans in May of 1966. Blossom and Marcus Evans. I understand how important that story is now. Back then, All they got was... "Love is so overrated, I HATE YOU!" I can barely believe my parents dealt with that so well. I laugh it now. I go into the living room to greet my family. The room is full of color. First I meet my brother's fiance, Jessica. She seems really nice. Her father keeps shouting "We flew in from JAPAN!" There seems to be some sort of traveling distance battle out here. Friendly competition is always welcome in the Evans house. "DETROIT!" "ST. LOUIS" "JAPAN" Jessica's father repeats "MEXICO!" My cousin Jackson shouts before his wife and newest child come in the door. Miguel is the newest addition to our family. Jackson and Sofia's first child. 9 months old. I see more and more people flood in. There are nearly 40 of us. I step back into the kitchen. I find my mother bawling. I change my expression "Mom are you okay?" "Happy tears baby, these are happy tears" I hug her again. She is now laugh-crying. "Oh Symphony, do you know why we named you that?" She strokes my hair. "Because we knew there would be hardship" "But we also knew nothing could stop our family, stop you from becoming a beautiful Symphony." Now she's got me crying. I hold to her and don't let go. Were different. But who wants to be the same anyway? We nearly let the turkey burn. Hugging, Happy-Crying, Feeling love, feeling grateful. I take the turkey out and delicious smells spread across the house. Jessica steps into the kitchen to help. I hear everyone gather at the table. I start taking heaping plates of food out. We have honored everyone's traditions. We have everything from enchiladas to sushi. Everyone seems pleased. I watch everyone grasp one another hands. My mother grabs my hand and squeezes it. I get to pray the blessing. I bow my head. I close my eyes. I can barely gather myself to pray. I'm just so full of joy. I gather myself. Mostly. I am nearly crying the whole prayer. I thank god for my family. The food. Once I'm finished everyone gives me concerned looks. "These are happy tears" I laugh. "Happy enough to eat?" My uncle smirks "Definitely" I respond We chatter. We laugh. We have fun. (Especially Precious). I watch the kids play and come back to steal extra food. I have a brief lapse of wanting to go back. Wanting to be a kid so that I could be as happy as they are. Have moved on sooner. I look down at my hands. I am not sure what race I am. That doesn't make me sad anymore. I return to my happy place. I watch the kids. I watch Jessica making funny faces whenever her father isn't watching. Now that makes me laugh. I step into the kitchen to help my mother clean up. She is washing dishes over the sink. I hear her singing quietly. "You are my sunshine" I sing along "My only sunshine" She harmonizes with me "You make me happy" "When skies are gray" I know that our family is very musical and will sing along if we step into the living room. "You'll never know dear" Everyone sings. I don't even care that half of them are off-key. "How much I love you, please don't take my sunshine" "Away" This makes me feel overwhelming joy. Love and Joy. I am thankful. I am thankful for my family. I am thankful for my friends. I am thankful I got over myself. No matter where anyone sitting here comes from. They are my family. Black or White. Or a mix, just like me. I am thankful for this Beautiful Symphony.


The Lodge was available in Grand Lake, Colorado for a Memorial Day wedding reception. My daughter and her fiancé were thrilled! It made sense to exchange vows in a small, Catholic Church tucked back among Aspen and Evergreens and only a short distance from the sparkling, mountain lake. After all, they sailed competitively on this body of water and now they would sail through a wedding ceremony and, more importantly, a long and happy life together. The guest list was so lengthy that it curled like a grocery receipt. Both families had many friends and none were the same. Shortly after the invitations went out, our daughter and her fiancé rushed into our home to express their delight that most of the invitees had accepted. My husband Sean and I sank deeper into our comfy family room chairs as they told us how excited everyone seemed to be. It appeared that most were willing to travel over a mountain pass for this event. The setting would be beautiful and cooler weather would be a welcome relief from the heat that had arrived in Denver earlier this year. The happy couple walked out and Sean and I looked at each other with quizzical expressions followed by a long moment of silence. “It will be a spectacular wedding,” I said! “You betcha,” was his unenthusiastic response. “And aren’t we fortunate to have retired Monsignor Kelly as the priest,” I commented, faking positivity. “I imagine he’d rather be fishing,” Memorial Weekend, 1995 came in no time, it seemed. The lodge had rental cabins and they were filled rapidly by eager guests. Our family of four arrived to find water a rare commodity in the cabins. A tiny stream oozed out, if lucky. I immediately made up my mind to be the first one up to shower. Never mind the bride. Let her wait. She set this whole thing up. I succeeded to rise early, shower and slip into my pink, crepe ‘Mother-of-the-Bride’ suit before the others arose.

I added a parka to my outfit and walked outside to falling snow and fallen faces. Disgruntled family and friends, upset about the lack of water, flooded me with complaints. Ignore them and carry on, I told myself. Back in our cabin my daughter stood shivering in the wedding dress I had once worn. My husband and son were ready. So, off we drove to the sweet, little mountain church. The place was empty. No one was there, but we were early. There was nothing to worry about. The guests slowly began to enter the church. I looked away when the cabin folks walked in with grim expressions.

A full, freezing church warmed up a bit, but not warm enough by the frozen stares I received. Eventually, all were there except for two important figures in a wedding scenario, the photographer and the priest. News then circulated that the photographer was stuck in snow on top of the mountain pass. A friend who expected to witness a wedding ceremony stood up and rushed to his car. He pulled out a camera from the trunk. How smart I was to invite a former newspaper photographer! A mountain man, friend of the groom, joined him and returned with his guitar. He provided music for the ceremony, strumming and singing Fill my thirst by Bill Stains. Okay, that part was taken care of! But what topped our worry list was the 95-year-old priest, who was to marry them. My thoughts returned to earlier wishes. By now, I could care less whether my daughter and her fiancé sailed happily through life together. Just let them sail through these turbulent wedding ceremony waters successfully. But, the good news was that we now had a guest photographer and a cowboy guitarist, fresh from the pews. The major problem was a missing priest. I stood visualizing all sorts of reasons he wasn’t here, none of them good. Freezing temperature, impassable mountain roads and his age made for unsettling explanations. Sean and I conferred while looking over our guests, shivering on cold, wooden benches in the church, which my daughter and I once thought was quaint with its mountain, woodsy simplicity.

“Who in this crowd could perform the marriage ceremony?” I asked him. “What about the protestant Youth Minister, whose wife dragged him here to witness her friend’s wedding ceremony?” he responded. “I can’t think of anyone better,” I replied. It wasn’t quite legitimate, but we had no other choice so we began to approach him when the crowd heard a loud, angry voice near the church entrance. I could see that we finally had a priest but, not a happy one. “What #%@&^* took my parking place,” he yelled.

The entire congregation had turned, first with feelings of relief, now doubts, to see that the he had finally arrived. The Best Man, brother of the groom and vintage car collector, sheepishly walked to the church entrance, made his confession and went outside to move his 1957 gold Dodge. The ‘going away car’ sped away earlier than planned. He had graciously gotten the priest’s keys, part of his penance, and parked his jeep in the Reserved for Priest space. The priest threw on his vestments and headed down the aisle, waiting to greet the young couple and begin the Wedding Mass. In his fury, he forgot the ceremonial booklet and stumbled through the wedding ritual with my daughter’s help. After all was official, the congregation clapped. and the priest left without a word. At that point, I regrouped and extended my earlier, kind wishes to the newlyweds.

Everyone cheered as they climbed into the gold Dodge, sporting a Just Married sign on the rear, for the drive to the Grand Lake Lodge where they would join family and friends at the reception. Monsignor Kelly walked out of the church in a parka, gloves and boots. He glanced at the couple he had just married. A smile cracked his crusty face and he waved to them. Then, he left for his cabin in the woods. Fishing was on hold, though, for another day. The guitarist wasn’t the only mountain man among the group.

An hour later, a weary, disheveled photographer with all his gear, trudged up a snow-packed path to the little church in the woods. He opened the door, looked around at the empty structure and snapped a picture.


I staggered after Lucy, even though she was the one wearing heels. She marched quickly and with purpose, her shoes click-clacking on the cold linoleum. In my defense, I was carrying some supplies for the caterers. I was too nervous to sit around, so I asked if I could help them. At this moment, I was struggling to maintain my grip on a large box filled with champagne glasses, craning my neck to the side to make sure I didn’t trip. “I spoke to Jeff, I told him to take Grandpa straight into the family area. He’ll get annoyed if he has to keep moving about, you know how he is. I think you should deal with him, I’ll do better with Linda.” Lucy was giving instructions to our uncle Mikey, despite being more than twenty years younger than him. Poor Mikey was hurrying after her just like I was, his own box of kitchenware in his arms, nodding his head every so often and adding the occasional “Uh huh”. “Carla, did you speak to Linda today? She told me she would ring you if she couldn’t get through to me. My phone wasn’t getting a signal when I was downstairs.” “Uh… No, I haven’t checked my phone in a while though.” “Well can you get to that soon? Jesus, there’s a lot going on and I would appreciate it if you could think about someone other than yourself for once.” I gritted my teeth and willed myself not to respond. The sides of the box were digging into my arms and my fingers were aching from clasping so hard. I pictured my mother in my mind, listened to her laugh and felt her soft arms wrapped around me. In a couple of hours, I would see her again.

“When we get to the reception hall I’ll call her myself, since I’m the only one that can be bothered to do anything.” She took out her phone and began jabbing her fingers at the screen. The room was already in sight, I could see the wall of windows facing out onto the badlands, the sun looking softer than the stark, artificial lights in the corridor.

Mikey slowed his pace to veer in beside me. “Hey kid, how are you holding up? That box heavy for ya?” “Not at all.” “You’re not nervous for the landing are ya? They say it’s a lot safer than the launch. A lot safer.” Mikey smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know how she did it. She was always crazy, you know. When we were kids, she’d always bike faster than all of us, always climb the highest and do the stupidest stunts.” “Uh huh.”

My hands were in pain now and I rushed the last few steps into the room to get to the table before the box dropped out of my hands. I planted the box down as gently as I could and then shook my hands out in sweet relief. “You know, she always said she was gonna go to space. That was her dream.” Mikey put down his box, more gracefully than I had. I turned to the window to hide my face from him, hoping he wouldn’t want to talk too much. “She would buy all these science magazines about space travel. She was always talking about like, space shuttles and stuff.” “Yeah.” “I bet it’s cool to have a mum who’s gone to space.” He laughed and put his arm around me. “All the kids in school must think it’s pretty amazing right?” “Yeah.” I looked out at the landscape, blank and dull and barren. I wished I could harness some of that emptiness for myself. I tried not to think about my mother slamming into that barrenness at 286 miles per hour. ------------------------------------- Mikey and I continued ferrying boxes into the room. There were balloons and banners to put up, we were unsure about how much decorating to do before the landing. “Maybe we should wait until we get confirmation,” I said. “You know, don’t want to tempt fate.” Although if she did die, I’m sure the caterers wouldn’t mind packing everything up by themselves, I supposed. Lucy continued patrolling between rooms, talking into her phone or firing updates at us, while we fiddled with the food and kitchenware. She would greet all of the NASA employees with a beaming smile, full of warmth. People were very friendly to me, full of compliments about my mum. I had a hard time focusing on the conversations, my stomach was in knots and my mind was filled with images of the Challenger disaster. Grandpa arrived before Linda. I hadn’t seen him in years, and I was amazed when I caught a look at him. He was wearing a suit and tie, it looked very expensive. He shuffled over to our seats, head down and face as grumpy as ever. “We’re all so glad to see you here, Grandpa,” Lucy said, helping him to a chair. “Huh,” he grunted in reply.

“Can I get you a coffee Grandpa?” “Uh, yeah. Three sugars.” We sat in awkward silence for a moment, Grandpa staring at the ground and Mikey and I not knowing what to say. I was sort of touched that he had come all the way here. Grandpa and Linda never attended the launch last year. The last time I remembered seeing him was when Linda gave birth to her first son, that was eight years ago. I wondered if he had spoken to mum since then. Linda arrived a short while later with her husband and three kids in tow. They swept in like a blizzard, the two older boys stabbing each other with rockets and the baby fussing in his stroller.

“Boys! No messing in here, there’s very expensive equipment! George, control them.” We passed the time waiting in three teams, Mikey and me together, Linda and her family, and Grandpa on his own. Everyone was at a loss about what to say to each other. Linda was friendlier than Grandpa had been, she told me I had a pretty dress and asked how school was. Mikey played with the boys a bit before Linda gave them a time out. Lucy hovered between us all, topping up everyone’s coffee and promising to get an update on the schedule. “Alright folks, the shuttle will be entering Earth’s atmosphere very soon, we can all head to the control room to watch.” My heart fluttered and my stomach was woozy. I stayed close to Mikey as we walked. The control room was enormous, tv screens and computers everywhere. I scoured the screens to find anything that could be an alert or an SOS, but the staff were jovial and the room had an air of excitement. There was a large screen ahead of us showing a fuzzy blue line. At firs,t I thought the image wasn’t working, then I realised it must be a camera in front of mum’s shuttle. The top part of the screen was black, the bottom was a brilliant white from the sun shining over the ocean. The fuzzy line was the Earth’s atmosphere, curving steadily. I stared in amazement, it was so peaceful. “Hey guys, wanna talk to your mum?” We bustled with excitement.

“Discovery, this is mission control. Do you copy?” “Loud and clear.” There it was, my mother’s voice. I had been able to call her a few times during her mission. She was always bright and full of energy, excited to tell us about everything on the ISS.

“Alright Hazel, we’ve got your family here. You guys go ahead and speak.” We all felt shy. “What’s up sis?” was Mikey’s message.

“I love you mum,” was all I could think to say. “I love you too so much. I’m gonna give you such a big hug when I see you.” “T minus 6 minutes,” said an officer. “Alright, we got to close the channel and divert power to the engines. See you soon Hazel.” “Bye guys, have a cold one ready for me Mikey.” “Will do.” We watched in fascination as the shuttle continued to orbit the Earth. The NASA employees gave updates and instructions to each other, while I stood there feeling helpless. Speeds of 800 miles and hour, 750 miles and hour and dropping. The outside of the shuttle looked so serene, it was strange to think how fast they were flying. NASA switched the camera on the main screen to one outside the building overlooking the runway. The shuttle was approaching in the distance. Our faces were glued to the screen with a mixture of awe and fear. I clung to Mikey, feeling the tears prick at the sides of my eyes. The shuttle was close now, and had its wheels distended.

“And we have touchdown.” The shuttle sped along the runway, releasing a brightly-coloured parachute behind. My heart beat wildly like a trapped bird. The control room erupted in applause as the shuttle came to a stop. Linda’s boys were cheering and jumping up and down in delight. I saw Lucy cover her eyes and shrink into herself. Grandpa came to her side and pulled her into a hug. I saw him wipe away a tear and was so surprised I forgot my own emotional breakdown for a moment.

------------------------------ They sent us back to the family room again. I walked back carefully, my body feeling weightless, my legs detached from me. It would be an hour or so before we could see mum, she had to undergo pressure stabilisation and have a check up before leaving the shuttle. When my hands stopped shaking I tried putting up some banners, but found I had no ability to concentrate at all. Even Lucy seemed unable to summon the will to get annoyed with me. Mum walked in at last to great cheering and elation. She was so pale, like a sleepwalker who couldn’t decide where to go. Her eyes searched the room and when I caught her eye, her smile exploded. I rushed to her, wanting to wrap her all around me so tightly I could never escape.

“Baby, baby. I have you again,” she whispered in my ear. I felt her warm breath on my neck.

Everyone got a turn to hug her, I kept my hand on her back, making sure I was always touching her, confirming she was really there. Grandpa approached her with his head down. He didn’t say anything. He looked like he was shivering, then I saw that he was crying.

“Oh dad!” My mum grabbed him and pulled him into an embrace.


On the day the snow started turning to rivers, Nicki barged into the house at sunset with her hands clamped together, and I knew there was going to be more trouble. I’d been just about to finish my multiplication homework; I was seated at the kitchen table with three problems left. Mother had just gone out the back door to check our basil plants or Nicki would have been seen.

“Dina,” she gasped, stumbling toward me. Her hair was a wild, white-blonde cloud around her head, and her shins were soaked with melted snow. “You need to come upstairs with me, now!”

I gestured to my homework. “I have three more problems. I’ll come up when I’m done.” “There’s no time for that.” She darted forward and clamped down on my arm with her elbow, pulling me awkwardly from my chair while keeping her hands together. “You need to see what I found!”

“But I -” “No buts!”

Nicki was unstoppable, so it wasn’t worth it to resist. I stumbled after her as she tracked mud through the house in her snow boots. Mother was going to shout at her later for that; she’d already warned us that April snowmelt meant more mud than usual. I shook my hand free of her elbow and followed her up the stairs toward our room. “I was playing outside when I saw it,” Nicki panted. “We’ve been alive for nine whole years now and we’ve never seen one before, and who knows when we’ll see one again -” “What are you talking about?” She dragged me into the room and slammed the door shut behind her. Her eyes glowed as she turned to face me. “It’s a fairy .”

Between her fingers something buzzed. I saw rays of bluish-white light shining out from them, pulsing like a lit-up firefly. I heard indistinct squeaking, a sound almost like a tiny, muffled voice. “A fairy?” I whispered. “Are you serious?” Nicki nodded.

“And you - you took it prisoner , or what?” “It was asleep underneath a snowbank. Right at the edge where the ice had started to melt away. It stayed asleep when I picked it up.” “Well, it’s awake now .” I eyed her hands. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Who knows?” At last she kicked off her shoes and launched herself onto the bed, gesturing for me to join her.

I weighed the advantages of hanging back. From all I’d ever heard about fairies - granted, it wasn’t much - they were volatile forces, and not particularly to be trusted. But this one couldn’t be much larger than a beetle, to fit between Nicki’s hands. I clambered onto the bed beside her. “This had better not be like the time you brought home that talking butterfly,” I said. “The one that knew all the swear words.” Nicki’s eyes grew dreamy. “If only.”

When she opened her hands, for a moment all I could see was the pulsing, buzzing light, and I thought it might just be some sort of glowing orb. But then it took off toward the window, and - yes, it was a tiny, humanoid shape with wide dragonfly wings. It slammed into the glass of the window and then whirled around, alighting on miniscule feet. “Let me out!” came the squeaky voice again, sharp now that nothing was muffling it. Nicki and I leaned forward in unison to get a better look. The fairy was a girl with dark hair reaching down to her toes, clad in a robe that looked like it was made of snowflakes. Her wingspan was several inches wider than her height. Her arms were folded, and she looked furious.

“Let me out now ,” she snapped, “or I’ll set winter on this whole room!”

Nicki bounded off the bed and over to the window. “Please, please do!”

The fairy squinted at her. I hung back, this time; I wasn’t ready to draw her ire onto me as well as Nicki.

“I bet you could make it snow in here,” said Nicki. “I bet you could cover the whole room and it would be beautiful .”

Her wings fluttered slightly. There was hesitation, before she spoke again. “It would be beautiful.” “You’re a winter fairy, aren’t you?” Nicki bounced on the balls of her feet. “I’ll bet you were hibernating under that snowbank all winter, weren’t you? Were you? I’ll bet you helped make all the prettiest snow.” The wings fluttered again, and I wondered if that was a sign of pleasure. “I’m an artist.” “Oh, you are , I’m sure of it.”

The blue light that surrounded the fairy, which my eyes had only just adjusted to, began now to dim. The hostility was leaving her stance. “Do you really want me to show you some of my work?” Father had told us once to be wary of anyone who started a conversation that way, but Nicki was already nodding. She was already looking around the room in expectation as the fairy rose from the windowsill, wings buzzing and glowing again. She’s going to make it snow , Nicki mouthed at me, from where I sat still secure on the bed. I barely looked at her. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the fairy.

Little arrows of blue light shot from her arms when she spread them wide like a conductor, and I watched them arc from the window to the wall. I felt a sudden chill as though the window had been flung open. Frost formed on the walls where the blue arrows touched down, and then the lights swirled together and rose to the ceiling, forming blank, fluffy clouds that hovered over our heads. I shivered. If Mother or Father came into the room right now, how were we going to explain ourselves?

I could swear the fairy was smirking as the first fat snowflakes began to fall. Nicki squealed and scrambled up onto her nightstand to be higher off the ground, sticking her tongue out to catch the flakes. I stretched out my hands and watched them fall on my long sleeves. They were real, all right.

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” the fairy preened. “I’m one of the best fairies in the area, for making it snow.”

Nicki had somehow filled her mouth with snowflakes, and her words were jumbled as she replied. “The betht . Abtholutely.”

Snow was beginning to stick to the carpet. I didn’t move from my seat.

But it cut off, abruptly, when the sun moved from behind a cloud outside and a ray beamed into our room. It hit the fairy, lighting her from behind for a moment, and she dropped back down to the sill with a gasp. “The sun!” she exclaimed, sounding disgusted. “That’s springtime sun!” “It’th thpring today,” Nicki confirmed, and swallowed her mouthful of snowflakes. “You’ll have to leave soon, won’t you - you and all the other winter fairies?” The fairy was beginning to glow brighter again. Anger returning to her demeanor. She turned to peer out the window onto the ground. “The snow’s all melted out there! My art, my landscapes - they’re all disappearing!” Nicki wasn’t even looking. The snow had stopped, and she was reaching up into the clouds now, trying to pull some away into her hands. I leaned forward instead to speak my first words to her. “Were you supposed to be gone by now?” I asked. She turned to me. Her whole face, I saw now, was growing red as a strawberry. “If spring’s here, that means the rest of them left without me!” “Why would they do that?” She scowled. “I sleep late. I’ll bet they thought it would be funny , leaving me here on my own.”

Angry fairies were the most dangerous kind - except, possibly, the kind that started sentences with you want to see some of my work - but I found my fear was dissipating. She was upset, now, but not at us. I edged off the bed and approached her. “What’s your name?” I asked. She turned away to stare out the window again. “It’s Aspen.”

“That’s pretty,” I offered. “They love doing this to me.” Her arms folded tighter over her chest. “Just because I’m the youngest sister. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. What if I couldn’t find my way back home without them? What if I got lost and had to stay here all summer? Wouldn’t they be sorry.”

“I’m sure they would be.” I glanced at Nicki. “I’ll bet we could help you come up with a way to get back at them.”

Aspen’s eyes widened. “Would you?” “Nicki,” I said loudly, “if I left you somewhere to get lost, what would you do to get back at me?” She didn’t even look around from her position, now on my nightstand instead of her own, her hands still buried in the clouds. “I’d find my way home and then I’d fill your pillowcase with ants.”

I blinked. “Aren’t you worried about what would happen to the ants?” “They can take care of themselves.”

That was true. I grinned. When I turned back to Aspen, she looked confused - and really, how many people could say they had a sister strange enough to confuse a fairy? Whatever Aspen’s siblings were like, they couldn’t hold a candle to mine.

“Nicki’s friends with the ants who live in our garden,” I said. “There’s a big anthill right by the fence in the back. If you go down there, and tell them you’re a friend of Nicki’s, they’d probably be willing to do you a favor.”

“I didn’t know humans made friends with ants,” Aspen said. “It’s a long story.” “I saved their queen,” Nicki called over her shoulder. “Another ant put a curse on her and I helped break it.”

Well, yes, that was the story in a nutshell, but she’d neglected to mention how exactly we’d ended up being chased by a swarm of geese across the park, a situation I’d had to get us out of and come up with excuses for. But Aspen wasn’t waiting to get the full narrative. She was already pushing against the window glass again. “I’ll go see them!” she squeaked. “Open the window and I’ll go see them!” I cracked the window open a tiny bit and propped it with a pencil, and Aspen wriggled out, descending toward the garden. The moment she was gone, the clouds sagged, falling to the floor as suddenly-condensed rain and melting all the accumulated snow. Nicki’s hair and shoulders were thoroughly soaked. I giggled at the sight, which prompted a giggle from her in return - though the carpets and sheets were going to need a top-level excuse for Mother and Father.

“She seemed nice,” Nicki remarked, descending from the bed. “Should we ask for a reward when she gets back?” “Let’s see what she does,” I said. “Maybe she’ll offer us one.” And sure enough, when she squeezed her way back into the room, beaming at us both, she seemed to be in an excellent mood for gift-giving.

“I’m going to make my siblings wish they were never born,” she said gleefully. “I’ll fly a hundred of those ants up to where the winter-fairies sleep, and they’ll nest in the other fairies’ beds. They’ll hide and scare them when they try to go to sleep. Oh, it’s perfect!” Her eyes glowed. “The ants are excited - they say they’ve always wanted to see what it feels like to fly.”

“That’s them, all right,” I said fondly.

She looked from me to Nicki and back again. “You know, humans aren’t supposed to know what we look like. We’re supposed to hide our existence.” “We won’t tell anyone,” said Nicki quickly, which was a lie. She would tell this whole story - embellished as far as she could take it - to the other kids at lunch tomorrow. And when they turned to me for confirmation, well, I wouldn’t throw my own sister under the bus.

“It’s dangerous information for humans to have,” Aspen said.

Nicki puffed out her chest. “Danger is my middle name.”

Aspen shrugged. Her arms lifted, once more as if conducting some invisible orchestra, and twin tiny teacups - larger than her head, but still tiny to us - appeared in her hands. They were thin and dainty and made of gold, and filled with a liquid the color of honey. “This is a thank-you gift,” she said. “It’s fairy tea. It tastes to humans like whatever food you like best.”

Nicki and I exchanged glances, grinning. We took the teacups carefully between thumb and forefinger, and I gulped mine down in a single sip. My eyes closed. It tasted just like steaming-hot apple cider, like the kind Father made in autumn with real fresh-picked apples. For a moment I was transported. “ Mmmm ,” Nicki said. “It’s… it’s melted ice cream with strawberry syrup.”

When I opened my eyes, the windowsill was empty. I frowned for a moment, examining it - completely clear, and the window shut tight. The new springtime sun was shining brighter than before into our room. I turned around at the same moment Nicki did. Our entire bedroom was soaked. It looked as though a rainstorm had whirled through here a moment ago, and I had the feeling I was supposed to know why, that I’d seen what had happened. But for the life of me I couldn’t think what it was. “How did it get so wet in here?” Nicki asked. I turned to her, confused. “Don’t… don’t we know?” She shook her head.

Almost in unison, we looked down at our hands. There were little golden teacups in them, clean and sparkling and strangely cold to the touch. As though they were made of ice, though I could feel the hardness of the metal in my fingers. Where had these come from? And why couldn’t I remember?

“Nicki,” I said slowly, “I have a feeling one of your schemes just went wrong again.”

Nicki smiled. “It’s possible.” The light outside brightened again. I glanced out the window. It was really a beautiful afternoon. Almost all the snow outside had melted by now, and grass was beginning to show itself to the world again. Soon flowers would be blooming in yards and in trees, and summer would be full of color.

Then there was a knock on our door. My heart dropped as I whipped around again. Mother was outside, or Father, about to walk in and see what we’d done - or what something had done - to our carpets.

“Dina,” Nicki said, “do you have one of your excuses ready?” I was always the one with the excuses. I squeezed my eyes shut and racked my brains. “Yes. Yes, all right. I’m ready.”


We were drifting Mark and I I blamed myself, everything I touch slowly dies. "Stupid, Stupid, Stupid" I screamed into the night there was no one to hear me scream no one to hear my pain. I sobbed and heaved we used to be so close. "What do I do" What would you do when the person you love the most leaves you? What do you do with all the knowledge you have about them.? I know Marks favorite song I can still hear it like it was yesterday. "Mark" I whined loudly as he turned up the volume on the dash board. "Oh come on Jonah you know you love this song." I scowled as Uptown Girl blared through the speakers for the hunderth time. I scowled again but didn't say anything more I knew Uptown Girl is his favorite song. I blinked my eyes watering with tears in them I blinked them away as fast as I could I would not cry, I couldn't cry. I still remember his favorite ice cream flavor it's burned into my brain. "Come on Jonah stop be such a geek" Mark said to me he was stretched out on my bed hands behind his head his deep brown eyes were looking straight at me. I gulped as I let my eyes trail down further he was in a simple black jeans and black tee shirt but the tee rode up a bit making me be able to see his skull tattoo on his stomach. I looked away before Mark could see my wandering gaze and my bright red cheeks. This is Mark your friend your straight friend bad Jonah, I scolded myself lightly. "Mark we have a test tomorrow I want to be prepared." Mark looked at me with those piercing eyes just before he rolled them in annoyance. 'Come on my little geek lets get ice cream." Mark replied sitting up on my bed where he was previously laying. "But Mark" Mark raised one of his eyebrows perfectly silencing me down. "You've got this J don't worry okay you can do this but you need a break." I sighed but I could never say no to him when he called m J. It was such a simple nickname but it made my heart flutter, my head spin, and my knees feel weak. "Alright lets go" I said shaking my head and trying to hide a smile as Mark bounced up from my bed, grabbing his coat and pumping his fist in the air in victory. I fell to the ground my bottle broke effectively cutting my hand I relished in the burn and the sting it made me feel again after feeling so dull for so long. I still know how Mark never sleeps with out the window open I always was worried but Mark said he could protect himself. "Mark what if I don't know what if someone tries to break in while we sleep Mark that's not safe." Mark rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. "Jonah you don't have to worry i'll be there to protect you nothing will happen to you on my watch got it." I sighed I wasn't worried about me I was worried about Mark. "Can't you close it just for tonight please Mark." Mark huffed but walked over to the window and closed it. "Happy now I won't get any sleep tonight." Mark glared at me I rolled my eyes as I sat down on his bed and grabbed one of the blankets he had lying around. "Yes you will will watch a movie and you'l be out in no time." "No I won't but whatever." We were half way through the movie when I heard a soft snore I smiled softly as I brought my hand up to brush against Marks forehead. I feel my head was spinning and pounding it felt like someone grabbed a knife and shoved it in my head. How do I forget? Make me forget I screamed as memories of that day started to drift into my mind oh god I thought as I clutched my head. I could still feel his hands on me for the very last time the last day I would ever get to call Mark my friend. I was sitting in the hall crying my knees pulled to my chest as I heaved and sobbed, clawing at my chest. I heard feet pounding on the floor but I was to weak to even dream of getting up. "Jonah are you okay." Mark's voice came through my head I grabbed at him and he easily pulled me into his chest hugging the living daylights. "Jonah why didn't you tell me." Mark said I sighed the whole school had found out I was gay because of stupid Mary. She was mad I was friends with Mark and dug up dirt on me sharing it all over social media and telling everyone at our school. "I was scared of what you would say" I said barely above a whisper I could feel his calm heart beat which slowly soothed me. "I don't care Jonah your like my little brother." A pain hit my heart so hard like burning fire I gasped and shook harder. That's what he thinks of me his brother. "So who's the lucky guy" I looked away my cheeks were pink and wet with tear tracks. "No one" I rushed out quick to quick because Mark gave me a unimpressed look before shaking his head. "Come om who is it I wanna know so I can make sure he's good enough for you." I laughed Mark looked at me like I was insane maybe I was maybe I had finally cracked but I just couldn't stop laughing. "You Mark it's you" He removed his hands from me quick a horrified expression on his face. "I would never like you, that's disgusting god i'm not like you." He shuddered as I cried hard harder than I ever had in my whole life. "Never talk to me again" He said and walked off in the other direction. That's how I got here a bottle slicing my hand to boozed up to even care, why should I i'm poison I only destroy what I love. I could fill myself slipping into oblivion and I thought oh Mark I hope your happy.


Ted Perrywinkle looks in his fish bowl and frowns. Phred, his little red and green lower Alerian sardine, is floating upside down. Ted uses the fish net to snag the sardine and carries it over to the bathroom and flushes it down the Royal throne. Then, while Ted sits on his couch and reads the latest copy of the New York Times , Phred the sardine struggles desperately against the swirling vortex that is sucking him down towards the abyss.

    “The price of stock for Transylvanian chocolate flavored toothpicks increased again,” mumbles Ted, even as Phred swims desperately through the myriad of drain pipes. Speaking of pipes, Ted reaches for his favorite billiard pipe and places it in his mouth. He picks up a match, lights it, and inhales. The pipe, however, fails to ignite. Ted repeats the maneuver. Still without success. He lights a third match. A fourth. Grumbling, he looks at the pipe. It has no tobacco in it.

    Phred, meanwhile, bumps his head several times against piping and twists and turns his way down the plumbing, searching frantically for some kind of escape route.

    Ted carefully and meticulously opens a tobacco pouch and then places some tobacco into his pipe. He sighs, then lights another match. He inhales and the pipe ignites. He triumphantly aims smoke rings over the mantelpiece, upon which are countless shiny medallions and awards with his name etched into them. TOOTHPICK SALESMAN OF THE YEAR reads one medallion, which he is particularly proud of.

    Phred is gasping his last breath.     What Ted Perrywinkle would have known if he had read the latest edition of The Idiot’s Guide to Caring For Lower Alerian Sardines , was that these curious marine creatures have a habit of floating upside down to attract a mate. Also, that killing these gentle creatures, even inadvertently as in this case, can have serious untold consequences in the life of the one guilty of this heinous crime and, by extension, the  entire universe.     ******     In order to grasp the full significance of Ted Perrywinkle’s ignorance concerning lower Alerian sardines, we must consider an era many eons ago, when a belief gradually began to form in some of the greatest minds in the world. This belief was that there is One Ultimate Truth which forms the basis of our physical and mental universe. Not surprisingly, exactly what this Ultimate Truth entails or how to arrive at it was the cause of endless controversy. Indeed, despite thousands of years of mind numbing lectures, debates, manuscripts and counter-manuscripts, philosophers, theologians and cockroach scientists had only been able to come to agreement on one fundamental principle: trying to get a seat on the London subway at rush hour is pointless.

    Shortly following the Second Coming, which turned out to be merely a publicity stunt conspired by an unscrupulous sect of right-wing fundamentalist Neo-Platonists, which was designed to increase church attendance and combat pre-Victorian attitudes concerning excessive waffle consumption on Fridays, the earth's scientific and intellectual elites finally agreed to put aside their differences and do something useful for a change. The idea was to direct all their combined energies towards uncovering the Ultimate Truth which would allow us to understand the universe that we reluctantly are forced to dwell in, and perhaps explain to us at last why in heavens name we exist on this planet and not, say, inside some space-ridden asteroid floating inside the Horsehead Nebula.

   The Big Breakthrough occurred when a young aspiring computer scientist inadvertently, and some say intentionally, programmed his SOCRATES 5000 supermatrix computer to psychoanalyze the relationship between pi and a common paper clip. Not surprisingly, the SOCRATES 5000 soon tired of this task and began pondering the Ultimate Truth, which it miraculously was able to summarize, in 500 to the power of -10 billion megabytes of data, which is approximately, although not exactly, 10 to the power of -201 times more data than can be processed by a human brain in 10 420.5 lifetimes. After decades of mind-boggling programming and reprogramming, SOCRATES’ data was reduced to 500 million super megabytes. Following a tremendous effort unprecedented in history, during which programmers worldwide worked round-the-clock, SOCRATES’ data was reduced to 7000 megabytes. Not surprisingly, this effort has often been intimately linked to the fact that, in this period of time, seventy-five new coffee plantations and valium factories reaped profits almost equaling the GNP of several Third World nations and seventy-two Parisian snail conglomerates.     Through an extraordinary coincidence that no one since has been able to explain, so extraordinary that the Right Honorable Sir John Shlockenstein V, founding President of Citizens For the Emancipation of Cockroaches, nearly lost his lunch when he learned of it, SOCRATES’ data magically transformed itself into words, perfect Victorian English, no less.     Unfortunately, this was not to be the end of their troubles. For instance, some scientists unsuccessfully attempted to translate the Victorian English into Homeric Greek, Spanish, and Mesopotamian Swahili, until a reliable source revealed that no such language was ever spoken in Mesopotamia, or, indeed, was anything ever pondered in this language in any civilization that ever existed in any historical epoch, fictional or non-fictional.     It was only after these and other equally perplexing philosophical and teleological controversies were solved in similar manners that a certain Professor Borkus, utilizing the revolutionary new word crunching techniques developed by the late R. H. Dingo IV, Borkus summed up his theory concerning the Ultimate Truth in a mere ten pages. Then, in an effort unmatched in human and vegetable history, which shattered all previous records for consecutive minutes of deep contemplative thought without a brain short circuit, chlorophyll imbalance, or recourse into lunacy, Professor Borkus had done it. The Ultimate Truth was now summed up by a single, mundane symbolic representation. A word. In honor of the Ultimate Truth’s original formulator, Professor Borkus dubbed it SOCRATES’ WORD. He then carefully enshrined SOCRATES’ WORD in his highly acclaimed and jealously guarded nifty little manuscript, The Ultimate Truth Explained At Last So We Can Stop Bickering About It.     However, before Professor Borkus was able to publish his manuscript and reveal it to the world, he accidentally dropped it in his office, and it was gleefully shredded by Pedro, his beloved Peruvian parrot. In a rage, Borkus sold the parrot to a Bohemian gourmet shop, and the bird was subsequently roasted and consumed the following morning by a British civil servant from Bristol, who had never relished Peruvian parrot or Bohemian gourmet, but had wanted something exotic to gnaw on while observing the curious antics of the upper Alerian sardines that one commonly finds adorning aquariums inside Bohemian restaurants. An interesting, yet unknown and tragically never to be revealed footnote to this story is that Pedro the parrot had overheard SOCRATES’ WORD and was perfectly prepared to share it with anyone wishing to know its content. The fact that he was never able to share SOCRATES’ WORD, however, should not be held as reflecting the general intellectual backwardness of male Peruvian parrots under any circumstances.     This little incident was made more interesting by the fact that immediately following his ruthless condemning of Pedro the parrot to eternal gastronomical exile, Professor Borkus fell gravely ill, likely from the extreme psychological stress of formulating SOCRATES’ WORD, and, despite the heroic efforts of the world’s greatest doctors, nurses, acupuncturists and witch doctors, all but one whom were graduates of the prestigious school of transcendental medicine at the University of Nbongobongo, was never revived.     ******     It had traditionally not been the habit of the more brainy type of people to question any theory, scientific hypotheses or conclusions espoused by the legendary Professor Borkus. However, Borkus in his time had made one incalculable error: befriending a certain absent-minded toothpick salesman whose name happened to be Ted Perrywinkle. The full significance of this error can only be appreciated by acknowledging the fact that Mr. Perrywinkle was the only living soul in the universe that the esteemed Professor had trusted enough to share his most prized formulation: SOCRATES’ WORD. Thus it was that when news of Professor Borkus’ untimely death became known, Ted Perrywinkle instinctively knew what needed to be done. Ted was fully confident about his ability to carry out his mission, because he had memorized SOCRATES’ WORD until it had become a part of the fabric of his being. Unfortunately, when the time came to reveal SOCRATES’ WORD, Ted Perrywinkle committed one of the most unforgivable monstrosities of recorded history: he forgot the word. Despite the frantic efforts of the most highly qualified psychics, hypnotists, therapists, and truth serum experts, Ted still drew a blank.     Coincidentally, the day that the authorities finally concluded that Ted Perrywinkle was lying and likely just trying to get his picture on the cover of Time Life magazine coincided with the peak spawning period of upper Alerian sardines, and not lower Alerian sardines as previously thought. This spawning period is slightly in advance of the notoriously ravenous upper Alerian piranha, which can often be observed schooling in the cool upper Alerian waters.        ******     The following Tuesday, Ted Perrywinkle got into a heated argument with a Buddhist master in Nepal while trying to rest his mind to help himself remember the SOCRATES’ WORD which would no doubt vault him into international stardom and celebrity status which would allow him to sell off all his toothpick stocks and live on a luxury yacht in Bermuda where he could hold wild parties that would provide the paparazzi and tabloid journalists with enough material to last them decades. The conversation with the Buddhist master went something like this:

  “How can I find inner peace so I can remember something important, like, say, the Ultimate Truth?” asks Ted Perrywinkle.

  “Your heart is not pure, so you are unable to receive such a revelation,” says the Buddhist master, staring down at the bowl of momo soup he is eating.

  “What do you mean?” Ted asks, scratching his mustache.” I have meditated and fasted for days in these very mountains, preparing myself for this moment. I am ready to receive your words of wisdom, master.”

   “Yet you fall short,” utters the Buddhist master curtly, stroking his long, flowing grey beard..

   “I am not short,” snaps Ted.

  “No, but there is something about you, ah now I can see it,” says the master, putting down his spoon.   “Yes?”  “Your aura is incomplete because you are ashamed about a terrible thing you have done.”  Ted Perrywinkle’s eyes roll. “H-huh?” is all he can muster. .  “In fact,” continues the master, “I suspect that you have committed one of the wickedest acts known to mortals.”  “Grmph?”  “You must have dispatched an upper Alerian sardine. Did you not?”   Perrywinkle puts his right hand under his chin as if to think for a moment, then his eyes light up. ”Ah! You must mean Phred.” “Phred? We are talking about an upper Alerian sardine, not your friend, Phred.” “Phred was my pet sardine’s name,” growls Ted, his face turning crimson. “So you killed Phred.”

“I never said that!” shouts Ted. “Don’t put words in my mouth.” “Oh yes, it is very rude to talk with your mouth full,” says the master, spooning more momo soup into his mouth. Ted glares at the master. “When are you going to tell me what I want?” “About Phred?” “No! About inner peace!” “You cannot find inner peace until you repent for what you did to Phred,” says the Buddhist master calmly. “Phred was dead as a doornail!” screeches Ted.

“Are you certain?” “What’s that supposed to mean? He was floating upside down.” “He was in heat,” says the master, swallowing another mouthful of soup. “My house is air conditioned,” says Ted. “Air conditioning is very bad for the ozone layer,” says the master. “Don’t lecture me!” “Raising you voice is bad for your blood pressure,” adds the master. “Would you like some soup?”

“NO!” roars Ted. “Are there any other Buddhist masters around here that I can talk to?” “They cannot help you, since you refuse to repent for what you did to Phred,” says the master with finality. “I don’t see how that stupid sardine has anything to do with me or anything in this universe!” screams Ted.

 “Oh, now I can’t help you,” says the master gravely.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ted enquires. “Can you swim?” enquires the master. “No, why?” “I suggest you take swimming lessons and stay in school.” “I am a horrible swimmer and I graduated from school some time ago, thank you very much.” “You will understand someday,” says the master. “Understand what?” “During your next reincarnation.” “My what?” “In your next life, you will be reincarnated as an upper Alerian sardine. Nothing can prevent this.” Ted stares at the Buddhist master for a few moments and then shrugs his shoulders. “If you say so…” “I do not say, I merely state what is to be.” Ted Perrywinkle grunts and walks away. Tiring of Nepal and arguing with Buddhist masters, Ted decided to travel to more friendly climes. For that reason, the logical choice became somewhere in the South Pacific.     ******

    Most moderately intelligent people would agree that sheep are relatively harmless, docile little creatures. This belief, however, runs in complete contradiction to the fact that Ted Perrywinkle was trampled to death by a deranged flock of sheep fleeing from three IRS tax auditors in dune buggies who happened to be vacationing in New Zealand and thought scattering a flock of sheep was a neat idea.     ******

    Ted Perrywinkle, soon to be the newest member of the upper Alerian sardine community, who up until recently had been basking peacefully in the soft Alerian stream bed inside his protective egg, cracked his shell at last and emerged into his new watery world. However, Ted is instantly aware of two disturbing facts. Firstly, he doesn’t know how to swim. Secondly, and much more importantly, he cannot keep pace with his school of upper Alerian sardines. As he falls further and further behind the school, he hears the voice of the Buddhist master in his mind: stay in school . As he is thinking this, he is unaware that another school, consisting of lower Alerian piranha, is lurking in the near vicinity. At that moment, instinct kicks in at last, Ted Perrywinkle is heard to utter “let’s rock and roll!” and he swims gracefully to his awaiting destiny, which unfortunately entailed being gobbled up by a hungry upper Alerian piranha.     In this way, SOCRATES’ WORD was lost, and it was never again found, so that philosophers, theologians and cockroach scientists could continue bickering about it for all millennia. Such is the role of fate, chance, and circumstance in animal and human histories.

THE END