It slowly comes into view when her horse crests over the final incline of the mountainside. The rocky slope leads her and her steed around a corner tucked away between large boulders and a steep treeline. She’s stopped in her tracks and holds her horse’s reins in one hand, the other pulling the thick woollen scarf away from her face so she can take in fresh air. This trail has given way to a thick forest of pine trees reaching their spindly trunks up towards a dull grey sky, the first snowfall of the year beginning to drift down past her face as she stands slack-jawed for a moment longer. There’s a part of her that’s convinced it will all vanish the second she looks away for too long, closes her eyes and doesn’t open them quick enough.

She hasn’t seen the valley in so long, after all. A million footsteps led her right back to where she started.

The mountains arrive at a collision, walls of black rock etched with crevices as old as time. The land dips downwards to cradle a clearing hidden away among the dark green of the pines and the gnarled surface of the rocks that enclose it, the earth’s hands gently holding steady the remains of what was once a thriving village in the biting wind. She can truly see it all from up here, even the weathered and withering houses that look minuscule from this far away. A river - her river and her family’s river and their families’ river - curves through the clearing just beyond the village itself, a snake with frosted scales that hasn’t fully frozen over yet. Winter’s coated everything in a layer of white by now. She counts her lucky stars that she made it before the whole scene became buried and unrecognizable. Most of it is already hard enough for her to stomach. She’s trying to knit together the snow-covered landscape of today and the green pastures that once stood in their place, eyebrows furrowing in consideration when the pieces don’t reconnect like she wants them to. It’s a feeling somewhere between shock and longing, and it settles stone-heavy and frantic at the pit of her stomach. Another feeling grips her underneath it as well, a different sort that doesn’t want her to move forward or want to face what her home became. Her horse snorts impatiently on the other hand - it’s cold , he seems to tell her. They’re both bone-tired, the smell of sweat and wood-smoke has long since tangled itself in the dark coils of her hair. It’s sensible to travel towards the village rather than continue along the mountains, if not for the waves of homesickness that crash over her then for the possibility of shelter before nightfall.

There’s no smoke curling up from any of the chimneys, however. She keeps a tight grip on her horse’s reins and keeps a keen eye out for any movement other than their own, but there’s nothing in that regard either. The path twists downward, and she can see no new tracks leading in or out of the valley, her horse’s hooves and her own boots the first to leave imprints in the cold mud.

So, no. Not exactly as she left it.

Then again, perhaps it just depends on the memories she settles on. Her mind often delves into the softer ones first anyways, childhood lullabies and fresh bread. Someone's hands holding her face. They’re still vibrantly warm in her mind’s eye even after so many years. The village briefly disappears from view when the path curves down into the trees, and she clings to those memories in the temporary shade of the woods. Now that she has begun moving, she finds herself unable to stop. It’s a desperation of sorts. She hasn’t felt this need to travel so urgently in quite a while, but her horse keeps them steady the whole way down opposed to the break-neck pace her own feet wish for.

Warm memories. Not the cold metal of the sword resting against her hip in its hilt, nor the ache of the leather armour across her shoulders and back. The other memories taste of iron and charcoal, make a sound of roaring embers and the collision of sword against shield whenever she dares to look their way, so she keeps those pressed up against the very back of her thoughts. Those ones burn to the touch in comparison. They will do her no good anymore, she tells herself often.

Her other hip is heavy with a different burden. She tries not to think about that either, not now, yet the thoughts have a funny way of creeping up regardless. They break through the trees once more and the village comes back into her sight. Its silence welcomes her when she follows what remains of the stone pathways through the fields. What once held crops now sits unused and died out. She can still see the farmers and their plows if she squints hard enough. Otherwise, things remain quiet and abandoned. Entering the village makes her stomach drop. Not a single sign of anyone living under a single one of these roofs since the day she left, each house bending at odd angles and missing bits and pieces of themselves from years of neglect. No footsteps down here, either. No light in the broken windows, no voices, just warping wood and cracking stone. The well at the village’s centre has been reduced to more of a mound with a large hole in its middle. When the houses around her groan in the howling wind, she feels for them in a way she didn’t as a child. She’s older, that’s it. She would have once scoffed at the elders of the village and their wisdom of creaky joints and greying hair.

Now, it’s as if she and the valley are the same. Tired. Forgotten. A silver lining pokes through one way or another. Her house is...somewhat a house, still. It's able to be made out among all the others simply because she knows its location relative to the well, a bit back to the left and closer to the paths that lead out to the river. She hadn't been expecting there to be a roof on it anyways, that had been burned up a long time ago. It does have enough shelter for her to settle and rest up when the night comes though, four walls standing with decent protection from the wind. The stable in the back remains untouched if not overgrown with weeds and tall grass. Suitable. She’s slept in worse before. It’s quick work to sweep away debris, lay down blankets and furs for the night to come, and build up the start of what will later be a nice fire. Her horse seems content to stay behind in the far warmer stable as she settles him in, brushes the tangles from his mane, and finally relieves him of his saddle after a long day's journey. She is just as content to continue off towards the river alone. Any of the older dirt paths that would have led to the riverbanks have been overtaken, hidden beneath the flow of time. The effort it takes to travel through the tall grass is an excellent way to ground herself in the present. She’ll need that for what is to come. One hand goes instinctively to her hip at the reminder. Not the sword like it’s done many times before, but to a round bundle wrapped in cloth and rope. She slides down a slight incline and arrives at the water’s edge, pebbles and sand crunching underneath her boots before she finally comes to a halt. The river is only partially frozen over, a winding length of it still flows freely in between the patches of ice beginning to form.

The small clay pot tied to the belt around her waist rests comfortably in her hands now that it’s unwrapped. She cups it like the earth has cupped her village for so long, takes in the swirled engravings carved deep into its surface and traces them idly with her thumbs. It remains unscratched and smooth unlike the callouses that cover her own fingers and the lighter scar tissue that stands out against the deep brown of her skin. Years of scrapes and cuts hastily tended to.

Still, the sight of it brings the slightest of smiles across her face. Her wife was the one who shaped it after all, though that had been for far simpler purposes. Collecting spare coins, perhaps. Something pretty and delicate that had sat in their windowsill through the final few months of peace they hadn’t even known would be final. One of the only things salvaged from the rubble. The ashes laying within it for six years have been shockingly well-protected, to say the least. Her wife deserves nothing less than the best, even in death. Ah, yes. Those memories pushed away earlier are bleeding back into the forefront of her mind now. They sting worse than the biting chill of the wind here, dig deep under her skin and remind her of just how exhausted she is.

When the first signs of war had breached into the valley, no one was exactly prepared for it. It had only been some riders on horseback the first time around, fully dressed in battle gear and armed to the teeth who did nothing the first time they arrived beyond circling around the village before going back the way they came. That was that. The next time they came by, it was far more of them. Things blur into a mess of bloodshed and fire beyond that. A lot of fire, ash and steel. The taste of iron in her mouth. Screaming. Her wife lying in a slash of crimson just on their doorstep and the blood won’t stop flowing and - Deep breaths.

She forces herself to blink away the dizziness that has suddenly overcome her, instead focusing on the mountains surrounding her as they loom in the distance. She remembers enough, even if she doesn’t want to. It had been simpler - or so it had felt at the time - to pick up a sword and charge after them than it had to sit back and grieve. The deepest of anger had been easier than the darkest of sadness, the restlessness of it all spurring her forward. So far forward in fact, that eventually the way home became an afterthought. Until she felt as if she couldn’t even turn around and head back even if she wanted to. Six long, long years spent with a rage brewing so deeply within her that it blocked out the agony - and most other things along with it. Something’s changed, though. Like the landscape, like the village, like herself. Wildfires are bound to extinguish themselves eventually, and so did that rage which fuelled her for so long. Puttering out as the war between two selfish kingdoms came to an end that she only witnessed on the outskirts, and then all she found herself left with again was her grief again. A widow, not a mercenary. Tarnished sword at one hip and clay pot at the other, two burdens balancing each other out and slowing her down. Never mattered where she travelled or how many rolling fields she crossed, or cities she walked through, or corpses she walked over as their armour still gleamed in the dying sunlight. So many steps taken forward, yet she doesn’t feel like she’s gotten anywhere different. The world's moved on without her. In the end, the village finds her one more time, and she is no less shattered than the day she poured ashes into a small pot found on what remained of her windowsill. She knows now that walking a million miles more won’t take her any farther away from the pain. Not if she doesn’t let go first.

Her grip on the pot tightens ever-so-slightly, as if she’ll feel familiar hands clutch her own in return. The air in her lungs hurts to breathe in, and out, and in... It was a custom of sorts, to have one’s ashes thrown into the river after death. She and her wife never lingered on the topic of death too long when it seemed so far away at the time. The pot’s tightly-fit seal pops off after some gentle force. The wind beckons her closer to the flow of the river, as if offering to take this weight and hold it instead. Her wife had said she would want nothing more than to be laid to rest in the same place that raised her. Unlike herself, her wife never ran away. Her hands hesitate. They hover uncertainly with a minuscule shake to them, the pot held out to the cold surrounding the valley but not quite tipped forward. She is nothing if not fearful these days. Somehow the act of forcing her grip to loosen and allowing the ashes to spill past the lip of the pot takes more strength than swinging the heaviest of swords. They pour downwards in a cascade. The ashes settle onto the river’s surface, swept away within seconds down the current. It's finally done. She takes a deep breath, tilts her head back and closes her eyes to the sky above, chokes down the burning lump forming in her throat. There's still much to do. This is a temporary resting spot for the night in the long run, nothing more. She’s a long way from the next town on her map if the coordinates turn out to be true. When the morning comes, only the ghost of her presence will remain among all the others.


I was standing on the edge of an open field. Shaking enough to start an earthquake. Asking myself how I got into this trouble in the first place? Trying not to show any fear as I heard the hammer of the gun being pulled back into cooking position.  The gun was close enough I could reach out and touch it. A large 44 magnum chrome plated, you could hunt the big five with this gun.  Looking at the barrel and asking her,  "Do you really need a gun like that?" It's for your own good she said My mind flashed back to the day it all started. I had just won the court case of the year. It had been a high profile divorce. The mayor had been caught with a lady of the evening. Tv and newspapers had spent the week outside the courthouse.  Alot of secrets came out.  The ex wife was later charged with embezzlement of a local charity. I had just left the press conference and returned to my office. Checking in with my secretary as I sat down to return my calls there was a commotion in the outer office.  Suddenly the door burst open and a woman came storming in. The secretary said she tried to stop her. I motioned it was ok. Slamming papers on my desk and screaming.  "I want a divorce." My forest response was, " but we're not even married. "  'I know that you imbecile from my husband."  " OH that's better. " I said. She just glared at me for a second. "I've been told you are the best in town at this." It was.  "I am good at my job," I replied. After A quick introduction I learned her name was Sue Highridge. I knew that name. Her husband was a prominent contractor for the city. I made a quick observation of her. Taller than most women with rough hands. She was not afraid to work with them or get them dirty. Well toned muscles, would not have been surprised if she carried a weapon. My kind of girl. I listened with interest at her story. How unfaithful he had been, his extravagant spending, and holding back on his business with her although she was half owner. When she was done.  I asked her what she wanted? "Half of everything, " she said. That meant the classic cars,  house,  secret bank accounts, and any stocks. This was a little bit of a surprise.  Usually the wives wanted everything and put the guy on the street. She just wanted her share. I could tell money was no problem for her. Sue filled out the proper papers and I asked her, "was she afraid of what he might do when she gave him the papers?" Without blinking and eye Sue said, "No he knows better." Quickly putting my P.I. on the husband's trail.  I also had Sue checked out clean came back stamps on all the reports,  except one.  Sue had been citated with a disturbing the peace at a local restaurant. Seems she had bumped into her husband mistress. It had not been a peaceful encounter. After a few months of working together, I found we had some of the same interest in common. We both had started to like each other. Going against all my best judgment we went out. Sue was intelligent,  fun,  and a bit of a short fuse with the ability to back it up. I was getting in deep. I tried to call it off. The way she squeezed my hand and told me it was a bad idea had me worried. Her husband's lawyer had also put a tail on Sue. I had recognized him from a previous case. So the cat was out of the bag. When I mentioned it to Sue she asked,  "should we be worried?"  "Not at this point," I said. But that soon changed as we continued to see each other. Her husband's lawyer had put up a good fight. I was afraid he would bring up our friendship, but everyone he looked over at Sure he changed the subject. She had wanted to go out after the win getting everything she wanted. Telling her I had lose end to wrap up we could meet later. Later came one evening in the parking lot. I saw a flash of red a a classic firebird convertible candy apple red with a pearl finish pulled up behind my car. I was mesmerize as Sue stepped out of the car. Even though my mind screamed no I walked over and slowly started sliding my hands over the ventral curves of her body. My pulse was pounding as I felt the warmth coming off her body. Leaning into her wanting to wrap my arms around and caress every inch of her.  The world around me disappeared. I didn't care who was watching a I slowly unhooked her top and started folding it down. My body betrayed me as I pulled out my phone.  I got to have a photo of you baby.  I handed the phone to Sue asking her to take a shot of me with her car. Oh yeah,  Sue looked good too. She snatched the phone from my hand and took a photo or two. It was a whirlwind affair. I could not get enough of the car.  Little did I notice the jealousy in Sue's eyes until it was too late. She had picked me up on a Friday night as usual in the red firebird to go eat. This time she headed to the open road towards the country. Looking into her eyes and only getting a cold look of darkness back sent a chill down my spine. Traveling well above the speed limit I did not dare jump out. She quickly turned off the main road heading out into no where. She had barely some the whole time. Suddenly the car slides to a stop at the dead end of the road. Turning asking the tree line we finally stopped. I had never seen her like this. It was not a request but an order. My hands were starting to shake as I stepped out. It was dark and cold.  The car was still running a she got out holding a her purse.  I was still beside the car when she said to stand in front of the headlights. Doing as ordered I stepped in the glow of the lights. My heart skipped a beast and my stomach turned sick as I watched her pull a gun from her purse. "Sue, come on, it didn't have to be like this."  I heard the shaking in my voice.  She pulled back the hammer and raised the gun. "Quit your sniffling be a man about this," she said.  "It ends here now." Looking me straight in the eye no sign of emotion no hint of regret she leveled the gun.  I closed my eyes and heard a deafening blast. I could feel the cold fingers of death on my face. "Wake up.  Come on you can do it." Sure was saying.  My mind was a blur. " It's cold or here," she said. "What happened,"  I asked? You passed out you dummy,  Sue said as she helped me back to my feet.  "I am not shot,"  I asked? No! Why should you be? But the gun,  I saw you shoot me." I said. Then I saw the steam coming from under the hood of the car.  You passed out just as I turned to shoot the car. Still puzzled I asked why? You were becoming obsessed with the car.  Quite frankly I was getting jealous. She smiled at me as I still tried to get my brain around all this. " How are we getting back,"  I asked? I have a back up car on the side of the entry road. She said.  Let's go,  I'm getting cold. Just think years from now we will be laughing about this,  Sue said as we walked toasts the other car hand in hand.


What happens the moment before Creation?  The Book of Genesis begins with the following: B'reshit bara Elohim et Hashamayim v'et ha'aretz: In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth. But the Greeks envisioned a moment before Creation which was a backdrop, a reason for Creation. It was called CHAOS. Chaos Beyond the deep, lost, spinning, mad-- the children of Atom in infinite clad Colliding, gliding, by splendor surrounded-- black masses gather, form darkness unbounded. No fingers to grasp, No true hands to hold, Still quick spirits grasp, The substance to mold. Somewhere there lives a hope unfulfilled In the core of its being, not muted, not stilled. A song with no sound, a dream with no form, a memory of future, by Chaos foresworn. With an aching unspoken, the Universe bends-- a shudder, a sighing ... the moment begins ... from Creation: A Tale of Our Birth © March 2003 Dimentica I am called Dimentica. My home is a still place; at night, you can only hear crickets, and they start and stop suddenly as if something startled them. What could it be? I did not go to school and no one tried to hurt me or make me feel stupid, but I know I am stupid. It is a little cold tonight, so I go to the willow tree and take my cloak to wrap around me. It has burrs and little globs of sap and white bird droppings; but they have dried, and I don’t mind. The burrs scratch a little, but it is good to feel something, even something scratchy. What happened to all the squirrels that used to play here? They were thin, but there were still acorns and only three wolves. Where did they go? No one shot the wolves, but they howled day and night, and I could not talk to them and find out what was wrong. I think maybe the moon looks different. Did it used to have more silver ribbons hanging from it? Now clouds stream over its face. And is the moon an it ? How can the lonely moon be it ? We are the same, I think. We are both alone, but the moon is not stupid. She is able to reflect light, and then she shines. So this is to be a god or goddess, to shine. If you shine, you are brilliant. This is the same. People will look up and see you are really something. They will want you. They may bow to you, and bring you little presents—insides of nuts, fruit, maybe a knife to cut with. Where are the people now? Whenever I sleep, I travel to places where there are people, but I cannot touch them. Something is wrong with my hands. They are too thin, or my body doesn’t have the normal ways to feel. And I am ashamed to not feel beautiful and I think of myself as dirty, because it is only possible to wash off the grains of dirt and gravel when the light rain comes, and this is only once every five days, or even less now in …. Summer? Spring? Again, I lose the right word. I wonder if there is another language to use to understand, to make me able to take things in my hand, hold them, and know their essence, then find what names are right to call things, ideas, animals and birds and … the tree I really like best. It is a very old, tall tree with heavy branches and crumbling bark. The roots must go very very deep so it still can have water and tiny buds when the season is warmer. The buds are babies, I think. Babies. Where are the babies? Did the wolves lose their babies? I remember a sound of booming and think there was a large bird that took animals away, but not to eat. But if not to eat, why?  My most important word is “why.” Now I think that if I am able to ask, to know how to ask why, to wonder about something, then I am not stupid. Because it is possible to believe an answer may be somewhere. I want to sleep, to go back to the city where words and images, and energy, and life, and … babies … are alive. A new thought. Start with the babies. Maybe they will see me, because they have not yet been taught to be afraid of the unseen. It is worth a try. A thought begins in me. The moon is my mother…she has the book. When I touch the book, I think it belongs to a witch, the book is pulsing, shivering. But then I hear music. It is a song, a new one. The song is: In the city the traffic flows like the rivers once flowed, but they are no more. Once they wove throughout a land where barefoot people sat, sang and fished near them. Their king scattered oats, and their queen offered spider webs, strong as silk, for capes and slippers. In the corners of their caves were beehives with swarms of black bees whooshing in and out when the sun opened and closed, as is doing now. The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary, but she is enough. The spindly spiders are making strong and dew-light webs. Tomorrow there will be food for all living in this realm. And extra for the babies. After Dimentica, there was a poem from a lover. She was more powerful than she ever believed. He hoped, prayed, and then knew. She was the beginning, and the Moon was truly her mother. Creation Moon When I lay near the ceiling, looking down at her her center was the beginning of moon ... her breasts were satellites, I would circle them with my fingers, hardly breathing ... everything round about her was the beginning of my universe, of the whole universe.. her eyes were burning stars, soon their fire would sear me to the point where I would burn, then burst into eternal flame She started it all, and I was inspired now, I would finish it. We would call the constellations, Salt, water, ice, glaciers couldn’t stop it. The spinning, the explosions of future, it all started with her, and I just followed, crawling, begging, a supplicant to her power. Katherine Lansing Davis © April 6, 2024


The summer meeting of the Guerrilla Psychology Society (GPS) is taking place right in the open, as they always do, at an IHOP just outside of Omaha. The members are all influential players in the field who have joined forces to correct social psychological trends before they threaten the fabric of human civilization, which happens far more often than the average Josephine is aware of. Included in the meeting are luminaries like Rebecca Mulhooney, who created the empath craze - and Jason Swelte, the man who had put the term 'narcissism' on the mind of anyone with an internet connection. The members of GPS are able to psychologically maneuver the minds of the masses simply by passing information to the media, who then sensationalize it like they do everything else, thus influencing the perceptions of the masses. Janice Chen presses a final fork full of syrupy crepe into her mouth and chases it down with a large gulp of milk and then begins her speech before anyone else is finished eating and has a chance to interrupt.

"The greatest problem facing humanity today is nothing new. In fact it has evolved from the very mechanisms which allowed our species to develop such highly social traits. However, as a result of how social media and other internet platforms are constructed, the utility of these traits has been eroded by compulsive elements now attached to them. I am calling this problem Associative Identity Disorder." Her colleagues shoot her curious looks as they stuff bacon, french toast and greasy hashbrowns into their gullets, but do not say a word. "You are no doubt familiar with Dissociative Identity Disorder..." "Multiple personalities," Jason interrupts, as a drop of blueberry syrup falls from his lip and onto the lightly colored khakis he is wearing. "Horse balls!" "Dissociative Identity Disorder occurs when a person's personality becomes fragmented into multiple selves. It is the inability to maintain a strong, single identity. Associative Identity Disorder is when a person's identity concept becomes so strong that all ideas and actions must conform to it." "Interesting," Agembe Eritrea gives her an expression of intense interest. "I have been thinking along these lines myself. Please go on, sorry to interrupt." "I believe," Janice continues, "that it will be easier to explain by providing an example." All six of her colleagues nod in unison. "Subject has become a very active supporter of Black Lives Matter. Over the last several months he went from claiming that policing was a necessary good to calling for that institution to be abolished. This is not the concerning part. What concerns me is the reasoning which led subject to change his mind. It was not a newly formed understanding of policing, or a rejection of the principles or logic on which policing has been constructed. Subject is not concerned about how victimless crime laws erode self-ownership and criminalize harmless individuals to feed the multi-billion dollar industrial prison complex. He has no complaint with the threat of aggression being used to control people. He has simply come to associate policing with racism, and since his identity requires he not be associated with racism, he must now reverse his position on policing to accommodate it." "So what's the problem?" asks Petunia Axelrod. "It seems to me that subject has come to the right conclusion." "I agree. But how he got there matters," Janice responds. "His position is not based on any fundamental principles. There is no underlying moral premise or consistent logic involved. Subject has arrived at his stance in order to give performances which seek to portray his self-image to others." She pauses to take a drink of her coffee and let the information settle in a bit. As she looks around she does not sense any disapproval from the other members of the GPS, so she continues. "Eighteen hours after writing a lengthy screed on institutional racism and the need to abolish policing, Subject reacted to news of the lynching of a black man in West Virginia by claiming that every law enforcement officer in America should be assigned to the case. As soon as it became expedient to his identity as anti-racist, Subject reversed his position on policing on the grounds that they could be used in a way that he found acceptable." "Isn't it possible that anti-racism is Subject's central, guiding principle, then?" Mulhooney asks with genuine curiosity. "My thoughts exactly," Nitish Patel adds. "I investigated this possibility, but I do not believe Subject adheres strictly to his anti-racism stance in other situations," Chen begins to clarify. "There are a few examples, but most notable is his stance on the plight of Palestine. Subject views Israel as a symbol of racial tolerance, as a result of how he has interpreted Germany's genocide of the Jewish people. He therefore supports the right of Israel to maintain an independent nation, free of historically Muslim and Christian cultures and states." "Is that racist?" Swelte asks. "Oh, it is definitely racist," Petunia agrees. "Definitively and in spirit. The eradication of Palestine represents ideas of superiority and entitlement evident in the reasoning of all forms of racial supremacy." "As I said," Janice continues, "there are other examples which betray Subject's claim to being fully committed to anti-racism. But racism is not the point here. The point is that Subject is doing what I see almost everyone doing these days, which is picking and choosing their position on all things based solely on how they believe that choice makes them appear to others." "I completely agree," Eritrea gives a knowing grin. "And not just because my perceived identity is affirmed by doing so." "But how is this a problem?" Patel asks. "To some degree individuals have always conformed to positions which represent how they want to be viewed by others." "To some degree, yes," Janice agrees. "I believe I mentioned that right up front. This is nothing new. However the difference is how much this identity game is reinforced by digital social structures. The like button and upvotes have provided greater impetus than ever conform to that which superficially affirms identity. The same with negation. Do you think Trump would be president if people were making reasonable choices, rather than just conforming to whatever symbolic gestures negate or affirm the appearance of self they prefer?" "The death of authenticity," Eritrea shakes his head mournfully. "Precisely," Janice confirms. "Associative Identity Disorder is shaping our decision making process and emptying it of complexity and nuance. It is leading to a new form of tribalism which is constructed around false dichotomies. It has replaced substance with spectacle. It is leading to cognitive habits which are so superficial that they threaten our intellectual and social evolution, and instead lead backwards into primitive identity games." Alric Forge, whose charisma and intellect have made him the unspoken leader of the group since they formed a decade earlier, finally breaks his silence. "Your concerns are valid, Miss Chen. I have been grappling with similar thoughts, as I am sure everyone here has," he pauses for a moment to make eye contact with each of the others, one-by-one. "The question is, what can we possibly do about it?" The table becomes dead silent. A few of the GPS members stare down at their plates and nudge uneaten food around with a fork. "Absolutely nothing," Janice responds with all the authority she can muster. "These habits have become woven into the entire social fabric of humanity, online and off. At first I thought that maybe dissociative experiences could reverse the course, but it would be impossible to drug the whole world. And even if we did we would return to the same social structures and the old habits would quickly re-emerge." "Miss Chen, this is out..." Forge is cut off. "I quit. I'm out. This is the end of the line for me. No more Guerrilla Psychology Society. In fact I will be leaving my psych career and moving to Tibet to isolate myself from the extreme absurdity that humanity has stooped to. If you are all as wise I believe you to be, you will do the same. Humanity cannot be saved. Does not want to be saved. It is engaged in a performative feedback loop that can only end in our descendants throwing feces at each other and crawling back into the trees." Janice throws a twenty dollar bill on the table as she stands up, takes her coat off the chair and walks away dramatically, leaving the other six members of the secret society slack-jawed and silent. "Are you gonna eat that?" Axelrod asks Patel, as she grabs a sausage link from his plate without waiting for him to answer. "Anybody else wanna go get a drink?"


Once upon a time in a small town located in the deep forest of Salem, a little witch was eagerly awaiting her first Halloween. "Ding Ding Dong..." The little girl was racing to the door to greet her friend. "Hello Serene! Ready for our first Halloween? I'm very excited." said Wanda the little witch. The group gathered their cat-shaped candy bags and headed out the door. The first house was a beautifully decorated house with a spider painted doorbell. they ringed the bell and waited for the candy to appear. "trick or treat?" the girls smiled and looked at the old man with an eager look. "why such cuties! are you both witches?" "yes sir!" said Serene holding out the bag. the next house was an old house with a kind witch waiting for her grandchildren. "memaw! we got lots of candy!" said Wanda. the group unloaded their candy bags and as soon as their bags were empty, they teleported to a magic land of the witches. the group went into the huge house and ran to the bedrooms. "sleep little witches for tomorrow we dance on the fields, drink and eat like merry men." said memaw. the little girls dreamed of dancing in the fields, drinking, eating like merry men, and happy little ghosts spooking the bats.  Squish them and squiggle them and make them disappear. That is the motto of all witches. Very carefully a victim is chosen. Then the witch stalks the wretched child like a hunter stalking a little bird in the forest. She treads softly. She moves quietly. She gets closer and closer. Then at last, when everything is ready...phwisst! ... and she swoops! Sparks fly. Flames leap. Oil boils. Rats howl. Skin shrivels. And the child dis-appears. A witch, you must understand, does not knock children on the head or stick knives into them or shoot at them with a pistol. People who do those things get caught by the police. A witch never gets caught. Don't forget that she has magic in her fingers and devilry dancing in her blood. She can make stones jump about like frogs and she can make tongues of flame go flickering across the surface of the water. These magic powers are very frightening. Luckily, there are not a great number of REAL WITCHES in the world today. But there are still quite enough to make you nervous. In England, there are probably about one hundred of them altogether. Some countries have more, others have not quite so many. No country in the world is completely free from WITCHES. A witch is always a woman. I do not wish to speak badly about women. Most women are lovely. But the fact remains that all witches are women. There is no such thing as a male witch. On the other hand, a ghoul is always a male. So indeed is a barghest. Both are dangerous. Bu neither of them is half as dangerous as a REAL WITCH. As far as children are concerned, a REAL WITCH is easily the most dangerous of all the living creatures on earth. What makes her doubly dangerous is the fact that she doesn'tlook dangerous. Even when you know all the secrets (you will hear about those in a minute), you can still never be quite sure whether it is a witch you are gazing at or just a kind lady. If a tiger were able to make himself look like a large dog with a waggy tail, you would probably go up and pat him on the head. And that would be the end of you. It is the same with witches. They all look like nice ladies. Kindly examine the picture opposite. Which lady is the witch? That is a difficult question, but it is one that every child must try to answer. For all you know, a witch might be living next door to you right now. Or she might be the woman with the bright eyes who sat opposite you on the bus this morning. She might be the lady with the dazzling smile who offered you a sweet from a white paper bag in the street before lunch. She might even--- and this will make you jump--- she might even be your lovely school-teacher who is reading these words to you at this very moment. Look carefully at that teacher. Perhaps she is smiling at the absurdity of such a sugges-tion. Don't let that put you off. It could be part of her cleverness. I am not, of course, telling you for one second that your teacher actually is a witch. All I am saying is that shemight be one. It is most unlikely. But--- and here comes the big "but"---it is not impossible. Oh, if only there were a way of telling for sure whether a woman was a witch or not, then we could round them all up and put them in the meat--grinder. Unhappily, there is no such way. But thereare a number of little signals you can look out for, little quirky habits that all witches have in common, and if you know about these, if you remember them always, then you might just poss-ibly manage to escape from being squelched before you are very much older. My Grandmother I myself had two separate encounters with witches before I was eight years old. From the first I escaped unharmed, but on the second occasion I was not so lucky. Things happened to me that will probably make you scream when you read about them. That can't be helped. The truth must be told. The fact that I am still here and able to speak to you (however peculiar I may look) is due entirely to my wonderful grandmother. My grandmother was Norwegian. The Nor-wegians know all about witches, for Norway, with its black forests and icy mountains, is where the first witches came from. My father and my mother were also Norwegian, but because my father had a business in England, I had been born there and had lived there and had started going to an English school. Twice a year, at Christmas and in the sum-mer, we went back to Norway to visit my grand-mother. This old lady, as far as I could gather, was just about the only surviving relative we had on either side of our family. She was my mother's mother and I absolutely adored her. When she and I were together we spoke in either Norwegian or in English. It didn't matter which. We were equally fluent in both languages, and I have to admit that I felt closer to her than to my mother. Soon after my seventh birthday, my parents took me as usual to spend Christmas with my grandmother in Norway. And it was over there, while my father and mother and I were driving in icy weather just north of Oslo, that our car skidded off the road and went tumbling down into a rocky ravine. My parents were killed. I was firmly strap-ped into the back seat and received only a cut on the forehead. I won't go into the horrors of that terrible afternoon. I still get the shivers when I think about it. I finished up, of course, back in my grandmother's house with her arms around me tight and both of us crying the whole night long. "What are we going to do now?" I asked her through the tears. "You will stay here with me," she said, "and I will look after you." "Aren't I going back to England?" "No," she said. "I could never do that. Heaven shall take my soul, but Norway shall keep my bones." The very next day, in order that we might both try to forget our great sadness, my grandmother started telling me stories. She was a wonderful story-teller and I was enthralled by everything she told me. But I didn't become really excited until she got on to the subject of witches. She was apparently a great expert on these creatures and she made it very clear to me that her witch stories, unlike most of the others, were not imaginary tales. They were all true. They were thegospel truth. They were history. Everything she was tell-ing me about witches had actually happened and I had better believe it. What was worse, what was far, far worse, was that witches were still with us. They were all around us and I had better believe that, too. "Are youreally being truthful, Grandmamma?Really andtruly truthful?" "My darling," she said, "you won't last long in this world if you don't know how to spot a witch when you see one." "But you told me that witches look like ordin-ary women, Grandmamma. So how can I spot them?" "You must listen to me," my grandmother said. "You must remember everything I tell you. After that, all you can do is cross your heart and pray to heaven and hope for the best." We were in the big living-room of her house in Oslo and I was ready for bed. The curtains were never drawn in that house, and through the win-dows I could see huge snowflakes falling slowly on to an outside world that was as black as tar. My grandmother was tremendously old and wrinkled, with a massive wide body which was smothered in grey lace. She sat there majestic in her armchair, filling every inch of it. Not even a mouse could have squeezed in to sit beside her. I myself, just seven years old, was crouched on the floor at her feet, wearing pyjamas, dressing-gown and slippers. "You swear you aren't pulling my leg?" I kept saying to her. "You swear you aren't just pretending?" "Listen," she said, "I have known no less than five children who have simply vanished off the face of this earth, never to be seen again. The witches took them." "I still think you're just trying to frighten me," I said. "I am trying to make sure you don't go the same way," she said. "I love you and I want you to stay with me." "Tell me about the children who disappeared," I said. My grandmother was the only grandmother I ever met who smoked cigars. She lit one now, a long black cigar that smelt of burning rubber. "The first child I knew who disappeared", she said, "was called Ranghild Hansen. Ranghild was about eight at the time, and she was playing with her little sister on the lawn. Their mother, who was baking bread in the kitchen, came outside for a breath of air. 'Where's Ranghild?' she asked. " 'She went away with the tall lady,' the little sister said. " 'What tall lady?' the mother said. " 'The tall lady in white gloves,' the little sister said. 'She took Ranghild by the hand and led her away.' No one", my grandmother said, "ever saw Ranghild again." "Didn't they search for her?" I asked. "They searched for miles around. Everyone in the town helped, but they never found her." "What happened to the other four children?" I asked. "They vanished just as Ranghild did." "How, Grandmamma? How did they vanish?" "In every case a strange lady was seen outside the house, just before it happened." "But how did they vanish?" I asked. "The second one was very peculiar," my grand-mother said. "There was a family called Christian-sen. They lived up on Holmenkollen, and they had an old oil-painting in the living room which they were very proud of. The painting showed some ducks in the yard outside a farmhouse. There were no people in the painting, just a flock of ducks on a grassy farmyard and the farmhouse in the back-ground. It was a large painting and rather pretty. Well, one day their daughter Solveg came home from school eating an apple. She said a nice lady had given it to her on the street. The next morning little Solveg was not in her bed. The parents searched everywhere but they couldn't find her. Then all of a sudden her father shouted, 'There she is! That's Solveg feeding the ducks!' He was pointing at the oil-painting, and sure enough Solveg was in it. She was standing in the farmyard in the act of throwing bread to the ducks out of a basket. The father rushed up to the painting and touched her. But that didn't help. She was simply a part of the painting, just a picture painted on the canvas." "Didyou ever see that painting, Grandmamma, with the little girl in it?" "Many times," my grandmother said. "And the peculiar thing was that little Solveg kept changing her position in the picture. One day she would actually be inside the farmhouse and you could see her face looking out of the window. Another day she would be far over to the left with a duck in her arms." "Did you see her moving in the picture, Grand-mamma?" "Nobody did. Wherever she was, whether out-side feeding the ducks or inside looking out of the window, she was always motionless, just a figure painted in oils. It was all very odd," my grand-mother said. "Very odd indeed. And what was most odd of all was that as the years went by, she kept growing older in the picture. In ten years, the small girl had become a young woman. In thirty years, she was middle-aged. Then all at once, fifty-four years after it all happened, she disappeared from the picture altogether." "You mean she died?" I said. "Who knows?" my grandmother said. "Some very mysterious things go on in the world of witches." "That's two you've told me about," I said. "What happened to the third one?" "The third one was little Birgit Svenson," my grandmother said. "She lived just across the road from us. One day she started growing feathers all over her body. Within a month, she had turned into a large white chicken. Her parents kept her for years in a pen in the garden. She even laid eggs." "What colour eggs?" I said. "Brown ones," my grandmother said. "Biggest eggs I've ever seen in my life. Her mother made omelettes out of them. Delicious they were." I gazed up at my grandmother who sat there like some ancient queen on her throne. Her eyes were misty-grey and they seemed to be looking at something many miles away. The cigar was the only real thing about her at that moment, and the smoke it made billowed round her head in blue clouds. "But the little girl who became a chicken didn't disappear?" I said. "No, not Birgit. She lived on for many years laying her brown eggs." "You said all of them disappeared." "I made a mistake," my grandmother said. "I am getting old. I can't remember everything." "What happened to the fourth child?" I asked. "The fourth was a boy called Harald, " my grand-mother said. "One morning his skin went all greyish-yellow. Then it became hard and crackly, like the shell of a nut. By evening, the boy had turned to stone." "Stone?" I said. "You mean real stone?" "Granite," she said. "I'll take you to see him if you like. They still keep him in the house. He stands in the hall, a little stone statue. Visitors lean their umbrellas up against him." Although I was very young, I was not prepared to believe everything my grandmother told me. And yet she spoke with such conviction, with such utter seriousness, and with never a smile on her face or a twinkle in her eye, that I found myself beginning to wonder. "Go on, Grandmamma," I said. "You told me there were five altogether. What happened to the last one?" "Would you like a puff of my cigar?" she said. "I'm only seven, Grandmamma." "I don't care what age you are," she said. "You'll never catch a cold if you smoke cigars." "What about number five, Grandmamma?" "Number five", she said, chewing the end of her cigar as though it were a delicious asparagus, "was rather an interesting case. A nine-year-old boy called Leif was summer-holidaying with his family on the fjord, and the whole family was picnicking and swimming off some rocks on one of those little islands. Young Leif dived into the water and his father, who was watching him, noticed that he stayed under for an unusually long time. When he came to the surface at last, he wasn't Leif any more." "What was he, Grandmamma?" "He was a porpoise." "He wasn't! He couldn't have been!" "He was a lovely young porpoise," she said. "And as friendly as could be." "Grandmamma," I said. "Yes, my darling?" "Did he really and truly turn into a porpoise?" "Absolutely," she said. "I knew his mother well. She told me all about it. She told me how Leif the Porpoise stayed with them all that after-noon giving his brothers and sisters rides on his back. They had a wonderful time. Then he waved a flipper at them and swam away, never to be seen again." "But Grandmamma," I said, "how did they know that the porpoise was actually Leif?" "He talked to them," my grandmother said. "He laughed and joked with them all the time he was giving them rides." "But wasn't there a most tremendous fuss when this happened?" I asked. "Not much," my grandmother said. "You must remember that here in Norway we are used to that sort of thing. There are witches everywhere. There's probably one living in our street this very moment. It's time you went to bed." "A witch wouldn't come in through my window in the night, would she?" I asked, quaking a little. "No," my grandmother said. "A witch will never do silly things like climbing up drainpipes or breaking into people's houses. You'll be quite safe in your bed. Come along. I'll tuck you in."


Month One Ronan looked at the slip of paper in his hand, then up at the cafe, then back to the bit of paper. The letters all matched up, so there was no avoiding it. This was the place, and the time. All he had to do was walk in. Or he could walk away. No-one knew he was here, so no-one would know if he just left. He didn’t have to do this. That was what shops were for, as he always said. With a sigh Ronan headed inside, the clipping clutched in his hand like a safety blanket. It was old-fashioned he knew, checking out groups in the local newsletter, but he was hoping that being old-fashioned about it would mean he’d find a group with like-minded people. None of those millennials, who always complained about having it so hard but seemed to enjoy life far more than he had in his youth. The group wasn’t hard to spot in the half-empty cafe. Eight women clustered round a table at the back, with half a wool shop sprawled out between them. For the hundredth time he checked the listing again, checking yet again that there weren’t any restrictions. Open to everyone, from beginners to experts , it still said. Everyone, so that had to include men as well. Only one way to find out , Ronan thought and he squared his shoulders before marching up to the group. They were talking as he approached, and that made him falter, but he was too close now to leave again. One of the women noticed him and smiled. “Hello,” she said in the patient voice of someone used to having to explain what she was doing. “Um, is this the knitting c-group?” There was no way in hell he was going to call it a club, whatever their ad said. That made it sound like a kids group, and most of the women here looked to be even older than him. Apart from- aw damn it - one girl at the back, who could only have been twenty or so. “Yes it is.” Even as he'd said it Ronan had realised it was a stupid question, but what else was he going to start with? “The ad said novices. I- I need to learn how to knit.” It was the first time he’d said it out-loud since he’d come up with the stupid idea, and he was bright red in seconds. If the woman noticed though she didn’t say anything. “That’s brilliant! Come on, take a seat and show me what you know so far.” “Not much.” Ronan grabbed a chair from the next table and tucked himself on the end, still trying to keep as much distance between himself and the group as he could. Just in case he needed to make a quick exit. “I... borrowed these needles from my wife. Are they… are they alright?” Borrowed- that was a nice word. It was simpler and gentler than the truth. “Oh wow. These are gorgeous. Is she an avid knitter then, your wife?” “Yeah, she loves it,” Ronan said, digging his nails into his palm as he spoke. “I wanted to try and make her something, in secret.” That got a round of ‘awws’ from the table, and suddenly everyone was on board with helping Ronan pull off the most romantic gesture of the year. If only they knew. Month Three “How are you getting on Ronan?” Julia asked. Ever since that first meeting she’d appointed herself as his personal knitting tutor, and he hated that he wasn’t a better pupil. “I think I’ve got… a row?” He held up the piece and winced. Even after weeks of work he still couldn’t knit a straight line, and this row was far shorter than the one before it. “That’s good! You’ve just dropped a few stitches, but that’s okay. And you’re getting faster at it as well.” For all her kind words, Ronan still figured he was a lost cause. What was I thinking? Just buy something, it’ll be easier. And it’ll look better, though at the moment my old handkerchiefs look better. Julia could read the doubt in his face, like she always could. “Come on. I’ll do a row and neaten it up, then you can have another go, okay?” “Yeah.” It took what little self-control he had left not to throw it at her. That wasn’t fair though; he knew she was doing the best she could. “Shannon always says I have thick fingers. Can’t even put up a shelf straight. Don’t know why I thought I could do this.” “You’re too hard on yourself,” Julia said. “I know it might not feel like it, but you really are improving. Besides, if it’s for someone you love then they don’t mind what it looks like. It’s the thought that counts, and your wife will understand that.” “I’ve never understood it,” Ronan confessed. “I always… well, I was never the most supportive when she made things for people. Always said we should just buy something instead. I never really got the whole ‘hand-made means more’ thing.” “But you’re trying this?” “Yeah, well. Thought it was about time to try and work out what it was all about.” Better late than never. Julia smiled, that exaggerated, slightly patronising smile that he hated to admit did actually make him feel better. “Well then, I’m sure this’ll mean even more to her. Now come on, have another go while I get some more tea in.” Month Five “Hey Ronan! You’re here early.” “Yeah, the bus was on time. Guess it had to happen eventually, right?” Ronan grinned at Julia as she put her tea cup down on the table. He was already halfway through his, having actually gotten the earlier bus. “Here, look what I’ve got done.” “Oh wow! Oh, that’s a beautiful colour.” “Yeah. Figured I’d try stretching out to a baby's cardigan, but I didn’t want it to be gendered.” “You can’t really go wrong with green, can you? It’s such a gentle shade as well. And you cast it on by yourself!” “Haha! After so long I should at least be able to manage that, right? I’ve not been at this one long.” That last bit was a shameless lie, and Ronan wasn’t sure why he’d even bothered saying it. Of course Julia would know he’d been at it since last week, and had still only managed to get four rows done. But they were even, with a consistent tension, and each of them had the same number of stitches. He was damn proud of those four rows. “You see, I told you you’d get it. Don’t forget, the rest of us have been doing this for decades .” “Apart from Abby.” The millennial was the best knitter of the whole group, although Ronan was the only one who was bitter about that fact. That was mostly because she’d rocked up one week saying she was learning how to crochet, and the next week had brought a pile of exquisitely made hats. If Ronan had even a smidgen of the talent that girl had, this stupid idea of his wouldn’t have been such torture. “Yeah, well. We don’t talk about her,” Julia teased. The pair of them sat in silence as they waited for the others, Ronan knitting at his snail’s pace with his tongue sticking out while Julia watched and smiled. Month Seven “Hey Ronan, glad you made it.” Even though it wasn’t a knitting group meeting, Julia had still taken the large table at the back, and she’d already bought tea and cake. “Hey. You didn’t have to call me up you know?” “You’ve missed two meetings. I just… wanted to check you were alright.” Ronan took a deep breath and helped himself to a cup. The plan had been to fade away, and to never have to face up to this, but then damn Julia, brilliant, caring Julia had called him up and invited him to afternoon tea. After everything she’d done for him he couldn’t refuse. Besides, it wasn’t like he had much else to do on a Saturday. “I’m fine,” he said, although he still hadn’t convinced himself of that. “Then why haven’t you turned up?” I could say I’ve been busy. That I’ll be back in a week or so, and keep pushing it back until they forget about me. Then he looked up at Julia, and her perfectly open and innocent eyes, and remembered other eyes just like that. “I’ve packed it in,” he confessed. “I’m not cut out for knitting. I mean come on, it’s been months and I still can’t knit a square properly. Children can knits squares, but I can’t. It’s just not meant to be. I’ll just buy something.” And he knew as he said it aloud that if he did he’d regret it for the rest of his life. But I just can’t! I’m not good enough- “You love your wife, don’t you?” Julia’s question caught him off guard, and with all the thoughts in his head this time he choked up. “Y-yes.” With a cough he took a drink, the cup shaking as he lifted it. The scalding tea helped him get a grip on himself. “Yes, of course I do.” “Then trust me.” Julia leant across the table and touched his hand gently. “You can do this. You’re doing really well, and Shannon would be so proud of you if she knew what you were doing.” Yes she would. She’d also laugh, and call me a soppy old sod, with his fingers on backwards. That’s what she always said when I tried to put up the bookshelves. “Trust me,” Julia continued. “I’ll get you through this. You can do this. And then she’ll be so proud.” “But… everything I make is crap.” “That’s not the point though, is it Ronan? If was just to have a purpose you’d buy it. But this is to show that you love her. So you make it.” “I’m still not sure I get the appeal of that.” Julia laughed, and even Ronan had to grin, taking the chance as she looked away to blink back his tears. “Finish her present,” Julia said. “Then you’ll understand. Come back to the sessions? Please?” Upbringing won out over any last reservations he had. “How can I refuse the request of a lady?” Month Nine The piece lay on the middle of the table, sprawled across napkins to keep it off the sticky surface. “It’s so cute!” Abby said, and Ronan hated himself for checking to see if she was taking the piss. Be fair; they’re nice people, and they’re genuinely encouraging me. Besides, it’s not like I’m competition to them or anything. “It’s adorable,” Julia said. “And it’s finished. Your wife is going to be so proud.” After so many months Ronan was getting better at hearing that but this time, with the finished little cardigan in front of him, his breath caught again. “Oh, it’s perfect. Can you just imagine a tiny little baby wearing it?” “Abby, please tell me you’re not getting broody.” The group laughed and broke up into baby talk, but Ronan was still staring at his handiwork. It was bent, but not half as bent as the first few pieces he’d made. There weren’t any holes in it, although that was only because of some emergency intervention from Julia. At a distance the soft pastel green hid the worst of the faults. Overall, for a first time, not bad. It’s just- “What’s bugging you?” Julia said quietly to him as the conversation drifted off. “I’m not sure about the buttons. Do you think two is enough?” God, why do I hate myself? The button holes were the absolute worst thing to do. I couldn’t bear to do any more. “It’s only a small cardigan. Any more would swallow the rest of it. They look sweet.” “It doesn’t just… look like I gave up then?” “No,” Julia giggled, having held his hand and supplied him with tea as he fought his way through them. “It looks great. It looks perfect. When will you give it to her?” “I’m going to wait for the right moment. After all this effort, I want to get this right.” Month Nine Point Two The right moment had arrived. Ronan wandered through the hospital, marvelling at how much had changed and how much hadn’t since the last time he’d done this. The walls were still the same bland off-white, but the machines were all shiny and curved edges now. Outside the door to her room he stopped and tried to neaten his hair. Should I have made an effort? I can’t remember what I did last time, it was all such a blur. The shirt he wore was clean, but there was a smudge of last night’s dinner on his trousers. After he picked the worst of it off he figured it would have to do. He was too scared and excited to leave again. Besides, neither of them were going to notice. With his present wrapped and tucked under his arm, Ronan knocked gently on the door. For a fleeting moment the guilt at misleading the knitting group came back, until he heard a murmur from inside the room. He slipped inside as quietly as he could. “Morning Lisa,” he said with a grin that he couldn’t stop even if he’d wanted to. “Morning Dad.” “How are you doing darling?” Though he was asking his daughter, his eyes drifted over to the far side of her bed. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Come on, come and meet her.” The tiny little baby in the cot was sound asleep and wrapped up snugly. Nothing was visible apart from her face and one miniscule little hand, but Ronan was already in tears. “She’s beautiful.” “Dad-” There was a catch in Lisa’s voice, and worry in her eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?” “I’m sorry Dad. I know I said I would, but I can’t… It’s still too soon. I can’t name her after Mum, I’m sorry-” As she broke down Ronan sat on the bed next to her and gathered her up in a hug. “That’s okay my darling. She’s your daughter. You call her what you want. We’ll remember Mum in other ways, okay?” It took a while to dig out the tissues, or for either of them to be able to speak clearly again, but Ronan waited. I want to get this right. “What are you going to call her then?” “Evelyn. Evelyn Shannon.” “That’s a good name. And…” This is it. This is what it was all for. “Speaking of your mother, I got you something.” He handed the present over, glad that his daughter was still too snuffly to notice his shakes. “It’s not much, and it’s not good. But… well, if your mother was here she’d have had this sorted. But she isn’t, so I’m going to do the best I can. I don’t want you and little Evelyn missing out on this.” There was suspicion in Lisa’s face as she started to pick at the tape. That’s only fair, she is my daughter after all. It’s exactly how I would’ve reacted. God, why did I even bother with this, it’s a stupid idea- The delicate, wobbly cardigan dropped out into Lisa’s hands, and she sat there staring at it. Ronan couldn’t take the silence. “Your mum had all these books of baby patterns. She was really looking forward to being able to knit them all again. But since she’s gone… I wanted to honour her memory. I wanted to keep a part of her with us-” Ten months of pent up grief burst in that moment. Tears streamed down Ronan’s face, as he waited for his daughter and granddaughter to pass judgement on his knitting. “Dad.” As Lisa looked up, her eyes damp with tears and her face still drawn from labour, she looked the spitting image of Shannon, sat in the same maternity ward all those years ago. It broke Ronan’s heart even more, but there was a comfort to the pain. She’s still with us. “I love it Dad. Thank you. And she would be so proud of you.” Ronan sighed, and felt the first ray of joy since that terrible day. “That’s as good as hearing it from her,” he said, beaming at the echo of his wife that lived in their daughter.


I feel a massive wave of pain on my left side, just below the ribs. Instinctively I place my hand on it. I lift it moments later and see a warm scarlet liquid coming out of my body. Instantly I feel dizzy, the sight of blood causes me that nausea feeling I hate so much. I try to look around for Jack, but my sight becomes blur. My feet feel like jelly, and I expect to crumble on the ground any second now. It all started about two weeks ago. It was a simple mission for such an experienced agent as Jack and everything were going smooth so far. Until that day came, when everything went wrong, and I felt like a modern version of the plagues of Egypt is coming upon us. Jack’s mission was Lord Alistair Wood. That esteemed man apart from an enormous fortune, he fancies drugs and weapons trade. There’s nothing wrong with making some extra money. And this is where Jack comes in. We planted various information on the internet as bait about Jack being a wealthy businessman already into the illegal weapons trade, to make him eligible for the lord’s stock. All these days the things were moving slow but steady, it takes time to gain the trust of such a man. Jack’s last transmission was that he finally persuaded lord’s intermediary to arrange a meeting with his boss where he can get a closer look at the stuff and sign the contract. During that meeting Jack would be equipped with hidden cameras and microphones that will give us all the evidence we need to get that high-class bastard behind bars. The day had come, and Jack was on his way to the lord’s estate, when we faced with an excessive amount of interference during our communication. Of course, I immediately informed my superiors but not much could be done. I tried my best to repair the communication, although the time was passing by, and I didn’t make much progress. But I didn’t back down. I tried again, this time focusing on gaining access in one of the cameras attached to his suit. The image was a bit blur, but the sound seemed to be working. A gunshot echoed through the speakers making me jump on my seat like I was hit by a thunder. There was big commotion shortly after the gunshot and I couldn’t spot Jack’s voice or what they were saying. I tried, tapping furiously on my keyboard, to fix the image transmission and I freeze in place as I see Lord Alistair’s face on the camera that was supposed to be planted on Jack’s lapel. Then he places a hood on Jack’s head, and everything goes dark though I still get some sound, mostly containing incomprehensible shouting. I press the emergency button on the phone on the side of my desk and head towards the crisis room. I open the doors and find three of my superiors sitting on chairs in front of a large table. “Jack is compromised.” I say almost out of breath. “He’s taken captive.” “How?” One of them addressed me. “They placed a hood to cover the camera on his lapel. They found out. We need to send a tactical team immediately.” Silence fell on the room, and I felt that time is passing very slowly. The three superiors were skeptical, some rubbing their chins, considering what are our options. Something inside me was telling me they won’t help him. “Please sirs, we have to rescue him. Jack is one of our top agents, if not the best. He is always efficient with a very good record behind. We don’t have to lose such a valuable asset.” I didn’t know what else to do, Jack should not be perished in that way. When I first came to this station, I was assigned to be Jack’s ears and eyes on his missions and we were a pretty good team. He was one of the top field agents and I was the greatest brain in the ‘warehouse’ a name that the rest of the staff was using for our department. When we get well acquainted, we made a promise to each other that we’ll always get one another’s back if something goes wrong and I remember the look in his eyes, that was a genuine promise and not the drinks talking. So now he was in danger, they would not send any help and I had made a promise. “I’m afraid there is nothing more we can do. Jack was a valuable member of our organization, and his absence is already evident. But we cannot waste men power for anyone. He knew the consequences of his job and by performing the missions he had accepted these terms.” I felt moisture gathering under my eyes, but I try my best to hide it from them. I just nod and exit the room heading to my desk. I will not sit back and watch my partner let down like this while his superiors already were addressing him like he’s already dead. He’s not yet and if they won’t do something I will take the matter in my hands. “I have to go. Please cover me.” I say to Jim as I walk back in and grab a folder from my desk along with my coat. “What happened?” he asked confused. “They’re not going to help him.” I replied and stormed out of the building. I know it is forbidden to take any documents outside the building and the consequences that wait for me when they find out are huge, but I don’t care. I spend all night studying anything we’ve got, every word from the intercepted discussions we got, anything that might give me the slightest clue of where they have him. And after of two long days and nights, I finally found it. I went through hell to find his centre of operations, hidden in an abandon laboratory in Japan, in the outskirts of Tokyo. I had erased all my records from the internet so they couldn’t find anything for the real me. I had everything, fake passport and various documentation making my new identity legitimate to convince them to let me in. I took even a gun, although I was never fun of them. I did the basic training, but I always hoped there will not be any occasion to use it. It took me some time until I find the exact location of the facility and from the reconnaissance I did it appeared that is understaffed and not so heavy guarded. When I finally snuck in, I grabbed a white robe from the staff uniforms room and having prepared an access card with my picture on it I was free to wander around the place. It appeared that the laboratory was further from abandoned and was fully operational, producing nuclear weapons. I spend some time wandering around the facility and finally after quite some time, I could trace his bug inside the building. I follow the signal and my steps stop in front of a huge metal door. My heart was racing fast, he’s still alive. That bug was planted within his body and would not transmit if Jack was dead. It was not easy to open a metal door without making some noise and at first, I was glad that no one came towards my place. I was ready to cry when I saw him bound with ropes in a far corner of a room full of glass testers with liquids in various colours. I run to him and kneel. I removed the hood covering his face, truth to be told I was shocked at first when I saw his once bright blue eyes now swollen with big circles under them. His shirt was open and purple bruises were spreading in various parts of his torso. “Elena how-” “Shh, don’t talk.” I cut him off. “Once we are out of here, I’ll tell you everything.” I go behind him and untie the ropes around his hands. Once I finished untying the ropes from his ankles as well, I grab him gently under his arms and help him get up. A soft sigh of pain leaves his lips as he stands up. “I’m sorry.” I whisper. We walked slowly until his feet get used to walking and then I let him walk by himself. We were outside the main lab area heading towards the point I had entered the facility. I could see the opening through the fence, a few metres more and we will be out of here. Thankfully, the forest that surrounded this place was more than what I could have asked for cover. I start running and I was glad to see that he followed considering his state. We were a few steps away when I froze in place at the sound of gunshots. We turn and see about half a dozen men with guns firing towards us. I took the gun that was attached at the back of the waistband of my trousers and fire back. “Go! Now!” I scream to Jack, and he followed my order without second thought. We were finally out of the facility and began our way through the forest. I was happy that they didn’t follow us but something in me was sure that they will soon. And so, they did. We were trying to find something to hide when we heard trampling and shouts from afar.

“Follow me.” Jack said calmly and run to our left. We kept running but that wasn’t easy. The whole place was covered by thick roots of the trees that were above the ground leaving a very small free space between them so, jumping would be more accurate. The trail ended in a river, and I was so focused to moving forwards that I bumped into Jack, I didn’t notice he stopped. “We must jump.” He said with such a calm tone in his voice that I wondered how he can be so cool at times like this. But of course, this is everyday life for him, for me this is nightmare. A loud gunshot broke the temporary silence, and you know what happened next. I feel my body losing its ground and falling in the river. I want to scream but no sound gets out of my mouth. I surrender to the wet abyss and the only thing before I lose my senses, is a pair of strong hands around my waist. When I open my eyes, I see an unfamiliar ceiling and the sound of different machines around give me the idea of where I am. I try to bring myself to a sitting position and I feel the same pair of hands holding me firmly. I turn to see Jack next to me, holding me from the back to assist me. “Thanks.” I whisper. Jack was looking much better from the last time I saw him, and a thought strikes my mind immediately. “How many days I’m knocked out?” “Five days.” He replied looking at me with concern in his eyes. “The doctor will be here any minute now.” “What happened? I remember being shot and the rest I’m not sure If they’re true.” “Yes, you fell into the river, and I jumped to get you before you lose your senses and drawn yourself. I cannot say it was easy, but I managed. The river stopped them from following us and the stream led us to a nearby village. From there, I called for an ambulance and here we are. Thankfully, your wound was not critical, only the excessive bleeding freaked me out a bit.” I raised an eyebrow. “Wow, you? Freak out? I hardly believe it. You are used to staff like that.” “Sometimes even I can lose my shit.” He said quietly and sat back on a chair next to my bed. “I know that they will not send someone to get me after all that happened. I was furious at first but then I accepted my faith. Lord Wood decided that the best way to end me was to be tortured slowly until I beg them to end me, that's why you found me alive. I don’t know for how long I would be though.” “I couldn’t just let you go Jack, we’re a hell of a team. Their decision was not fair. I had to do something, even if it got me killed.” Jack leaned forward and took my hand in both of his. Those blue eyes hanged on me and I felt like they’re looking through my soul. Moments pass and we remain like this, like the time has stopped for us. Out of the blue, he stands up and comes closer. Bending down to my face, he is almost a breath away before our lips touch, when the door opens and we jump back to our positions, looking almost breathless at the doctor.


Lucy moved her hand slowly, her eyes fixed on her pout lips, trying hard to control her breathing. She wanted her lipstick to be perfect, but the wine had already gone to her head. She knew she would have to slow down, but the wine was giving her the courage to go through with it. Satisfied, she dropped the lipstick back in her bag and kissed the air, smiling at her reflection in the mirror. She gave her little black top a tug and readjusted herself, to show a little more cleavage. She had been much less provocative when Dean made a move before. Although at that time, Lucy was not interested in him. She still wasn’t, but now she had a use for him. He was not going to be able to resist her tonight. Back at the table, the guys had arrived. The girls were still seated, and the guys had positioned themselves to guard their girls from other men, marking their territory, Lucy thought. Dean, as she had expected, had squeezed in between Sandra and Jessica. He was holding a drink in one hand and leaning into Jessica, who was giggling at whatever he was saying. Lucy fixed her eyes on Jessica as she approached the table. Their eyes met, and Lucy grinned, the smile on Jessica’s face vanished behind a sheepish glare. “Hello handsome,” Lucy said. Dean looked up as she deliberately leaned way too far forward to pick up her drink, giving him an eyeful. He looked uncomfortable, not knowing where to look. Jessica on the other hand, sat staring down Lucy’s top. Was that envy Lucy saw? Jessica was certainly lacking in that department in comparison. “Please, don’t let me interrupt,” Lucy said, turning away from them both, but staying within Dean’s line of sight. Lucy did not hear Jessica giggle again.                                                            # Lucy waited at the bar; she was moving on from wine to cocktails. The mixologist always took an inordinate amount of time to prepare the drinks, but that was one way to slow down. “What are you doing?” said Jessica. She stood beside Lucy now, side on, with a pout like she had just down a sour shot. “I am just getting a drink, you?” “You know what I mean. I asked you not to go for Dean, and you’re flaunting yourself right in front of us.” Lucy shrugged, “Honey, I ain’t dressed like a nun, and I can’t help what God gave me.” Jessica sighed, “Just, please, don’t. Not him, for me, OK?” The mixologist finished her drink, “One Screaming Orgasm”, he said, as he placed it on the bar. Lucy looked to Jessica, “Just what every girl wants, right?”. She began to suck the straw and made her eyes go wide to indicate the pleasure of it and walked away from her. “For you, miss?” said the barman. “Do you do a Redheaded Slut?” emphasizing the name so Lucy could hear, but Lucy did not react. “I’m sorry, a what?” “Nothing, I’ll have a Gin and Tonic, easy on the tonic.”                                                          # As Jessica was at the bar, there was a seat free next to Dean. Lucy needed to sit down anyway, the high heels and the alcohol were taking their toll. “Excuse me,” she said as she staggered through to the gap, knocking over a bottle of beer. She tried to grab it, but just knocked it over faster. “Oh, sorry, sorry.” “It’s fine, it was almost dead anyway”, said Ben. She plonked down in the seat next to Dean, splashing some of her cocktail onto him. He frowned at her, with a sort of half smile. “Oh, I am so sorry, Dean,” Lucy said, patting down his shirt with her hand. “It’s, fine, don’t worry.” “I thought it would be you giving me the screaming orgasm,” Lucy said. “What?” “It’s a joke, my drink, it’s a…” “Yeah, I get it,” Dean said, without so much as a smirk at the pun. Lucy could see Jessica was coming back to the table. So, she turned in to face Dean, she placed her hand on his chest and whispered in his ear, “so how about it? Is your game as good as you make it out to be?”. She breathed out her hot breath onto his neck. That drives guys wild. In her mind, she imagined Dean getting flustered, maybe even blushing, maybe having the need to adjust the way he was sitting. She smirked to herself at the thought of that. Then his bravado would kick in and he would place his hand on her bare thigh, or on her waist, and take the bait. All on display for Jessica to witness. Lucy then began to imagine how Jessica would feel. Would she get that numb sinking feeling, like your heart has dropped to your stomach, or that feeling like you can’t breathe, making her run out of the bar. Ultimately, her goal tonight was to humiliate Jessica. If she had to go through with her provocations and have a half stimulating night with Dean to do so, then that would be a side bonus. It had been a while since she had taken someone home anyway. Tomorrow, she would put it down to the drink, and make it clear to him it was a one time only thing. He would not care, guys don’t, or so she thought. “Hey, stop this, you’re drunk?” Dean said, gently pushing Lucy off him. “What? I thought you wanted this, that you wanted me?” Dean laughed, “Yeah, but that was before. You’re drunk, Lucy. I think you should go home.” Lucy was now the one siting next to Dean, looking sheepishly at the now standing Jessica. “Is it her?” Lucy said. “Is what her?” Dean said. “Do you want her, is that why you don’t want me tonight?” Dean was lost for words, he looked to Jessica, and back to Lucy, looking for a way out of answering. “Never mind.” Lucy said, as she moved out from the seat. She could feel tears swelling up in her eyes. This was not supposed to be. Jessica was the one meant to be leaving disgraced and upset. “Lucy,” Jessica said, calling to her as she walked away.                                                            # Lucy walked out of the bar and along the river. People seemed to be mingled everywhere outside, making the most of the summer nights heat. Lucy could not find a place to be alone. Tears streamed down her face now. ‘Why are you crying?’ she thought to herself. She could not understand it. How could he have refused her? She was not that drunk, was she? “Lucy, stop.” It was Jessica, chasing after her. “Come to gloat? Twist the knife?” Lucy said. “What? No, what has gotten into you?” said Jessica. “I heard you, Jessica. Talking to Sandra at work. You said that you didn’t want me to get with Dean tonight. That it would ruin your evening. Why? Am I not good enough to be picked over you?” “Is that what all this was about? You don’t even like Dean.” “That’s not the point.” Lucy said, turning away from Jessica. Jessica stepped around in front of Lucy, “I’m sorry, Lucy. I don’t like Dean, well, not like that.” Lucy scrunched her brow, “What? Then, why did you say that to Sandra?” “I didn’t know how to say it, but it’s you, Lucy. I like you. I have never seen you with a guy, and you always avoid the advances from those vultures at work. I hoped that maybe, there was a reason for that. I was telling Sandra that seeing Dean all over you last time, made me, sick and jealous. I just didn’t want a repeat of that.” Lucy stared at Jessica, not knowing how to take it all in. Not knowing how to feel. Jessica placed her hands on the back of Lucy neck, and slowly edged in. Lucy was confused, and she did not pull away, she almost longed for what was about to happen, her heart raced in her chest. Jessica pushed her soft lips against Lucy’s, just once, then she pulled away, gripping Lucy bottom lip with her own lips. Lucy felt her bottom lip quiver as Jessica let go and exhaled sharply. “Now, we could both have some humiliating gossip for tomorrow, but I hope not. Go home, Lucy. See you in the morning.” And with that, Jessica returned toward the bar. Lucy stood by the river, watching as the city lights distorted and danced across the surface. Jessica had not been bitching about her after all. Jessica had feelings for her. There was a time when Lucy had questioned her own sexuality, but she never pursued it. All this tonight was designed to get at Jessica too; was this really about Dean, or due to some hidden desire for Jessica? Lucy placed her hand to her lips, reliving the kiss in her mind, remembering the sweet smell of Jessica’s perfume. She had never felt like that with a guy. She turned, and walked after Jessica. “Hey, Jessica.” She turned, and smiled, “Hey”. Lucy could not find the words, she did not even know what she even wanted to say. Jessica cocked her head, “What is it?” “Just shut up for a moment,” Lucy said. “Ok, but, are we just going to stand here and…” “I said shut up,” Lucy said. She set aside her reservations, putting it down to the cocktails, she wanted to know how she felt. She stepped up to Jessica, and paused just in front of her, their lips almost touching. She felt like everyone had their eyes on them. She felt apprehensive, looking around for any familiar faces, for a reason to stop. “If you’re going to kiss me, you need to...” Lucy could feel the vibrations of Jessica’s voice on her own lips, like electricity. “I don’t ask a third time, stop talking,” with that, Lucy pressed her lips against Jessica’s. They kissed, softly. Jessica placed her hand on the small of Lucy’s back, Lucy placing her hand on Jessica’s neck, as she had done to her just now. When she opened her eyes, all she saw was Jessica. No one else mattered.