Trigger warning: suicide

I had always enjoyed waking up in my college dorm. I am, in every sense of the expression, an early bird, and I was accustomed to waking before my roommate, or anyone on my level for that matter.

This practice, if one can call it that, had given me a sense of superiority; it was as if the symphony of noises that marked the morning greeted me, and only me. I studied in New York, but not at a large private school in the city, our campus was nearly an hour away from Manhattan. So these aforementioned “morning noises” were not taxis, sirens, and construction work, but more suburban: birds, wind, the occasional sound of a bus or train.

It was my last day of college, the end of school, and the beginning of adulthood. I was 24. It had been a year, 5 months, and 14 days since Eli killed himself; a year, 6 months and 10 days since Zelko died; 19 years since I had last seen my parents. (Remembering these numbers was never a fun task, but I constantly kept track of them in my head then, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.)

And, incidentally, the best of those 19 years were spent in college. Nearly every part of the system was rhapsodic: the professors, the freedom, the intellect of those around you. So you may understand why this final morning was so disheartening for me.

The only truly awful part of college was the dorm itself. It was small, so it became stuffy and hot in the humidity of New York summers very quickly. I opened the windows as much as the locks would allow and turned on the little metal fan that I kept on my desk. I then splayed myself out on the bed and dug my face into the sheets. There was a slight metallic smell to the bed covers that the school provided, and as I buried my face in them, my nose stung in the same way one’s lips purse when tasting their own blood. The noise from the fan, that incessant clattering, was circular and piercing, and I felt it would ingrain itself in my mind if I laid there any longer. I felt I’d go deaf if I didn’t get up and turn off that fan in an instant, but luckily, others in the building began to wake, and they muffled that sound with their own symphony of routine.

After a while of milling around my room, my clothes were packed and my roommate was gone. All that was left was to clear out a small drawer in the closet. Inside that small drawer, there was a box. It was made of a red-brown oak, and measured about 6 inches across, 2 inches high. It had originally belonged to my mother, so it was adorned with some flowery carvings and her initials— A.W. I don’t remember the box mentioned in their will, but among the three of us, Eli and Judy and I, it had landed in my possession. Under my possession, it was filled to the brim with clippings, photographs, letters, and some old diaries that just barely fit inside.

However, before I even opened the damned thing, I thought of Anne, and not for the only time that day. My mother’s name was Akiko (Japanese, for those frantically finding an encyclopedia on name origins) but, as I’m sure many children do, I never associated the letter A with her. More frequently, seeing an M would remind me of my mummy or mama, or if you’re lucky enough to know her longer, your mom. Not A for Akiko. Anne’s name was the first to come to mind at my glance of that letter A carved so delicately in the corner of the box. And when I remembered what was inside the box, I nearly tore the hinges off it.

After a few moments of digging, I found the letter. The first letter Anne had ever sent me. June 4, 1954, posted in Anaheim, California. Anaheim: the same location listed on the train ticket that stuck out the pocket of my messenger bag. That little slip of paper haunted me now, teased me, sucking up the sentimentality of the letter A for my least favorite place in the world. I shook off the ticket and turned back to the letter.

Anne always had the neatest script. She’d learned shorthand when she was 15, but you wouldn’t be able to tell: her script wasn’t littered with those awfully ambiguous loops.

Anne and I were both, to put it bluntly, nerds. We loved exchanging letters, simply for the premise of writing down things we may have been too afraid to say. We attended the same school and saw each other all the time, but the world we fabricated within those letters was a type of connection I truly believe only comes around once in a lifetime. Buddhism has beliefs rooted in soulmates, and although I’m unsure if she is a romantic soulmate of mine, I’m almost certain she is a general soulmate of mine, at least in the sense that our incarnations were meant to find one another. I saved every last note, letter, and photograph I had of Anne since we parted, and when college became too lonely, I would read them occasionally. To give you a sense of our exchanges, I’ll insert a small excerpt (slightly paraphrased, to maintain some privacy).

I am terribly fascinated by your definition of perfection, Charlie. You say perfection is a matter of flawlessness. Of utter and complete goodness. But I have to disagree, my love. I interpret that word as a state that is singular to one person or another. It can be a simple circumstance, like feeling your hand fit perfectly in mine, or a feeling, like the smile on my face when I receive a new letter from you. But it isn’t an idea of flawlessness. It's an idea that can describe the nuanced situations that, in my life, I find simply, utterly perfect.

I couldn’t take the sappiness of the letters any longer (at least that’s what I told myself. I think, in actuality, I missed Anne so much I couldn’t bear to read another reason why I was a fool for leaving her) that I folded the paper up and took out a small red leather-bound notebook from the box. It was the diary I kept my freshman year of high school, and as I opened to the first page, I was reminded all over again of why I disliked California so much.

WHY AM I ALWAYS SO UNHAPPY? was written at the top of the page. The rest of the entry went as follows (word for word this time, I have no shame).

I try so hard to be friends with people. I really do. But they fail me. The world fails me time and time again. I wish everyone could just say what they think. Imagine the power that would hold. I could walk up to a group of people and explain my situation and ask to be friends. The next day we could be close and laughing like we’ve known each other for years. Or they could look at me like I’m insane. I could ask her, invite her over. I have so much power. So much power. Everyone does, and that’s what’s so scary. If all our thoughts were vocalized, I would be even lonelier than I am. If all our thoughts were vocalized, I would be happier than I am. The power we all have lies in our choices of what to say or not, when to say what we feel, what to even say, to begin with. That’s the power, the insane power we have, to change our lives. And yet I can’t even open my mouth and use it.

I had used it, eventually. Anne’s face materialized in my mind for the second time that day. I had used this so-called “power” that I wrote about at age 14 on Anne 3 years later. And we dated for 2 years. And I believe we fell in love. Real love, not just teenage lust. Yet this was one of the only real connections I had ever had with someone my age. When I look back on my high school years, Elijah, Anne, and Zelko were very likely my only friends.

The speculation and brooding became too much for me, so I stood up and shoved the papers and diaries back into the box, then put the box into the last vacant corner of my suitcase. A glance at my wristwatch told me I had only a few minutes before the bus into the city was coming on campus. I would stay in a hotel for a night before heading back to Anaheim. As I walked toward my door for the last time (I had managed to keep the same dorm all 4 years, don’t ask how, it isn’t important, just know this was a very sentimental moment for your dramatic narrator), I noticed a rather awkwardly-shaped stain on the carpet near my desk. At first, I paid it no mind, thinking it might have been some spilled beverage from my roommate, but upon noting its color and apparent age, I was reminded. Reminded all over again of that horrific day, and somehow that memory made leaving the dorm that much easier.

                                                ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ۝ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

I walked aimlessly around the hotel room a few times, relishing in the freedom I had never quite tasted. For the next 24 hours before my train departed, I was totally and utterly free. From school and Judy. All people and obligations in the world outside that hotel room were null and void. I had no financial dependence on Judy, I had no dependence on school. I was staying in a hotel room paid for by me only, inhabited by me only. The joy plastered on my face was immeasurable, I’ll tell you that much.

The phone on the bedside table seemed to twinkle at me every round I made around the room. Anne’s name continued to nag at me until I could take it no longer. I really ought to call her. I pulled out the address book from the front pocket of my messenger bag and spun the first few numbers around before I stopped. A knocking at the window (of my 5th story room, mind you) pulled me away from the task at hand. I shoved the small book of numbers in my vest pocket and observed the commotion.

A branch had snapped on a nearby tree, and the piece of wood was blowing rhythmically against my window. At that moment, I realized that I was stationed right above the old cemetery where Zelko had been buried. Leaning my hands on the window, I searched through the rows of headstones and monuments and thought about that evening, a year, 5 months and 14 days ago.

Eli came over from California (he moved back post-college) and we stayed in my dorm at school, since Zelko was going to be buried in New York. We attended the thing, came back to my school on the same bus I had taken that day, and then Eli was gone too.

Finally, I spotted Zelko’s grave on the far west side of the cemetery. (Looking back I’m not sure if it was really his, but let’s say it was for the sake of the story, yeah?) With impetus, I sprang up from my dream-like state and rushed out the door, barely remembering my key in my haste.

                                                 ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ۝ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

I sat down on the grass in front of his plaque, folding my knees up to my chest and hugging them close. At first, I only stared at him, the small piece of metal I had so frequently visited over long weekends, and when I could afford a bus ticket. I simply sat and enjoyed my friend’s company while the thoughts of the day swirled and bubbled around in my mind.

Then, “Damn it Zelko why did you leave me? Why does everyone leave me?” I took my glasses off and pinched the bridge of my nose, breathing in deeply. “Why can’t I keep them? Why am I so awful? And unhappy? And unlikeable? I’ve never fit in anywhere, dammit!” I smacked the grass beside me in frustration.

I was so damn cynical back then. I still am, sometimes. But I’ve realized since that sadness and evil are easier to attain and revert to, and that happiness and kindness take time and extra effort to practice. I was merely lazy, sitting there on the grass and blubbering over my dead English teacher’s grave.

Still, those questions I had a terrible habit of asking never were quite answered at the time. Not in an explicit black and white way, anyways. I still wonder from time to time why it was so difficult for me to make friends, why it felt as though nobody my age understood me, why I had such poor memories of childhood, but I think I’ve come up with a more or less concrete understanding.

I am mixed, in every aspect of my life. And in Anaheim, in the high school Judy wasted her savings on for us to attend, no one else was that way. My race is mixed, yes, but I feel it goes beyond that. My interests, my upbringing, my religion and culture, all mixed. And being mixed, at its very core, means to have pieces and portions of various traits. As lovely and well-rounded as it seems, it's somewhat awful when you are a sad and belligerent teenager. One who is mixed is never enough. Never enough of any of those traits, since one has only a portion of each of those traits. He is forced to occupy an external limbo-like state of observation. (Though I suppose this is beneficial as a writer, as most of our work comes from observation.)

In small towns, everything is black and white. In my high school, everything was black and white. But in the city, in New York, many more of these blacks and whites are muddled, closer to greys. In certain areas, of course, the black and white is stark. Even in college, there were only a few of my peers that I could really relate to, like Gabe. Yet the city as a whole, that was what I loved. The city felt like home, it felt mixed like me.

“Zelko, I don’t know what to do,” I muttered into my lap. I had been pressing my eyes into my knees, and as I looked up at Zelko again, zig-zags of every shape and size flashed before me. I laughed. “God, why am I even talking to you. What did you become?” I smoothed my hand over the grass in the place I had hit. “That tree earlier? A little bird? No, you probably already reached Nirvana, didn’t you?”

Just then, a small yellow warbler (Gabe has his MA in ornithology, I know too much about birds) flew down from a tree and landed onto Zelko’s plaque, twisting its little head at me quizzically.

“No way. You sly, sly man.” A smile grew over my face. The bird flew back up into the tree and seemed to be hunting for a stick. After a moment, he grabbed what he had been looking for, swooped down over me, dropping the twigs, and flew away from the graveyard. I studied the brightly-colored animal for a few seconds before seeing what he had left. Sure enough, the sticks had been dropped in such a way that the letter A seemed to be presented on the grass, plain and clear. I ran a gentle hand over the sign.

“You think I should go visit her? You think she’d let me stay with her for a while? I don’t think I can go back to California just yet.”

I let the question linger in the air for a while before I began to laugh. I laughed loudly, obnoxiously, and even rolled back onto the grass for a moment before sitting back up to face Zelko.

“I just talked to a bird. I’m talking to a bird! God, I’m going mad.” I picked up the sticks and shoved them into my pocket next to the address book. “I’ll see ya, Zelko.” I walked away from the grave and straight into the nearest phone booth I could find.

                                                     ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ۝ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

“Hey, Anne?” “Charlie?” “Yeah, it’s me.” I didn’t want to waste a second of that call.” Listen, I know it’s been a while, but do you think I could stay with you for a bit?” “Stay with me?” I sighed, I swallowed, I spoke. “I miss you. And I can’t go back to Judy just yet.” The only sound on the other side was her breath, the little sounds she made as she thought, and I smiled thinking about how she probably looked, clutching the phone to her ear while she processed my proposition. “Yes. What time will you get in?”


Saturday, June 9th at 9:30 am After eight hours of labor that's when Ella was born into the world. She was a small thing, but had the cutest smile. Her big adorable hazel eyes were shut as she slept in her father's arms in the living room.

Her father, Dave, have been getting along for the couple of weeks and she was surprisingly quiet for a newborn. Dave was pretty happy that the past few days hadn’t been that hard with Ella. And still new to being a father, he didn't think much of it besides that raising Ella will be a piece of cake.

Sadly though, the mother of Ella died a few days after their daughter’s birth due to a car accident. It was all because of some guy who was drunk while driving and sadly Jamie was the consequence of the guy’s actions. Dave was devastated when he heard and swore, he would take care of Ella the best he could. He wouldn’t lose her too.

He rocked her softly back and forth as she slept. Dave smiled softly at Ella and brushed a few hair strands on her forehead. Ella looked a lot similar to her mother, she had her brown curly hair along with her hazel eyes except her nose which was shaped like Dave’s.

He glances up at the clock that read twelve o’clock in the afternoon, then he looked back down at his sleeping daughter and thought, "This won't be so hard, right?"

Wrong.

It is currently four o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday and for the past five minutes Dave has been trying to get Ella to fall back to sleep. It was exhausting, he tried almost everything. He tried feeding her, rocking her gently... maybe it was her diaper? Nope.

Still bouncing the small child in his hands, Dave sat down in a rocking chair. He didn't know what to do, so with this exhausted self he went back to his room, laid in the bed and sat Ella on his chest. He rested his hand on the baby’s side to help hold her up.

“Does this help? Because I’m out of ideas.” Ella’s cries slowly came to an end as she was placed on top of Dave. Her hazel eyes started right back at Dave’s green orbs. Her hand moved slightly to his arm and left it there, her tiny little hands started to grip the fabric of Dave’s sleeve.

“Oh, I see. If you wanted, you could’ve just asked.” Once again Dave saw Ella’s eyes well up and her lip poked out a bit.

Dave chuckled to himself, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I know you can’t, yet.” Ella stopped crying and Dave wiped away the previous tears on her face.

Dave saw that she was getting tired again because her eyes were slowly starting to close. He laid her on her stomach on his chest and slowly rubbed her back.

“Yep, you are your mama’s child.” Dave says quietly. Ella immediately fell asleep for the rest of the night.

8:30 am

Dave had already made his coffee (preferably black) and was about to change Ella’s diaper. Now what Dave didn't do was plan for this.

He set Ella on the changing table and held Ella’s feet so she wouldn’t kick him in the process. He opened the bottom half of the yellow onesie she had on then he removed the diaper.

‘Okay, she only did a number one. Thank God.’ Dave silently celebrated as to not cleaning up a number two from Ella.

Dave leaned over Ella to get a diaper, big mistake, an instant small stream of pee hit his shirt. His WHITE shirt. Ella made a series of small noises and gargles that kinda sounded like laughter. Dave, with an unamused look on his face, turns to the small child who looked back at him with an amused look in her eyes.

“That’s not funny.”

10: 00 am

Dave set Ella down in her crib before making his way to the kitchen to get her food. He’s researched plenty of YouTube videos about how to feed a baby and the right amount of baby formula he needs for a two-month old infant.

Dave took out the formula and measured four ounces of formula and placed it into the baby bottle. He then added one ounce of water and shook it up well making sure all the formula was mixed inside. When the mixing was finished Dave wrapped Ella in a light grey baby blanket that had cute puppy designs on it. Dave gave her the bottle and after around fifteen to twenty minutes Ella had finished the bottle.

Dave set the bottle down on the table across from him. He then set Ella on his lap and held her stomach with his other hand placed on her back. He patted her back to get her to burp which she eventually did.

After a few minutes and the bottle was now clean Dave put Ella down for a nap. After he set her in her small crib he walked past a picture of Jamie. He smiled and picked up the picture, caressing it with his fingers. He had missed Jamie dearly and wanted more than anything to have her back.

“If only you were her to see this.” He says looking back at Ella then at the picture before setting the picture back down.

2:20 pm

After feeding Ella a couple more times after her naps Dave was peacefully sitting on Ella as she played with her rattle until a

really

bad smell hit his nose. It was as if...

“Did you just?” Dave lifted Ella up and turned her around and yep, he found it. Ella had done a number two on his lap and it was not pleasant.

Dave took her as quickly as he could to the changing table. He set her down and opened her diaper. The smell of what was inside hit his nose like a train. Dave scrunch up his nose and disgust and held Ellas feet she wouldn’t kick him.

“The things I do for you child.” Dave chuckles as he got out a baby wipe. Ella, who had no idea what he was talking about, shook her rattle with no care in the world.

7:50 pm

After getting changed into her onesie with stars on it both Ella and Dave were ready for bed. Dave had finally got her to sleep and started to set her down in her crib. Once she was in Dave removed his hands from her slowly only to earn another crying fit.

Dave gave an exhausted sigh and picked Ella up again and went back to his bed placing her on his chest. She imminently stopped crying and slowly went back to sleep. Dave had remembered what he said this morning. In a way she was like her mother but...

“You are definitely a daddy’s girl.”


The rules say I can’t have a pet of any kind.

It’s posted right there on the wall with all the other stuff.

I’ve lived here for over five years.

Ever since my mother died and the state people came to take me.

They put me here.

It’s nice and all, but I miss my mother. My name is Walter Hanaratty and I live at St. Vincent’s Adult Home for people that are cognitively challenged, like me. I am on the Blue Team.

Jennifer Garrett is in charge of us.

I like her.

She is pretty and says things my mother told me when I was a child.

Some of the people on the Blue Team are mean to her. “I don’t like her.” Jamie Kullitts declared when we were at the sheltered workshop where we make placemats for local restaurants.

“She’s nice.” I said, defending her.

“No she’s not.” She snaps back at me as she finishes another placemat. Sometimes I hate being on the Blue Team, but it’s better than staying with Aunt Sophie.

She was mean to me.

She did not understand what having a thinking problem is like.

I was born with it.

My mother said that I would have to make due.

I was never sure what she meant by that, but her sister Sophie kept telling me that I was lazy and stupid. That hurt my feelings.

So, I ran away.

I stayed in the backyard of my old home until the state people came to get me. “Walter Hanaratty, you will have to come with us.” A tall man told me as he held out his badge.

He was not a policeman, but he acted like one.

“We have a complaint from the property owner that you have been camping out here.” The other state man said tilting his head as if it was too heavy for his neck.

“Pick up your things.

We are taking you to our office.” The first state man pointed to my sleeping bag and backpack.

I did what he told me to do.

They had a van parked in front of my old house.

I put my stuff in the van and sat in the bench seat.

I did not say anything as they drove me into town.

Mr. Payson was waiting for me. “Walter-” He stood up when we walked in. “Wally.” I made sure he knew what name I wanted to be called. “Wally, I’m Mr. Payson and this is Mrs. Grimly.

She runs St. Vincent’s Home over on Maple Street.” He told me as if I knew where this place was.

“I went home.” I insisted. “Walter-Wally, that is not your home anymore.” He shrugged.

“You can come live at my house.” Mrs. Grimly smiled. “I don’t want to.” I stomped my foot on the tile floor.

Mr. Payson crossed his arms over his chest, putting one hand to his chin.

“Wally, we already have a bed for you.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want to go there.” I shook her hand off my shoulder.

“Walter-Wally, you have no choice.” Mr. Payson explained. “You were trespassing.” “I used to live there.” I pointed my finger at him. “You don’t live there anymore.” He sighed.

“We will look after you, Wally.” Mrs. Grimly smiled again.

“I want my mother.” I stomped my foot again. “Wally, dear, Wally, your mother is gone.” She shook her head.

Saying that brought a tear to my eyes. “She wanted you to come with me.

Here.”

She held out a paper with my mother’s name on it saying I needed to go with her.

With a shrug of my shoulder, I nodded that I would.

She took my sleeping bag and Mr. Payson grabbed my backpack. After a ten minute ride, I was standing at the front door holding my backpack.

I followed Mrs. Grimly into the large two story house.

“We will have a welcome party with cake at dinner.” She promised.

I like cake.

Maybe this place wasn’t so bad afterall, I thought.

She walked me to my room that I would share with Darrell Montcrief. Darrell was my age, but he liked to laugh for no reason at all. He would say bad words before laughing.

Words that were against the rules.

Most people think that guys like me aren’t very smart.

That is true for the most part, but I did learn how to read and write which my special teacher told me was “remarkable.” I wrote down that word in my notebook.

I use it a lot.

While most people do not expect me to do a lot of things, I want to try anyway.

I told Mr. Ally I wanted to work at the sheltered workshop he was in charge of. “I’m not sure you will be able to do the job.” He had my folder open on his desk. “I’m not sure you are high functioning enough.”

I wrote that word down in my notebook too; high-functioning. He looked at me over the top of his glasses and grunted, “Well, we can give you a try.

The van leaves for the workshop at eight in the morning.

If you want to give it a try, be ready by then in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” I saluted.

“It says here that your evaluation showed significant cognitive disability.” He glanced at the open folder. “If you really want to work in my shop, I need you to do what I tell you.

Do you understand?”

I nodded, yes. “Good.

See you in the morning.” He let a smile swim across his face.

I liked working at the workshop.

I removed the scrap material from the work areas where two dozen workers assembled placemats and stacked the finished products into boxes.

I would come by and pick up the filled boxes.

With Mr. Ally watching me, I did everything I was told to do.

After my first day he told me that I was not part of the “crew.”

I also wrote that word in my notebook. One of the things that bothered me was, I did not feel as though I belonged there at St. Vinnies (as the others called it).

Adrienne was the self-appointed queen of the house.

After dinner, we would gather in the group room and have a house meeting. At these meetings we would check-in with Miss Doss who would smile and nod at whatever we said.

Adrienne sat to Miss Doss’ right and would scan the twenty of us sitting in a circle to make sure we were listening. It was just like my classroom in school.

“On Saturday we will be going on an outing.” Miss Doss would say. “We will all be going together, but we must stay together.

No wandering off, understood?”

We all concurred in our own special way.

I responded with, “I promise.”

Miss Doss was young and pretty.

She would make sure we were staying together as we went to the mall. Two residents opted not to go, because they wanted to watch television instead. Mom used to take me to the mall when I needed shoes or clothing for school.

She would spend hours trying to pick out things I would wear.

“Wally, do these shoes pinch your feet?” She would ask when I tired the shoes on.

“No, mom.” I would shake my head. “Are you sure?” She would ask as if she did not believe me.

I would make some disapproving noise.

Now I am sorry, because she died of cancer.

“If you see something you want, let me know.

I have your money with me.” Miss Doss would sing out as we walked through the mall. We all were given an allowance, but I did not see anything I wanted to spend my money on.

Darrell was my partner on the outing.

We all had to buddy up so we wouldn’t get lost.

The mall was in three levels and it was easy to get lost if you weren’t paying attention.

There was a Winco at one end of the mall.

When we passed it, I saw a couple of baggers putting the customer’s items into paper bags.

I bowed my head when I saw them.

Before my mother died, I was a bagger at Albertsons.

She would drive me there and then do her shopping. I would always ask the cashier if I could bag her groceries. I wanted to see what she was getting so I’d know what we would be having for dinner.

Now I never knew, because Flora, our cook at the house, had the groceries delivered.

We walked and walked.

Darrell began to get cranky, so we stopped at a place that had smoothies.

After downing one of them, he was in a better mood.

When we got to

the second level, I stopped in my tracks.

The store was Meyers’ Pets and in the big window were about a dozen kittens. “C’mon Wally.” Darrell urged in a not so nice voice.

“You go ahead.

I wanna look.” I pointed to the window. “Fine.” He nearly growled and kept walking. “Would you want to hold one of them?” A woman from the store asked as I squatted down to have a better look. “Could I?” I rose to my feet. She nodded and I followed her inside the store.

She was a smokey gray kitten.

When I held her, she curled up close to my chest purring.

“She really likes you.” The woman smiled. “Yeah.” I smiled back. “If I got her, I’d call her Smokey.”

“That’s a pretty name.” She nodded.

“Yeah.” I agreed.

She was still purring. “She costs twenty dollars, but comes with a certificate for shots and a discount on neutering.” The woman squatted down so she could look me in the eyes.

She was pretty and I liked the way she talked to me like Miss Spencer from my special classroom.

“I can’t have pets where I live.” I shook my head. “Why not?” She asked as her smile disappeared, “Where do you live?” “I live in St. Vinnie’s.” I answered forgetting that I did not want to tell people that, because they would know my brain was not quite right. “I see.” She put her finger to her chin, “That’s too bad, because she really likes you.” “She does, doesn’t she.” I put my chin close so I could feel her purr.

“What’s your name?” She stroked the kitten between the ears. “Walter Hanaratty, but all my friends call me Wally.” I answered. “Okay, Wally.

I need to put her back with the others.

It’s a shame, because she really likes you.” She took the kitten from my hands.

I was sad, because I could no longer hear Smokey purr.

I watched her put the small kitten in the window with the others.

She let out a small meow in protest as her paws touched the shredded newspaper.

I was very sad then. “Wally, you come back if anything changes and I’ll make sure you get Smokey.” She nodded. “Just ask for me, Penny.

Penny Gray.”

“Thank you Miss Gray.” I bowed my head.

At that very moment, Darrell came ambling toward the store with a big Slurpee in his hands. “Wally, we got to go in five minutes.

Miss Doss says.” He announced and then took a big draw on his straw.

“All right.” I sighed.

“I wanna go to that game store over there. C’mon.” He waved as he walked past. I had twenty dollars in my pocket from Mr. Ally’s workshop.

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Miss Gray.”

She was helping an older lady get a bag of dog food into her cart. She turned to face me when I called her name. “Wally, what can I do for you?” She asked as the lady thanked her pushing the cart out of the store. I handed her the twenty dollars I had in my pocket.

She winked at me as she walked over to the window and put Smokey in my arms.

She immediately began to purr.

She missed me. “Let me ring you up.

You get some coupons for a wellness check.” She walked to the cash register. “C’mon, duffus.

Gotta go.” Darrell was waving to me from outside the store.

Seeing him, I knew he’d blab to Miss Doss about the kitten.

Worse, I knew he’d tell Mrs. Grimly as well.

Carefully, I tucked Smokey into my hoodie near my chest.

I took the coupons Miss Gray handed me along with the receipt.

Darrell and I walked to the van.

I could feel Smokey asleep next to my t-shirt, hidden from view. “What did you get?” Sylla asked me when I sat down next to her. “Nothing.” I answered. “You got something.” She laughed, “Did you steal it?” “No.” I shook my head. “Liar.” She grinned. “Lemme see.”

“Leave me alone.” I slapped her hand away from my hoodie.

“Hey, Mrs. Grimly says no hitting.” She scowled at me.

“Folks, settle down.” Miss Doss said sternly, “I have to drive this van in traffic.”

Smokey meowed.

I froze like a statue. “What was that?” Ellie asked as she sipped on her soda.

“What was what?” I asked with all the innocence I could.

“Sounded like a cat.” Buster shrugged.

“It was.” Sylla grinned. “I didn’t hear nothing.” I shrugged as I could feel Smokey squirm.

Her tiny feet began to tickle me. “You are acting strange, Wally.” Sylla squinted with suspicion.

“What you got, Wally?” Darrell joined in.

“Nothing, leave me alone.” My face was turning red.

I could see Miss Doss look at me in the van’s rear view mirror.

When we got back, Miss Doss tapped me on the shoulder, “Wally, I think you need to go see Mrs. Grimly.”

“I don’t want to.” I shook my head. “Yeah, but you have to tell her about the kitten you got stuffed in your sweatshirt.” She put her hands on her hips.

Dropping my head to my chest, I nodded.

I could feel Smokey purring contently under my hoodie. “I’ll got with you.

I have to turn in the van keys.” I walked in the front door with the others.

Mrs. Grimly was in her office next to the stairs.

Feeling like a condemned man on his way to the electric chair, I shuffled to her office with Miss Doss leading the way. “Hey Lydia, what’s up?” Mrs. Grimly sat back in her chair when she heard Miss Doss knock on her office door. “I got Wally here.” She glanced down at me. “So I see.” She smiled, “Wally, how are you?

How was the outing at the mall?”

“Fine.” But my voice didn't sound like things were fine. “I see.” She stood up. “What happened at the mall?” “Wally has something he wants to show you.” Miss Doss replied. “Really?” Her eyes opened wide, “Wally, what is it?” Once again, I bowed my head and began to remove the sleeping kitten from my hoodie.

Once Smokey was in my arms where everyone could see her, I felt an unexpected feeling of relief.

“I see.” Mrs. Grimly squatted down a bit to get a better look of Smokey.

“There was a commotion in the van.” Miss Doss explained.

“And Wally had a cat, I see.” Mrs. Grimly patted Smokey between the ears just like Miss Gray had back at the store. “You know that the house rules say you can’t have pets, right?” “I know.” I felt as if Mrs. Grimly had pulled the switch on my electric chair. “Normally, I would say rules are rules.” She straightened up, “But this little angel is adorable.” “Isn’t she?” Miss Doss could not hide her smile. “Good thing I have some food.

Poor thing looks hungry.” Mrs. Grimly got out a can of cat food and poured the can into a tea cup she kept on a table next to her desk.

It was no secret that Mrs. Grimly was fond of tea.

As soon as she placed the food on her desk next to where Smokey was, the kitten began to eat. “Mr. Fussy was my cat for many years until recently.

I kept the food in case…”

The three of us watched Smokey eat every last bit from the tea cup. “Now Mr. Hanaratty, you will not be allowed to keep this cat in your room.” Mrs. Grimly sat at her desk and glanced at Smokey, “So we will know this is Wally’s cat, but the others will come to know her as the house cat. Are you willing to do that?” “Yes ma’am.” I nodded. “She will be allowed to wander to any room she wishes.” She smiled, “And seek attention with anyone she desires, is that understood?”

“Yes ma’am.” I agreed.

“Good.” Mrs. Grimly concluded.

Secrets are great as long as they stay secrets.

Smokey wandered the house during the day, but she would return to my room at night where she would curl up next to me and purr before falling asleep.


On April 26th, I pack up a piece of the moon. Of course, I don’t actually know, or even care what the date is, but the reasons for its significance are twofold; the humans do, and this time, it’s late enough where I can secure energy for the entirety of next month. The drawstring bag tightens silently as I lump the wheat coloured chunk into its charcoal depths. Even in the few seconds that I held it, I could feel the healing aura seep into my cosmic latte pores, refuelling my social battery to a dangerous level. I will not, I decided, turn into preppies like the rest of them. They were disgustingly happy, jumping around like monkeys, even sitting on the edge of the circle and swinging their legs to the rhythm of their fluttery chatter. Most of them I knew, but even the ones I didn’t, I could somehow tell that the reason for their social enthusiasm was not due to their moonpieces. They were all inherently talkative, neurotypical even.

It almost looked like a cult, the process of removing and replacing tiny chunks of the moon which produced the twinkling effect the humans loved to romanticise. And I guess that was the point; giving the humans a sense of hope within their hapless chaos. Maybe someday I would feel that sense of responsibility for the creatures on earth too. The full moon didn’t bring with it that potential though.

‘Aelia, you know you can’t put your moonpiece there…’ Lyerson’s warm touch on my fingers initiates a reactionary jerk as my hands pull the moonpiece away from the empty space I removed a chunk from earlier. I hadn’t even meant to replace it with my own, but I guess my hands naturally carried out the process as I mused about my counterparts who actually just felt like my counters. My face seemed to show this mishap too, as Lyerson’s face softened, warm as their hands.

‘Distracted by the hubbub of the full moon, huh?’ The sparkles in lieu of dimples on the corners of their mouth appeared, as their sympathetic smile worked in tandem to gently extract the dull moonpiece from my cold hands. They knew I was too embarrassed to answer, and assured me that they would replace the moonpiece on the shadow side, miles away. ‘But won’t your energy dissipate…’ I started, not abashed enough to forget how quickly an almost dead moonpiece can sap a positive disposition. ‘Oh don’t worry, Maggie has been on an uphill trajectory for the last few weeks, so I’ve got quite the stock of good ener-’ Lyerson abruptly stops, the sparkles suddenly disappearing as they cast their gaze downwards. I knew what was coming, and felt myself burning up with fluster. Please don’t please don’t please don’t start with the pity please please please- ‘I-you know, what I mean is that, mmm,’ Lyserson’s usually composed voice cracks as they try to regain control of the situation, but I was already starting to stand up. Wanting to get away from the situation as soon as was alienly possible, I mustered a faux smile and made to leave off on small talk, but Lyerson beat me to it. ‘I better go replace this…but what I mean to say Aelia, is that. Well, I am quite sure you’ll be tethered to a human soon. From what I can see, you’ve already made some really great progress within yourself. Catch you later,’ and with that, they propelled themself off the bright crater.

I know it wasn’t their fault. Everyone loved Lyerson, and everyone loved talking about their humans, especially the ones that were doing well. It wasn’t Lyerson’s fault that once they started talking about Maggie, all they wanted to do was praise her efforts on Earth. It wasn’t their fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, yet I hated them for it. I hated that they each had their respective humans, had always had their humans, while I never did. And I probably never would. *** The moon had always seemed sympathetic. Sporadically, when I was procrastinating on my schoolwork, I would look out my window and be pleasantly surprised with its murky glow. Tonight, I look at it and think about just how unaware it is of its own significance, especially today.

With everything off, the moon provides the only source of light in my room. Its warm glow reflects in the diamonds of my shalwar kameez, which hangs neatly ironed on the back of my door. I wouldn’t be caught dead in Pakistani clothes on any other occasion, let alone something like this. It was gorgeous and modern; a deep green and pale yellow diamond embroidered flower on a hot pink crop top, a long skirt in the same palette, and a green robe that spanned the length of my body. It was too gorgeous, too cultural. In the throes of living an Australian life with a Pakistani family, I saved the abundance of my Indian outfits for the eyes of my extended family only.

In the throes of wanting to kill myself, I saved the abundance of my teenage angst for nights with the moon. I wouldn’t be able to let it show tomorrow; my extended muslim family simply did not believe in mental struggle.

My mind wanders back to the moon, its perennial innocence, its innocence today. What were the chances that a full moon coincided with Chaand Raat, the eve before Eid Al-Fitr. As the whole family customarily gathered around the moon an hour earlier, my aunt and uncles remarked how Allah had specially blessed us this Ramadan.

‘Cringe,’ I had laconically dm’ed Dinali, my best friend.

‘Wait, isn’t Eid tomorrow?’ she had replied within seconds, adhering to earlier messages that frantically read ‘extended family round in an h0ur, pls be awake need moral support!!!!!’ ‘Yes’, I cautiously replied, eyeing my uncle for fear of his imminent tirade about my generation constantly on their phones.

‘So why is your family over today?’ ‘Chaand Raat,’ my uncle's eyes briefly scan me, lingering for a moment, like a threat, before continuing the conversation with my dad.

‘Girl I’m Sri Lankan, you know idk what that is.’ I hated that this explanation would require a substantial amount of attention to my phone, so I excused myself, quickly hopping past the back of my chair to my washroom. Tired of sitting, I decide to get some extra steps in and pace the bathroom while locking in an Instagram voice note to Dinali.

‘Soooo you know Ramadan right? How I’ve been fasting for a month in order to show my appreciation for food and the blessings I have from Allah and bla bla bla. Anyway, you know how after Ramadan they have like two festivals called Eid, yeah? Well the first one is the more...fun and non-slaughtery one. It’s called Eid Al-Fitr, and the eve before it is called Chaand Raat…when the moon is spotted and everyone goes out to celebrate and hang out with family and stuff. Chaand Raat literally translates to Moon Night-’ Instagram customarily cuts the voice note off at a minute and sends it to her. I start another. ‘And like…it just so happened that today was a full moon, which has never happened on a Chaand Raat before. I mean it’s like cool, I guess. Like I said, my uncles and aunts went absolutely fucking berserk for it, claiming that Allah was for real looking out for us this Ramadan and whatnot. I swear to god, I don’t know how I revel in their bullshit sometimes. Okay I have got to go now before my entire family starts getting suspicious. Besides this voicenoteisabouttocutoffanysecondnowbyeeee-’

I hurriedly run out of breath while I sit my phone atop the cool marble counter. This way, it would actually look like I’d just used the bathroom for a long call. As I rest it meticulously on the edge, the side of the metal phone case glistens. The source was coming from the vermilion pricked blades poking out the edge of my cupboard mirror. The colour was fresh. I knew because a) it was the work of merely a few hours ago, and b) some of the miniscule liquid had dropped onto the white sink, speckling it with tiny red dots. I grab a piece of tissue, dab it on the red so as to not leave streaks, and get rid of the evidence down the toilet. At least the sound of the flush will make my trip to the washroom even more real.

The vivid memory of the colour seeps into my mind, filling the crevices with thoughts that I had trained myself not to dwell on right before bed. Tonight, it was particularly hard though. Despite everything that I complained about in my voice notes to Dinali, a part of me didn’t believe what I believed. What if Allah does actually exist? Surely this life had to have some sort of higher purpose to it? And if not Allah, surely another deity or spiritual being was looking out for us in this hellhole? The moon probably knew. It’s too magnificent and pure not to know the secrets of the universe. And while I eventually drift off contemplating God, I swear I see a part of the moon fall into darkness and out again, in the span of maybe a second. And though this was likely my eyes faltering at the mercy of sleep, I likened this state, and the moon to myself. Most times it is a half moon, but sporadically, it’s full. It always shines on the side everyone can see, but is perennially dark on the other. And sometimes, that darkness can’t help but show.

*** At their core, they were benevolent aliens. That’s how the humans might’ve referred to them if they really knew them. Instead, they called them Stars. It was a two way relationship, except they didn’t know we truly existed outside of their tangible existence. In the olden days, they were mostly convinced that the Stars were inextricably tied to their fate. Their alignments were their peace of mind, and this was the closest they ever got to knowing them. Now, some of them felt it through energies, the spiritual ones who tried to exude good energy that would boomerang back in the form of good karma. Others tied their fortune to specific God’s, the kind that bloodshed and carnage were justified for. But it didn’t matter what, or who they believed in, or when they believed it; they were to help them all the same.

They existed in the space between the cosmos. Hopping from planet to planet, sustaining themselves in the way humans eat food. The most essential part of this process was gathering energy and healing from the moon. Half moons were more than enough to do the job. The Stars would reverently take out a piece of the glimmering side of the moon, not enough that would be visible to a human eye of course, but enough to give them the energy equivalent to a human overdosing on cocaine thrice. Full moons happened monthly, and were occasions of celebration as Stars could collect a single piece and use it for up to years. With the amount of harvesting this brings on, the next generation of Stars don’t have to pick at the moon as much, leaving it as full and brilliant as it always is to inspire the humans. With the energy of the moon, the Stars travelled back through space, shining for the world to see. We were so respected, that some Stars’ humans would go on to write poems, books, movies, even journal articles about us. They inherently didn’t need any motivation, but that would have been enough to keep them loyal to the humans forever. They would go on watching over them, filling them up with good energy for the next day, intermittently intervening in their affairs through the power of simply supplying them with the urge to look up at the night sky. When they had used up our half moonpieces, they would replace them on the bright side of the moon, either with the same amount of glow or more. Never less.

That was all if you were a normal, functioning star. If you were born a Star like me, your brain chemistry just didn’t align with the rest. It was unusual, the human mind wasn’t supposed to transfer over to our community. Ours was supposed to be, had always been, strong and immune from the mental health issues we supported our humans with. Sometimes, our presence in their life was too diametrically opposed for their minds to handle, and we would need our emergency intervention teams to try and alleviate the damage. But their problems never presented themselves in us. After all, that was what the healing energy from the moon was for. But I had been born different. Even the aura of a full moonpiece couldn’t get me to a level a quarter of the level everyone else did. It got me the level equivalent of a human who had overdosed on cocaine thrice, but the ugly part. I didn’t get the energy, I just died, and there was nothing to resuscitate me. As if I wasn’t already judged enough by the saccharine smiles of the other Stars, I couldn’t even harvest pieces of the full moon. I fully needed them to barely hang on, and I was the sole depleter of the whole community. They could never tether me to a human without the high risk of death of the latter. When a full moon came around, I wasn’t allowed to put my piece back on the bright side of the moon. I actually depleted the energy from it, sucked out everything until it resembled a rotten mass that was only fit enough to be thrown somewhere around the dark side.

I look down at earth, the hole in my chest empty as ever. I’m usually immune to the light pollution, the pricks of life and my lack of connection to a single one always had me feeling worse than before. Tonight, however, it was particularly hard not to notice the intermittent flashes of light coming from somewhere in Australia. It wasn’t hard to see; the Stars were blessed with 100/100 vision. Due to this, I could also immediately tell that the flashes were a form of Morse code, something I had probably inadvertently actually picked up on something during the community lectures on ‘Fascinating Human Ideas’. I was surprised how easily I was able to decipher the message, and at the bubble of feeling brewing under my skin. My skin, which now had the faintest hint of a dull sparkle in it, pulsing on and off like a weak heart. This had never happened before, and from the stares of the surrounding Stars, it was clear they knew it too.

*** I woke up with a jolt, the feeling of falling had my heart pulsing on and off like it was desperately trying to keep me alive. Now awake and alert, I instinctively reach for my phone to check the time, irritating myself after I realise where I had left it. The image of the bathroom sink threatens to appear again, but I grab my torch off the bedside table and turn my attention to the sky instead. Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, I would have this ineffable urge to talk to the sky in the only way I could. Tonight, the full moon cast its sympathetic gaze upon me, as if it knew I had been questioning the extent of its knowledge earlier.

Off on. Off on. Off on off on off. On. And on and on I went, turning my portion of the sky ablaze with the clinical light, asking the heavens to give me a sign, any sign, that there was something out there.

‘Is there anything or anyone out there as fucked up as me?’ ‘Are you there, God?’ ‘Is anyone listening?’ ‘Is anything listening?’ ‘I promise to eat all my vegetables if you just give me a shout or something.’ ‘I promise to stop cutting myself if you just-’ ‘Surely send me a shooting star…’ And though I could have attributed it to my torch, I felt as though it was something more. The patch of sky directly above me gave off a slight warmth, almost as often as my flashes. As a test, I turned off my torch for a few seconds, anticipating whatever it was in the absence.

There it was, and if I squinted my eyes, I could make out the blurry outline of a star.

It was almost as if I had summoned it from nothing, like the light from my torch had been engulfed by the sky and spit right back at me in the form of a tiny ball of heat. And though it wasn’t the brightest star, I noticed that it was right atop the moon, making the latter seem as magnificent as ever. I had never really noticed the stars in this way before. Maybe this was my star.

*** Whoever it was, they were pondering the existence of the divine. Their questions had seared through me, as if I was right there, on earth, reflecting a mirror back on myself. It seemed as though my body had instinctively reacted to this too, as the heat which now emanated from it was the result of a matte shine, not nearly as bright as my counterparts, but brighter than I had ever been. Out of my peripherals, I see Lyerson back a few paces away from me, the only Star giving off a small, genuine smile.

For the first time, I’m there. I’m listening. Maybe I couldn’t be a shooting star, but I could be their Star. And maybe, for the first time, someone could be my moonpiece.


Charlie's eyes popped open when someone knocked loudly and repeatedly on his apartment door; a groan escaped his lips as he rolled from his bed and stumbled to the door. He wiped a hand over his face in an attempt to erase the sleep from his eyes. “I'm coming!” Charlie growled as he squinted at the kitchen clock: 5:15 am. 'Seriously, this had better be good!' He peered through the peephole, a delivery man stood on the other side of the door; the man anxiously looked down and looked as though he were trying to shush something or someone he couldn't see. 'If I had stayed quiet, I could've stayed in bed for another few hours...' groaned Charlie unlocking the door to reveal a now relieved looking delivery man who was holding a large silver cage that contained a large grey bird. “If you could sign here, please.” Hesitantly, Charlie gave his signature and took a large stack of white envelopes; the delivery man practically shoved the cage into his arms. “Wait, who sent the bird?” asked Charlie calling after the man who was making a beeline for the elevator, “I don't know how to take care of a bird!” “Not my problem!” Sighing, Charlie shut the door and looked at the bird with raised eyebrows; he looked at the writing on the envelope as he walked into the living room. After carefully placing the cage on the coffee table, he opened the envelope, Charlie squinted at the spidery handwriting before realizing the author of the letter was his grandmother. 'I haven't heard from grandmother since I was at least twelve years old.' he thought Charlie remembered walking in on his mother arguing with his grandmother; the argument ended with his mother pulling him out to the car, refusing to answer any of his questions. Charlie had waited a few days before trying to talk to her about the argument, the only thing his mother would say was that they wouldn't be going back at all. Yet despite this, he secretly wrote letters to his grandmother; he kept hope that he would write him back for a full year. When he didn't receive any letters, Charlie wrote to her less and less until he simply stopped; he couldn't but feel like his grandmother had abandoned him. He loved going to her house and spending entire summers with her; he felt safe and loved with her while his own mother hired a nanny to look after him. His mother only spent a couple of hours a day with him, yet she always seemed to watch the clock as though she couldn't wait to get back to work. Sighing, he returned his attention to the letter in his hand: “My dearest Charlie, If you are reading this, it means that I have passed on from this life. There is so much I have to tell you and as much as I wish I could tell you in person, these letters will have to do. You are probably surprised by Bertie my Grey African parrot and though I remember that you are not fond of birds however, I have a feeling you two will become the best of friends by the time you get to the last letter. I last saw you when you were twelve years old and I have so many fond memories with you. The day your mother took you away from me was the hardest day of my life; my heart shattered into a million pieces as your mother drove away. I can still see your sweet face looking back at me. Knowing your mother, she refused to tell anything about the argument we had and I know that with that curious mind of you tried to solve the reason we were forced to be apart. I hope you will find the answers you are seeking within these letters. Love you always, Grandma May P.S In regards to Bertie, it is best to let him settle and use the long scoop (in the drawer underneath the latch) to slip in between the bars to feed him...I suggest feeding him like this until he gets use to your voice. Bertie can be a bit...particular around people he doesn't know.” Charlie looked up to see Bertie looking at him, both remained still as though they were unsure of how to proceed with the sudden changes in their lives. He observed the cage, quickly locating the drawer that held the long scoop that would easily deliver the bird feed; 'I'm gonna have to buy food now,' Charlie thought sighing, 'what do they eat? Better question is: why did she give me, of all people, the bird?' As though in answer to his thoughts about purchasing bird feed, a sharp knock on the door jolted Charlie from his thoughts. 	Jumping up from his seat, he opened the door to find another delivery man holding a cardboard box. He signed for the package, and without another word shut the door with his free hand; quickly opening the box, he chuckled, 'You thought of everything, didn't you Grandma?' Inside the box was enough bird feed to last a month. Filling the scoop with food, Charlie looked warily at the bird as he muttered, “You'd better not bite me...” Slowly, inching the scoop towards the food bowl, his hand trembled nervously; Bertie kept a close eye on the scoop, dipping his head towards the food. Releasing the breath he'd been holding, he dumped the food into the food bowl, Bertie looked from the food to Charlie and back to the food before deciding it was okay to eat. Charlie watched the bird for a few moments, feeling overwhelmed he reread the letter from his grandmother; what she had said was true: his mother refused to tell him why he couldn't see grandma anymore. He felt a twinge of guilt twist in his gut, he could've gone to his grandma May when he was able to drive. 'I guess apart of me felt like she didn't love me anymore because she didn't answer any of my letters,' Charlie thought sorrowful, 'I was angry when she didn't and thought if I stopped sending letters, she'd come to the city to see me.' Time passed slowly as he sat on the couch, he didn't know what to do and for the first time in years, Charlie felt lost. He looked at the clock and groaned when he realized that his mother would be arriving any moment; Charlie rushed to put on fresh clothes just so he wouldn't have to hear his mother's criticism: “I didn't raise you to be a slob Charles!” this is what he heard often. He knew his mother was high strung, she had a need to keep everything as perfect as she possibly could. They'd only had one major fight and that was when he'd refused to go to law school; he wanted to be a writer and refused to allow himself to be persuaded to follow a different career path. His mother refused to talk to him for a few weeks, and as much as he hated to admit it...it was the least stressful time in his life that he could remember. Three short knocks rapped shortly, Charlie took a few deep breath as he walked to the door; he hand hesitated slightly on the door knob. 'Let's get this over with.' he thought unlocking the door and pulled it open to reveal his mother who was already frowning at him. “Hey mom.” greeted Charlie as she walked past him “Charles, what is that?” Charlie followed his mothers line of sight to Bertie who started to squawk and flap his wings for a few minutes before settling down again. Charlie made a beeline to the couch and scooped up the letters before his mother could get her hands on them. “Bertie arrived this morning from grandma May's lawyer along with bird feed and some very interesting letters.” stated Charlie watching his mom's reaction carefully, he watched her eyes focus on the letters as she spoke “What...does your grandmother have to say?” stuttered Lillian looking at the stack of letters in her son's hands. Charlie took his time answering, he curious about his mother's reaction to the letters; he noticed the longer he didn't answer the more agitated she looked. He had never seen his mother act like this before; Lillian was always cool and collected, ready for any situation that could arise. “She talked about how much she missed me when you suddenly refused to let me see her.” said Charlie his tone strained and tight, 	“I do have a question for you mom...the letters I wrote to her, you know the ones I gave you to mail to grandma...did you mail them?” Lillian sat down on the couch and simply gazed at Bertie who seemed to be glaring back at her with what appeared to hatred. 	Bertie began to squawk again, “Get out, get out” “No, I didn't mail your letter,” sighed Lillian casting her gaze to the navy blue carpet, “I was so angry with her and my reasons for that were selfish...I wanted to hurt her by taking the one thing she cared about the most...you.” His grip on the letters tightened as he slowly sank into the arm chair, this revelation hit him in the gut like a sack of bricks. 'I knew she wasn't the warmest person but to do something like this...' 	Charlie thought as tears filled up his eyes. “All these years, I thought the worst of her,” growled Charlie angrily, “I thought she didn't love me anymore because she didn't answer any of my letters to her...Grandma May is gone now and she probably left thinking I hated her! You didn't just hurt her mother, your hatred for her hurt me as well!” “Charlie, I'm so sorry,” whispered Lillian tearfully, “I didn't think about that at the time...” “Of course you didn't think about it,” snapped Charlie furiously, “why would you? You were jealous of our relationship...I can't count the number of times you practically ran out the door to work instead of spending time with me; I was raised by nannies. I want to know about the fight, you owe me that much at least!” Lillian sat back on the couch, stunned by her son's anger; not that she blamed him, she kept him away from his grandmother out of spite. Lillian didn't have the best relationship with her mother; her mind drifted back to that day as she closed her eyes and spoke softly: ' “I don't understand why you can't just give me his inheritance mother!” snapped Lillian angrily, “I'm going to make sure he get it when he turns twenty one...” “This isn't something that can be transferred over from a bank account Lillian,” sighed May briefly closing her eyes, “I'm not going to live forever, and so I want to be able to live long enough to give 	Charlie his inheritance myself.” Bertie flapped his wings rapidly, squawking loudly: 'Get out, get out” “Shut up Bertie!” screamed Lillian shaking her fist at the large parrot “Don't talk to Bertie like that!” snapped May tears filling her eyes, 	“Lillian, I am firm in my decision to not make you the trustee of my grandson's inheritance.” “Well then until you agree to make me the trustee of his inheritance,” snarled Lillian glaring at May, “I promise you that you will never see Charlie again!” ' Charlie placed his head in his hands, it felt as his heart was shattering all over again. 'My own mother kept me away from grandma May because she couldn't get her hands on my inheritance.' through teary eyes, Charlie picked up the next letter and opened it. His eyes widened slightly when he saw how short the letter was: “My dearest Charlie, In each letter there will be instructions, not only to care for Bertie but to also earn your inheritance. By now, I am sure you've spoken with your mother. I am also sure that you are angry with her; please don't let anger destroy your relationship with your mother. This task is simple...forgive your mother and move on; make your relationship strong again. P.S Bertie loves listening to Jazz, it will help him relax. Love always, Grandma May” Charlie looked at his mother, he saw the shock on her face from her mothers words. Tentatively, Lillian placed a hand on Charlie's arm and whispered, “I'm willing to try to work on our relationship, if you are.” “Jazz, jazz.” squawked Bertie suddenly, startling Charlie and Lillian Laughing softly, Charlie grabbed his cell phone and quickly found some jazz music for Bertie to listen to and sat back down beside his mother. As the music filled the room, he quietly replied, “I'm willing to try...” Over the next few weeks, Charlie and Lillian read Grandma May's letters together; Charlie began to look forward to his mother's visits. He noticed that the more effort they put into their relationship, the tension between them lessened. Charlie noticed that Bertie seemed to enjoy his company; he was able to feed the Grey African parrot by hand now instead of using the scoop. Charlie began to wonder if he could bring Bertie out of the cage for a couple of hours, 'Does he trust me enough?' An hour before his mother was to arrive, Charlie sat in front of Bertie and observed the bird for a few moments before slowly moving his hand towards the latch on the cage. “Alright Bertie, I'm going to open the latch and if you want, you can come out,” stated Charlie using soft tones like the instructions told him, “Grandma May even sent your perch, so that you can feel more at home here with me.” With the cage door open, Charlie sat back and eagerly watched in anticipation with how Bertie would react to the open door. Bertie bobbed his head up and down, peering through the open door, he watched Charlie for a few minutes. Ten minutes went by before Bertie moved to sit directly in front of the open door; soon he hopped down onto the coffee table and looked around the room as though he was seeing it for the first time. “Love you Charlie.” squawked Bertie hopping onto Charlie's knee A wide smile filled his face as he gently patted Bertie's head, “I love you too Bertie.” with those words, Bertie flew to the perch that stood by the window and began to preen. Lillian opened the door, calling out her arrival as she shut the door behind her; she placed a bag of hot breakfast food on the coffee table and looked at Bertie. 	She smiled at the sight of the preening bird, “He sure seems happy...and that's because of your hard work with him.” Charlie took a large bite of his breakfast burrito, wiped his fingers on a napkin and picked up the final letter from Grandma May. He took a deep breath, he didn't feel ready to read the last letter, it seemed to soon. His grandmother's letters helped fix his relationship with his mother, to start a relationship with Bertie...the letters even gave him a new idea for a book. “Dearest Charlie, When I found out your mother was pregnant with 	you, I was overjoyed with delight. I knew right away that I wanted to leave you something you'd appreciate, something that would last; by your fifth birthday I knew exactly what I wanted to give you. You are now twenty one years old and as much as I wanted to give it to you in person, I feel comforted knowing that you will love what I am giving you. I am leaving you my house, my land and everything that comes with it. You will find the keys to all the building in the little drawer on Bertie's cage on the opposite side of the scoop drawer. I love you so much Charlie, I will always be with you. Lillian, by this time, I expect you have been reading these letters with Charlie and I just want you to know that I love you so much. You're my daughter and no matter what happened between us, it is all forgiven and forgotten. Love always, Grandma May


Magic is everywhere around us. In the way we sing, we love and we hate… How we create, dream and achieve. It's in that first cup of coffee in the morning. It's the kids that our parents give us when we scratch our knees on the playground. Magic is everywhere around us. But mine? Mine was in the back pocket of my jeans, in a pink, heart shaped bottle, and as I later found out, it was never ending. At first, it was nothing more than a little trinket a fortune teller had given me. And, well, it was a strawberry lip gloss, and I was right, so… Innocent. Right? I wore it everywhere. It smelled amazing, it had a bit of glitter and didn't have that annoying stickiness that gets on your hair when it's windy. As I grew older, I started to recognize its many, many benefits - for example, it never seemed to end, and no matter what happened to it, I was always able to find it. So, quite naturally, I wore it to my grandmother's funeral. The woman had died of old age, so it was an open casket. I loved her with all my being, which is why I leaned forward for one last kiss, before they buried her. Now imagine the magnitude of my surprise when she rose up from her silk casket and looked around, extremely confused. Doctors chalked it up to a coma (we were all confused), but, hey, I've got my grandma back, what do I care? The thing is that… Same thing happened when my cat gave birth and couldn't feed one of the kittens, so I found it frozen to death. Now, you might be thinking, “Elizabeth, there is a worrisome tendency in your behavior leading you to kissing dead things”, and you would have been correct. Now, in my defense, it wasn't like I went looking for dead people or animals on purpose, they just… Kind of… Appeared around me? And it took some trial and error, and, well, I was convinced I was going insane, but around the 15th ye“coincidence”, I was fully aware that whenever I kiss someone with my strawberry lips gloss… They come back to life. A lovely trick if I have decided to chase a career as a doctor. Alas, I had questions in dire need of answers, so I drifted towards higher education which would allow me to get access to researches and expeditions that were otherwise unavailable to the public. Now, there is an unwritten rule (I have checked!) that what's dead should be left dead. It's something like an universal rule, like the fact that you need to bring a towel, and you shouldn't be eating the yellow snow. Unfortunately, I was powerful and sensitive, and I couldn't bear the sight of… well, death and the pain that it was causing. This, combined with the lack of direct repercussions led to… Well, me, kissing corpses. Not too ideal, as I was strongly relying on my moral compass to decide who lives or dies, but… Well… I was a girl with strawberry lip gloss, running around, making out with the dead. Do I sound like someone with clear judgment? Anyway, it wasn't long before I actually heard from the other world. Actually, Death himself visited me, in my own room, non the less. Just as I was coming back from an expedition, having to spend the last few days digging through… Dust, mostly, to be honest. I had this very simple plan to take a shower, order Chinese food (with extra grease) and just sleep for the next few days. What I received instead was an extremely angry, surprisingly young looking man (not a man technically, as he loved to point out), who was giving it out to me. Now, a normal human reaction when you find an all-knowing, all-seeing, all-whatevering being in your room, accusing you (rightfully so) of throwing off the balance of the Universe and Life itself would be fear. What your man received, however, was… Me. Preparing to get into a screaming match. And succeeding. And I was really angry. I was mind numbingly, throwing things, screaming at the top of my lungs angry. I mean, who was he to decide who gets to live or die? (Apart from, the obvious, Death himself.) Anyway, we got into an incredibly heated argument. He was stating that I am just a simple human (I think he meant it in the sense of “dumb”) and I couldn't just mess around with the essence of life. Now, I will admit, bringing back to life a man who has died in a school shooting, only to find out that he was the one doing the shooting is, indeed, not one of my proudest moments, but I also get good ideas. For example, when the White Rhinos started to go extinct, I personally ensured their survival. (And got a rabies shot in a timely manner). Anyway, my point is that I was just a human and as such, I will sometimes make mistakes. Which was his point too. Naturally, I shared my highly educated point of view, in an extremely calm manner, that, as most men (not a man, technically), he was an emotionally unavailable prick, who excuses his lack of empathy and development under the pretense of rationalization. The fact that this was a job requirement in his case was absolutely besides the point. Anyway, We did not reach an agreement, because, well, who could reach an agreement with such a snobby, self-involved know-it-all? Sure, his hair looked nice and he had gorgeous blue eyes that pierced through my soul (literally), but like… Even this wasn't in his benefit, because it wasn't his actual shape, he just used it on Earth (as my small and tiny human brain could not comprehend his Majesty's actual form. Prick.) Moving forward. I really thought that there is nothing greater than Death (apart from my strawberry lip gloss), but I was wrong. Apparently, I was not the first human that played around with Life and there is a whole committee dedicated to dealing with “the likes of me”. (Direct quote from your man there. Snob.) The prick wouldn't even let me wash my hair before he transported me… God knows where, in my old jeans, with a nest on my head and boots that had three layers of mud. Not only that I was a human, but I was a dirty, unpresentable one. Was I scared? This time, actually yes. Did that stop me from defending myself? Absolutely not. And apparently I did defend myself a bit too well, because… I actually won? Not won-won, the Universe didn't just randomly decide that it's existence it's wrong and I,  Elizabeth Archibald, possess the eternal wisdom needed to change its ways… But I had some kind of a point. To the extent in which they admitted that Thomas (this is what I started calling Death, as it did annoy him greatly) was a bit too strict with his rules. So they paired us together. Basically, someone would die, wow would go on site and we would decide together whether he was going to do his thing or I was going to do mine. In the beginning, we would mostly argue, which became annoying quickly, especially when the soul decided to get in the argument too, but overtime… We started to understand each other. He helped me see that sometimes saving a soul would cause more damage than any actual saving, and, well… I helped him understand the opposite. Something else changed as well. In the beginning, we would just meet for business, but as the time passed… Okay, if someone dies in Japan, do you really expect me to *not* stay and explore the sights for a few days? I mean, I'm already there anyways, what's the harm? Yes, this did cause further arguments in the beginning, but sooner rather than later, he grew curious, and eventually find, of the humans. So fond that he decided to become one himself. Mostly because, and those are his words, not mine, I am such an irritating human being, I made him wish to die. Next to me, if possible. After we've spent whatever time we can on Earth together. So… To the committee we went. I had the crazy idea that if I just kissed him, he would become alive, but he had the crazy idea that this would piss off everybody, so maybe we should ask first. I was a firm believer that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, but we were in a relationship, those required compromise, so… Sure, let's ask first. I had this back up plan that when they deny, I can make out with my husband-to-be and have a tiny win before we get evaporated, or whatever it was that the Committee was doing with the likes of us. So I was highly disappointed when they said yes. I mean, I still got to make out with him, which was cool, but the rebel undertone was gone. There were a few things that we had to take care of, for example, we needed to find a new Death, and this is a whole other story, and I had to give up my strawberry lipgloss, which is why we had to buy you a new bunny and couldn't save the old one, but… Yes, this is pretty much how I met your father.


      “......an’ I had to tell him that he wassa beening too uptight, eh?” Jonathan smirked. “Yes, that does sound like him. Really, Alden is really uptight. Oh, that reminds me, I planned a trip to your town. I hope you don’t mind me visiting you and Agatha, old friend?”

There was a pause. Then the man named Johnathan spoke.

“Yeb, er, I ain’t minding ya! Me and my wife willa seeya ther!” Beep.

The unnamed man sat up and rubbed his eyes. He looked around his cozy, but cluttered mess of a room. Guess I will be packing . The man reached down and picked up some papers off the floor. He then walked out of the room to pack. *** As his own private jet arrived, the man quickly noticed one thing. He had just landed in the middle of… Nowhere? Soon, though, the man had regained his bearings, and walked to the town one mile away. As he neared his destination, he realized what he had waltzed into. A neat little town. But there was an odd atmosphere lingering around this town. It was a little too neat, a little too quiet. It was so quiet that you could hear water evaporating, your heart beating, your watch tick tock-ing . Suddenly, a burst of life exploded in the too neat, too quiet town, transforming it into a bustling village. He smiled at the people, but then it hit him. Literally. As he was rubbing the sore spot on his neck, where the shoe had hit him, he thought, these people are angry at me. But why? His rescuer soon arrived on the scene, in the shape of….

“Nathan! Yer back so soon?” He frowned.

He had known Jonathan for eighteen years now, so how did he forget his best friend's name? However, when he saw the look of total fear on Jonathan’s face, his angriness was replaced with nervousness, and he gulped. Right on the spot, he decided to play along and pretend to be this so-called “Nathan.”

“Yep, uh, I’m back! Hahaha, I’m back!”

All the brooms and dusters went down as the mob dispersed. There were only two people left. A grayed hair woman walked over to “Nathan”, looked at him, and walked away hurriedly, murmuring things to herself.

The latter turned around to face “Nathan” and he could not help but blurt out “Agatha!” He regretted this immediately, as she advanced on him.

“HI NATHAN! I can’t believe you are back so soon!” Agatha gave him a Don’t-you-dare say-anything-or-I-will-knock-your-head-off look. “You WILL join us for supper, right? RIGHT?! I’ll see you in my house!” She walked away to her house and pulled the dumbstruck Jonathan in.

Good acting, drama queen. “ Nathan” thought. He then joined them for supper.

*** “This town does not like visitors?”

“Ai, yeb mate. I sent a message to your phone b’ you ain’t looking at it, ai?” “You are right. I should have looked,” he changed the subject. “Your house is impeccable!”

He was right. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung across the glittering ceiling, as the floor danced with light in a dual tango. The walls hung photos of Jonathan and his family, all smiling. The stairs intertwined paths and created a beautiful rainbow walkway. The house seemed to be held up by some sort of magic, as it was remarkably high. The kitchen was pleasantly kept and cleaned, not like the town. Everything was in order, and well-made foods sat on the table, waiting to be eaten. The living room was a whole other world. Chairs, couches, seats, armchairs, cantilever chairs, wing chairs, deck chairs, and desk chairs were all chatting as the fireplace crackled nicely. A sweet aroma filled the room as flowers of all kinds spread their petals. Carnations. Irises. Lavender. Roses. Tulips. Sunflowers. Gardenias. Orchids. Those were just a few of the lovely flowers in the choir of sweetness. The large, billowing curtains swayed to and fro, creating a lighting show. “Ai, mate. It ain’t half bad, once yer get over da brightness, ai? Any who,” continued Jonathan in an airy tone, “I no’ tha you ain’t from ‘ere, so do’n be looking fer trouble, hear?”

“I--Of course I won’t, but why do you guys not like outsiders?” Jonathan was opening his mouth, but then a riot broke out in the streets. They both hurried to the door to see what was happening.

“Brooke, there is someone in Johnathan’s house that is not Nathan!!!”

“Nathan” gulped and looked at Jonathan. His face said it all. He was utterly terrified.

“Should we run, mate?” Johnathan whispered.

Just as he was about to reply, he heard Brooke exploding, “WHAT!? Where is he…, thank you two for reporting this, but I suggest you do not get involved here, alright? The mayor is hearing about this...”

As the duo attempted to nod, Brooke spotted Jonathan and “Nathan” on the doorway. She marched up to them and started to pull “Nathan’s” hand. Jonathan tried to stop her, trying to block her way, distracting her, but Brooke was unfazed by his pleas. Her grip was tight, her mind was made up. A single strand of her gray hair fell on “Nathan’s” arm. He brushed it away subconsciously.

In the Mayor’s office, it was just as neat as the town, everything placed in order, everything where it was supposed to be. But “Nathan” could not help to notice a clear inch of dust on the organized items, as if they have not been moved for the past few years. As “Nathan” began to look closer, he noticed a small frame of two little girls holding hands at the beach, with their mother watching over them. The setting was picturesque, and the girls glowed with pride near a sandcastle that almost rivaled their height. Just then, the mayor stepped into the doorway.

“So you decided to visit me, stranger? Figures. It took you long enough. But why are you here, an’ what are you doing in my town?” he said.

“But I shon’ be gettin ahead of myself, right? My name is Alden, an I’m the Mayor of our town.”

 “Uh, hi, I did not know this town had a mayor. So----” “All towns ave a mayor, right?I don’t see what the fuss is about, so why don't ya tell me summat of yourself, hm?” “But, Alden…...” Brooke butted in, but Alden held up a hand.          “Nothing you ave to worry over, Brooke! Why don you go home, you’ve done yourself a great job, me beautiful wife!” Brooke gave Alden a swift, searching glance, narrowed her eyes, and left his house. Thus, they began the conversation, which slowly stretched into a long,long, long story. They were talking like old pals, and “Nathan” was ready to ask the big question, the only reason he was still here. But then he remembered something.          “Hey, in that photo, there was a girl I recognized. Don't you think--” Before he could work out what was happening, Alden was on his feet and shouting at him. “I KNEW IT! YOU ARE ONE OF THEM!!! YOU JUST WANT MY FAMILY! LEAVE MY FAMILY ALONE!!” “This is a misunderstanding, I don’t want- “ENOUGH OF YOUR LIES! I’VE HAD IT WITH YOU-YOU PEOPLE!” This was enough to get “Nathan” to start hollering, too. “YOU NEED TO LISTEN! I DO NOT WANT YOUR FAMILY! I ONLY CAME HERE TO VISIT MY FRIEND! I HAVE NOT SEEN HIM FOR TWO YEARS!” “I DON’T CARE! I CAN’T LET THAT HAPPEN AGAIN! WHY DO YOU THINK I DON’T ALLOW PEOPLE IN MY TOWN?! I- Alden suddenly knelt down and started to sob. Calming down, “Nathan” sat down, too, patting Alden on the back, and asked for the whole story. In a shaky voice, Alden started, “W-when this town was younger, we used to be very happy an welcoming. But then those rich p-people came.” Alden said the sentence with such scorn that it burned a hole though the words. “They were alright at first, helping us out, cleaning stuff. But they left unexpectedly w-with-” Alden paused and took several deep breaths, then went on. “T-they took my o-oldest daughter. W-we never found h-her. Tha pic wassa before they captured my beautiful girl. Since them, we h-have been closed to the public, as to protect my last daughter.” “Nathan” stared soberly at Alden. Then he stood up, making up his mind in the spur of the moment.

“Keeping it in your heart for all these years must have been eating you from the inside.” “Nathan” paused and looked thoughtful. Then he spoke. “I must also reveal the truth. I am a detective, working to stop kidnappers. I came to this town because, well, I had some cases of missing girls. I just found out that one of the missing girls had disappeared from this town.” “Nathan” looked at the mayor, who had tears brimming in his eyes, “Help me to find more, please, I know it’s hard to talk about this never-healing wound. I promise I will work with my team to find kidnappers, and, if possible, your daughter. The only thing I ask for is for you and your town to be more welcoming to this world. And, let me make things straight.” Pause, “The other reason is that I just want to visit my friend.” Alden looked at “Nathan”, shocked. Then he also stood up and said “I’ll-I’ll give it a shot. Thank you… for this information.” *** Six months later… …

“Thank you for- for just everything you have done to help this town. You have brought back joy and life to our town and helped us reform into our old selves. You have also taught me and my wife, to not stay in the past, but accept the present. You are right ,my daughter will love it when she comes back. ” “That is what I do, Alden. I will see you next time, then. Mrs. Lewandowski’s gray hair looks like an angel's harp under the sun.” He added.” Pause. “Ok, mate! And er, never got yer name. What is it?” “Reid.” “Reid.” “Reid Falcon.” Then Reid Falcon walked away, leaving Alden to bask in the peaking rays of sunrise. He looked at this town, and saw Agatha, Jonathan, Brooke, and many others waving good-bye to Reid.

                                                              *** “You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.” ― Mahatma Gandhi