It was just approaching night in the proper sense of the word when he heard the noise. A thump, like a bass hiccup from the back. This had happened a lot lately, the straps that held down the cargo were at least a decade old and the buckles kept coming loose. Spotting a lay by, he swerved left and came to a halt on the crunching tarmac. He opened the door and climbed out, fishing a packet of cigarettes off of the windscreen as he did so. The twilight air was cold, he would say crisp but the all pervading stench of petrol and exhaust prevented him from describing it so. He stood there, lighting the cigarette, cupping his hand about the flame, the ridges of his palms lighting up in dancing shadows. When it lit, he put the lighter back in his pocket and went around to the back of the lorry, unclipped the doors at the base and top, heaved off the latch and swung them open. Yep, the crates had slid all to the left of the trailer and were pressing up against the canvas, he thought they had probably shifted at the A17-M74 junction past Larkhall, the turn was sharp and spiralled downwards. It had happened before. He climbed up and in, flicking on the thin overhead lights. The packaging on one of the crates had caught on the one of the metal bars that ran up the walls.

This too, had happened before, but not to this extent, at least half of the plastic wrapping had peeled away and the cargo was spilt across the floor. He stepped closer, took out his torch and directed the beam at the floor. Money. Banknotes, stacked in cubes that must have weighed at least a kilogram each. He knelt down, flicked through the notes, all of them 200 euro bills, the circle of stars bright in the torchlight. He put down the packet, carefully, and shined the torch around the trailer, eight separate crates, he went over to the next nearest and crouched down, took out his keys and slit open the wrapping. More bills. He ran his fingernail down the side of the stack, listening to the sound, watching the embossed 200s whip past like the pages of a flip book. At a guess, he thought there must be about 10,000 notes a crate. So about 80,000 notes. 200 times 80,000. 16,000,000 euros in total.

His head filled with a murky swarm of ideas like fireflies, shining with possibility, dancing, taunting. He sat down slowly, the keys sitting in his lap, clingfilm still hanging from his door key.

- I have a house, I have a house and I have a wife and I have a job. I'm being stupid. I should call the police. No one hires an unsuspecting lorry driver to ship 16 million euros across the entirety of the UK.

No one on the right side of the law anyway. - He got out his mobile, keyed in the three nines, all the while knowing that he wouldn't hit call. He sat there, finger hovering over the keypad. Then he flipped it shut, rose to his feet and put it back into his pocket.

- I could fit one, maybe two million into the duffel bag I have on the back seat. But where would I take it? I could drive to Edinburgh, dump the rest there, in a warehouse or a lorry park, get a cab to Rosyth, where that big ferry port is, get on a boat to Belgium with the money in the hold. I'm headed south now though, I'll need to change back up north and rejoin the A71. - He picked his way around the spilt bills, booted feet tramping on the metal floor. Then he clambered down from the trailer and latched and locked the doors. He took one last draw on his cigarette then dropped it onto the tarmac, where it hissed in the wet. The cab had coldened in the time he'd been gone and he had to wack the heating up nearly to maximum in order to produce any sort of noticeable difference between the interior and exterior temperatures. He rubbed the sleeves of his coat against his arms, shivering and reached for the map. He fished it out from underneath the newspaper on the passenger seat and flicked on the overhead lights. Picking up the remnants of a McDonald's, he swept it onto the passenger seat and spread the map out over the dashboard. There, change onto the B7078 just south of Blackwood, come round, follow it north onto Carlisle road and rejoin the A71 at the junction. So where was the duffel bag? He swung himself between the two front seats and checked in the backseat footwells. There it was, stuffed down, nearly under the driver's seat. He opened it, intending to pull the contents out and dump it in a foot well or in the locker at the back.

But it was his son's. He was never sure why he'd kept his football kit, they hadn't kept his room, or his bed, or the posters on the walls. He could remember tearing it all out, putting it in bin bags in the car boot, this was before they'd had to sell the car, and giving it to a charity shop. An Oxfam. He hadn't wanted to, lord knows he hadn't wanted to, but the room was empty and empty rooms happened to be in high demand. They'd found a lodger.

But Edith. After he died Edith had never been the same, she'd have moments where she'd stop whatever she was doing and stare, straight ahead, eyes unfocused as though she were staring into the distance. And she'd wake, in the night, screaming and crying for him to come back to her. When this happened he would always go downstairs to get a cup of tea for her, and by the time he'd come back she would already be asleep.

If he were to leave, what would happen to Edith. Any doctor they'd seen had said she was variously in shock, denial, grief. If he left, it would, undoubtedly, get worse.

Could he, take her with him? But of course she was staying with her sister, in Welwyn Garden City. His tickets for the ferry to San Malo were for 6:00 am, and it was, what, 10ish now. It was 7 hours to Portsmouth on the best of days and this wasn't the best of days. He knew they would check to see if he got on the ferry, particularly with this much money. And if he didn't, they'd come looking, and when they did, he'd much rather be on a ferry to Belgium than just leaving Buckinghamshire.

No. He'd make this decision later. After he'd filled up the duffel bag. Got out, walked round to the back, unlock, unlatch, open. He almost seemed to be working automatically, not thinking too much about what he was doing. He filled the bag with notes from the crate that had split, counting them as he went, 5000, 10,000, 20, 25, 35, 40, 50. He got to 2 million eventually and zipped up the bag, slinging it over his left shoulder, his son's football kit under the other arm. Close, latch, lock. He drew the bolts home with metallic clinks. And went back round to the cab, staggering under the weight of two million euros. He put it down in the passenger seat footwell, where it didn't quite fit, hanging half over the seat itself. He slammed shut the door and began to drive again.  What would he do, with the money, buy himself a house? A car? A new TV? A motorbike? What the hell would he do with two million euros. They used to play games like that sometimes, on long car journeys, they'd play eyespy and famous people and the game where you had to remember the previous items. It made him go to sleep. And then he would sleep and sleep and sleep. Sometimes when they arrived they'd just leave him in the car for a while, to sleep. They didn't drive at all after the accident. Which had a lot to do with why they sold the car. He liked to think another family had bought it, that they'd laughed and talked and eaten too many jelliebabies in it. But it probably just went to scrap.

The junction was just a few minutes away, he could practically see it, the slip road off, back to Edinburgh, to Belgium, to god knows where. And the other road, the southern road, long, straight, back to Edith, back to the days when they wouldn't talk to each other, the days when she seemed like someone he hardly knew. He'd take the B7078, go back to Edinburgh, get on the- No. He wouldn't. The sliproad came and went, disappearing into the distance behind him. He was going to back to his wife. Back to the bad days and the worse nights. Back to the coldness of their home, where they'd sidestep around each other. But he was going back to her. Because he loved her.


The Magi Weekly Classifieds.

Ad #1610 Single Wizard, 42. Enjoys good books, star charts and deep conversations. Seeking a star-crossed sorceress with a passion for discovery. If you value serious research during the day and playful observation at night, please write back. “Playful observation,” Albert Limerno read aloud from his ad. “What a buffoon. ” Albert tossed the issue of the Magi Weekly atop a heap of star maps on his desk. It took him a week to make those charts - plotting two new celestial bodies and calculating their apparent diameters, yet he spent a month agonizing over that silly ad. Time he could have spent on more serious matters. He plucked his quill and wrote a letter he’d been putting off for over a year. To the honorable members of the Order of the Heavenly Magi, Proven by the theory of perfect fixed motion, all celestial bodies move relative to each other in precise harmony. However, I have discovered an aberration. A dim body near the King’s Head star has an erratic motion that I cannot reconcile. Please refer to the included star map. Your humble servant of the skies, Albert Limerno

The dim star was a frustrating deviation in an otherwise perfect sky, but he could not deny its existence. The past year he’d built and rebuilt his astrolabe - spending a great deal on bronze plates and ecliptic rings. He bought three different telescopes and built two of his own, all to make the star conform to the theory of perfect fixed motion. The star refused to meet his expectations. But even with the heavens on his mind, Albert's thoughts turned to his silly little ad. *** For nearly a month, Albert rose early, only to watch the postman speed past his house - save for three deliveries of The Magi Weekly.

“Morning Bert.” The postman slapped issue #754 in his hands. Atop it were two letters. One sent from Martin Hornsby, Head of the Order of the Heavenly Magi, and the other addressed to the star-crossed Wizard . Albert rushed to his desk to retrieve his letter knife. He opened the second letter first. “Paintings?” was all it said. “Paintings?” Albert scoffed at the ads that had paintings. He saw one where a wizard clutched a gold staff and wore embroidered silk robes, as though that was his common attire. Another sorceress depicted herself atop Dragonridge summit, alluding that the peak experience defined her personality. A painting could be doctored to show any superficial display of status or attributes. It was beneath him. Albert threw the letter in disgust.

He opened the other from Martin. Dear Albert, brother in seeking.

The theory of perfect fixed motion has accurately predicted movements in the celestial sphere for centuries. During that time, we've had countless reports of ‘aberrations’ that have all been proven wrong. Most are as simple as not having a clean eyepiece. In your case, however, I suspect a failure in your imagination. We’ve confirmed that your reported body is simply not there. This is common for overtaxed minds. I advise a break from star charting. Enjoy some time off with your loved-ones. Your humble servant of the skies, Martin Hornsby “Clean eyepiece? Failure of imagination?” Albert crumpled the letter and tossed it in his stove pit. “He thinks I am some lunatic neophyte without a clue. No! I’ll prove it.”

Albert dragged his astrolabe, hung from a stout pedestal at the foot of his desk, to his window. With two turns of the latitude plate, he found his star’s coordinates. He swung his telescope and looked through the immaculately clean eyepiece.

The dim star was not there. No. How could this be? Albert spent all night cleaning his lenses and recalibrating his disks, but it did not make his star reappear. *** “Can you paint me?” Albert said, at the doorstep of his sister’s house. “You look awful, have you slept?” Gemma said. Albert came inside and slumped down on Gemma’s sofa. “Don’t tell me you come seeking a last portrait. Are you sick?” “No.” Albert sighed. “Well yes, but not of the body.”

“What is this about?” “I need a painting for my ad.” “What are you selling?” “Myself.” “A classified?” “Yes.” “It’s about time!” “Can you paint me or not?” “Of course!” Gemma fetched a canvas and a case of paints from her armoire. She sat opposite him and set the canvas on her lap. “Suspenders and an ink-stained shirt? I still have some of Roger’s formal wear here, I'll fetch you—” “My clothes are fine,” Albert said. “And why would you ever paint the stains?” “Don’t be surly, I’m doing you a favor. Relax, I’ll make you look good." Gemma pointed her brush to the top of Albert’s head. "I’ll even add a bit of foliage to the barren hill up there.” “Ugh, the world has become as shallow as a spring puddle.” “First impressions matter, Bertie.” Gemma smiled and set her brush to the canvas. “My teacher said that no one will swim the depths of the heart, if the surface does not first capture their eye.” “Painters should stick to paintings, not proverbs.” Gemma dabbed her brush in a canister of blank paint. “Would you meet with a bald woman?” “What?” “If you saw an ad with a bald woman, would you meet with her?” “I’d guess she’s sickly or insane.” Gemma gave a mischievous grin. “That’s your first impression?” Albert slunk further into the sofa. How can a painter best a wizard so many times? “Sit up, and stop slumping,” Gemma said. “Look like you have some dignity.” Albert sat up, and for the rest of the painting, he followed her direction. Albert left Gemma’s with a splendid portrait. She captured his best features - his high cheekbones, and sharp jaw - and lessened his worst, by adding a little foliage and removing a little girth. After admiring the image for too long, he sent it away to The Magi Weekly. *** Within a week, Albert had a new letter. Dear star-crossed Wizard, My best work is done by moonlight, and if we connect, I’m certain I can help with your playful observations. Shall we meet? Say at the promenade on the solstice? I’ll be wearing a blue dress. Sara. Albert grinned. The solstice? That is tonight!

He rushed out his door to Gemma’s house. “You’re smiling?“ Gemma said. “So you’ve finally gone mad.”

“Can I borrow Roger’s formal wear?” Gemma clapped. “You have a date! Yes, come.” She ran upstairs and fetched a white silk shirt - frilled at the neck - and striped trousers.

When Albert finished changing, Gemma brought him a short-waisted maroon doublet with gold trim at the sleeves. “He wore that on our first date,” she said. Her eyes grew teary. Albert gave Gemma a hug. “Thank you. For everything,” he said. And he dashed out of Gemma’s house on route the promenade. *** Sara stood at the head of the cobblestone path that followed Maggie Lake. Albert nearly turned around upon sighting her. Sweat pooled on his forehead and he could barely breathe. She was stunning. Her long curly black hair draped past her shoulders - streaked with a subtle gray that added a distinguished touch to her cherubic looks. She stood at least five inches taller than him, and her blue dress exposed only slivers of her long legs. “Sara?” he finally said, after calming his nerves. “Oh! I’d hoped it was you.” Sara thumbed to a man squatting on a dock nearby. “And not him,” she said, under her breath. The stout man held a rod in one hand and a bottle in the other. He flashed his yellow teeth and gave the two a nod. Sara held her arm out. “It’s nice to have the company of such a handsome man.” “I…ah, you…ahem..look radiant.” That was the best Albert could muster. But he took her arm, and they walked down the promenade. It wasn’t long before Albert settled and the two were laughing and chattering on. “You know!” Albert said. “That angler had the upper hand on me.” Sara laughed. “Is that so?” “Yes, he had a bottle! Such forward thinking by my rival. But I won’t tolerate any more embarrassment” He swept his hand toward the wine house a little way ahead. "Would you join me for a drink?" “Are you trying to make me giddy?” “Yes.” Sara squeezed Albert’s arm. “Well in that case, I’d love to join you.” The pair sat at a table overlooking the Maggie Lake gardens and shared bread and wine and stories. “So what do you do for the Order?” Albert said, pouring their second glass. Sara fiddled with her napkin. “I don’t work for them.” “Ah, and independent. I’d admire that. What’s your field of research?” Sara nudged her head towards the sprawling two-acre garden behind the wine house. “Plants,” she said.

“You’re a cataloguer?” Albert said, somewhat taken aback by the low station for such elegance before him. Sara’s eyes remained on the napkin. “I make salves and potions for my clients.” “Hah! Like a witch, good one!” “That’s not a term I use.” “You’re a witch?” The wine and bread threatened to come up.

Sara’s eyes narrowed. “I’m someone who doesn’t agree with everything that pompous Order has to say. They don’t like being proven wrong, and for that they slander us.” “They’ve been proven correct, time and time again, for centuries. And excuse me, but witches are prideful neophytes who don’t take their research seriously.” “All of them?” Sara said. Albert caught his reflection in the glass. He looked sharp in Roger’s maroon doublet. “In truth, I know nothing of witches. And you’re right, the order is expertly pompous. Would you accept my apology?” Sara smiled. “If you can accept being seen with a witch.” Albert lifted his glass. “To the under-realms with the Order of the Heavenly Magi.” Sara clinked her glass against his. “And to all the magic that life has to offer.” They finished their wine in silence. Albert looked out to the night sky. The moon was waxing gibbous, and the stars shone brightly. “Come,” he said. He left a bill on the table and stood. “I’ll show you what I do.” Sara took his arm, and they walked to the lakefront, where Albert withdrew his pocket astrolabe. “What is it?” Sara said. “Many things. A clock, a calendar, a compass, but for me, it’s most important use is a map.” He held the brass instrument to the moon and spun the outer disk. “You see that bright blue star?” Albert pointed to the sky and Sara followed the line of his finger.

“I do!”

“It’s the Gleaming-Soul star. Look for it if you’re ever lost, it will guide you north.” “It’s wonderful when you really take it all in.” Sara came close. “Do you have a favorite?” “There’s one that I’ve looked at a thousand times more than any.” He gave three turns to the disk. “There. A faint red dot called the King’s Head. Do you see it?” Sara squinted and thrust her neck forward. “I only see white and blue.” Albert dug in his pocket and fetched a loupe he crafted for such moments of spontaneous observation. “Here, look through this.” Sara held it to her eye. “Oh, I see it. And look, the King’s Head has a little ear.” “A what?” “A white point right beside it.” “May I?” Albert grabbed the loupe and looked through. It was his dim star. “You see it too?” “Yes.” Albert clutched her hands and found her eyes. “You really see it!”

“I do.” Albert’s joy turned to elation as Sara leaned in and gave him a kiss. *** The enamored couple spent every day together for over a month. The nights were dreadful apart, so Albert asked Sara to move in. “Are we rushing things?” Sara said. “I don’t care. I’ve been a cautious man my entire life,” Albert said. “And I only feel alive now.” “All my things, my cauldron, my herbs, you’ll be sick of my clutter. ” “Look.” He patted his desk. “You can set everything here.”

“If I leave, my mother will be alone.” “Ah, it’s a bit too high.” Albert said, mimicking a stir of a cauldron over his stove pit. He took his astrolabe off the pedestal and pulled the column the masoned pit. “Come,” he said, holding out an open palm. Sara went to him. “Are you sure?” Albert helped her onto the pedestal and held her close. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said. *** “Can you please not boil the aniseed while I am …aaa… achoo...working.” Albert said. He was at his planisphere, redoing calculations for the hundredth time, in pursuit of a new theory of perfect fixed motion. Sara stirred her cauldron, red-faced and gleaming with sweat. “My client’s daughter has a terrible rash and needs this yesterday. Can’t you work outside?” “Aaa…achooo!” In the force of the sneeze, Albert snapped the tip of his quill. “All I’ve done for you, and you can’t fulfill this simple wish?” Albert stood and crumpled his page. “I could figure this out, if there wasn’t such foul humors in here.” Sara dropped her stir stick. “What exactly have you done for me?” Albert chucked the paper into the fire. “How about giving you a roof, free of charge.” “I never asked for that.” Sara said. “Great heavens I wish you’d give those silly potions a rest. We don’t need the money. And do you know what it’s like to hear the other wizards chatter about me being with a witch?” Sara dug into the drawers of the desk and pulled out handfuls of aniseed and mandrake. “You needn’t worry about my foul humors anymore.” She clutched her ingredients to her chest and ran out the door. *** “Is Sara here?” Albert said, at the doorstep of her mother’s house.

The old lady stood with two hands shaking on a hazel cane. “Yes.” “May I speak with her?” Sara’s mother shut the door. I’ve ruined the only good thing in my life. What’s the point of this misery… “Albert,” came Sara’s voice from the window. His heart skipped. “Sara I’m —” “I need my things from your house. I’ll be there in the morning.” “Please, let me explain. It was my work, I was frustrated and–” Sara closed her shutters. Albert retreated to his house and collapsed on a chair near his desk. He could not eat, he could not sleep, he could not work. Sara’s grimoire lay before him and he opened it. The dust from the book carried the scent of aniseed and he sneezed. And then he cried. Albert composed himself. The open page of the grimoire caught his eye. Sister Abathy’s Love Potion One Mandrake root Three areca nuts Two leaves of henbane This recipe was handed down by my great grandmother. She was born in… Albert flipped past three pages of Sister Abathy’s family history and paintings of each of the ingredients.

Mix with your beloved's favorite drink, and they will be by your side forever. Please note that for guaranteed results, the potion should be made under the light of the full moon. Albert rummaged through the drawers. There’s a full moon tonight. I can do this. I can have her back. He found all the ingredients, save for an empty jar labeled henbane. He was not deterred.

There will be some in the garden. There must be some.

He grabbed his cloak and ran to the garden. *** Albert turned every leaf in search of the brown petaled henbane flower. For most of the night, he avoided a dense thicket of thorny roses in the middle of the garden. Exhausting all other options, he finally dashed into it. The thorns tore through his shirt and trousers and soon it was pitch black.

Something hissed. Albert jumped back into a bush, taking thorns to his rump. Two tiny pinpoints of light rushed toward him. “Get back!” he cried.

The hissing grew louder, and the figure took shape. The raccoon hissed once more and fled. Albert collapsed in the dirt. The stinging scratches on his body were nothing compared to the misery in his heart. The moon shone through the brambles above his head and only a few hours of its light remained. Even if he found the henbane, there wouldn’t be enough time. “To the under-realms with you,” he said. “Waxing and waning in some cosmic joke of lunar peekaboo.” Albert gasped. A moon! And then he laughed the greatest laugh of his life. “The King’s Ear is a moon!” Albert stood, plucked a handful of roses, and rushed back to his house. *** Albert sat on his porch the rest of the night, waiting for Sara to come. “What happened to you?” Sara said as she approached. “Something magical.” “I’m glad to see you so happy without me.” “Oh no, I’m dreadfully miserable. But now I see why.” Sara walked past him. “Wait. Look, I was frustrated with you, because you didn’t fit my idea of perfection.” “Yes, it’s a great shame to be seen with me–” “No. I was idiotic. Things don't need to conform to what I think, and they can still be perfect in their own way.” Albert held up the roses. “I’m not making sense…and I’m not asking you to come back. All I ask is that you accept an apology from this buffoon of a man.” Sara took the roses and gave them a sniff. “I never asked to live with you or take any of your space.” “I know.” Sara was silent for a long while. She stepped off the porch and looked up to the sky where the rising sun’s orange and red hues overtook the silver moon. She held out her arm, and the pair went for a walk.


MACUMBA – VOODO  Etcetera

PREFACE

The term “Macumba” is also used to describe various popular Afro-Brazilian rituals that aim at healing and worldly benefits. The religion involves syncretistic elements and is practiced mainly by Black Brazilians in urban areas.

I lived and worked in Brazil; from 1956-1958 and again in 1980-1983.

My first exposure to Macumba was very limited; lasting a little more than an hour in 1956, viewing groups—ranging from twenty to a hundred or more—chanting/praying on the beach; calling for the spirits to rise from the dead .

Circa twenty-years later, in 1980 I was hired by ITU – International Telecommunications Union – Geneva, Switzerland—to go to Brazil with the goal of Helping the Brazilian Government to consolidate nearly 500 different telephone corporations into ONE.

The problem had been going on since the first telephone companies were incorporated in Brazil in 1879.

My task was to train a counterpart in the skills of:

1. IDENTIFYING THE OVERALL OBJECTIVE : (Previously cited in Bold type)

International Committee of the Red Cross

United Nations Office at Geneva

World Intellectual Property Organization

World Health Organization

World Meteorological Organization

World Trade Organization

International Labour Organization

International Telecommunication Union

International Organization for Migration

International Organization for Standardization

International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies

International Electrotechnical Commission

International Bureau of Education

Initially, I operated alone, traveling to many of the principal corporations, one being located in Bahia. (Originally the: Captaincy of Bahia de Todos os Santos. ..i.e.  Salvador. Named for

The Bay of All Saints  ( Baía de Todos os Santos  in modern Portuguese).  A major feature of its coastline. The bay itself was named by the explorer Amerigo Vespucci.

For nearly two hundred years, Central and Western Africans were captured; placed on the largest ships available and hauled off—like cattle. (Worse than cattle; cattle would have been fed and given water, not so with the African slaves.)

The largest number—close to 800,000—were sent to Bahia—on the Eastern most, to be sold to owners of large plantations—some as far away as Haiti and other small islands to the East Cuba.

And finally: What I learned while in Bahia for nearly one month.

Candomblé is an African diasporic religion that developed in Brazil during the 19th century. It involves the veneration of spirits known as orixás, which are equated with Roman Catholic saints . Each individual is believed to have a tutelary orixá who has been connected to them since before birth and who informs their personality. A central ritual involves practitioners drumming, singing, and dancing to encourage an orixá to possess one of their members. They believe that through this possessed individual, they can communicate directly with a deity. Offerings to the orixás include fruit and sacrificed animals.

Offerings are also given to a range of other spirits, including boiadero, preto velho, caboclos, and the spirits of the dead, the egun .

While some Candomblé groups prohibit possession by the dead— considering it to be spiritually polluting— for the limited time I was in Bahia and what I learned from my friend—Clarence—who lived and worked in Bahia— there were ceremonies on the beaches where prayers and incantations were offered regularly.

Clarence and his girlfriend told me that they had their reasons for not wanting to get too close to what was going on. All of which centered around not wanting to be “SNATCHED AWAY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, BY SOME EVIL SPIRIT!”

The next time I traveled to Bahia—two or three months later, on my way back to Brasilia—I went with them to the beach.

“They don’t seem to have any set rule on who will lead the ‘incantations,” Clarence informed me.

We sat on some large rocks, approximately fifty meters from the ceremony. The prayers were a mixture of musical incantations and low mutterings from the leader. Most of the twenty or thirty members were carrying small candles...that were poorly made or were purposefully designed to give off a lot of foul-smelling smoke.

The closer the group got to us, the more the smoke blurred our vision.

As the group came closer and closer, they encircled us...muttering once in a name of a Catholic Saint or one of Jesus disciples...as if calling up a dead-spirit. Whatever their intentions, it was enough to give me some spine-chilling moments in Bahia.

After living in Brazil for a year, I took my first ‘paid leave’ and returned to the U.S. via...Three guesses?

If you guessed Haiti, you’d win the prize.

When Clarence first noticed my interest in ‘different religions’ other than a variety of Christian Faiths: “You really should check out Haiti.

Rather than my take on things that might scare the Bejebbers out of most Americans—not all, mind you...since there are some American religions that would require you to drink purple COOL AID laced with arsenic...or reach into a box of poisonous snakes  Voodoo

Voodoo is still a prominent religion in Haiti.

It is considered the national religion and is practiced by a majority of the population .

Vodou is a syncretic religion that originated in Haiti between the 16th and 19th centuries . It is a blend of traditional West and Central African religions and Roman Catholicism.)

Now that I have focused on ‘strange religious practices'  Perhaps in all fairness I should include the following:  THERE IS A passage you mentioned is from the book of Isaiah in the Bible. It describes a vision of a peaceful world where all creatures coexist without harm. The verse you referred to is Isaiah 11:8, which reads: “The infant will play near the cobra’s den, and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest.” 1

This verse is often interpreted as a metaphor for the peaceful coexistence of all creatures in the world, as you mentioned. It is also seen as a prophecy of the coming of Jesus Christ, who would bring peace to the world .

Now that is realllly scary!

(My hope is...that the last paragraph won’t disqualify me from the contest.)

END

2]


Down the long driveway we went and there it was; a house. A house, what? Did we go to the wrong address? No, it was the right one and there was a sign. "Courtney, it is a house! What if this is a snake dancing church, I will die!" She laughed so hard she was about to pee on herself. "Well she is our friend and we spent a long time in college with her". We had been praying for her husband all those years, and he finally gave his heart to the Lord. Going back to the week before; my friend Maraleigh called and asked me to come to their church anniversary service. She knew I would not come to her church because she was Muslim. She said it was her husband's church and they were Baptist. I didn't really like that idea either but at least we worshipped the same God. So there it was; a church in a basement. It looked like a normal sanctuary inside. Now I remember my friend Barry had talked about remodeling this basement for a church. But I noticed that he was not going here. I wonder why because he gave his life to the Lord. Oh, this was not a good sign. But everyone here is so friendly and kind. I noticed it was all Asian women married to American men. They must have met in the military or I wondered if any were mailorder brides. Wow, this could be an exciting adventure learning of others' way of life. The little man behind the pulpit called for the singers to come forward and they sang traditional hymns. No one ever sings these good old hymns anymore. There were only about twenty people there and they all knew each other. There was prayer and announcements next. Then the preacher got up and asked everyone to meet and greet. Oh, this was a hugging bunch. I just quenched my shoulders and went along.  I thought if my sister were here she would die. She was Miss untouchable. I liked that it was a friendly church. Maybe I would have a home now because I had become an introvert. The preacher had a descent sermon and then closed with prayer. He told everyone to go to the garage to sit down and have a meal and to fellowship. It was nice to be fellowshipping once again. Down the drive came a truck and a man got out and greeted the pastor. He went to get something out back and he puts it on the table. I am about to shriek. It is a cooked pig with its head still on. They said they had cooked it for about 24 hours. I thought back to the time I was in Mexico and my friend told me not to offend anyone by not eating. Just take the food, eat a couple of bites and then swirl it around the plate. Pretend to like their food. Now here comes another shock; a plate with a long fish on it with fixings around it. As you guessed, the head was still on the fish. How will I ever get through this dinner? Lord, please help me get through this with no offensives. After putting the food on my plate, there were trying to give me chicken soup with whole eggs in it. They told me it was duck eggs. I just took a little in the bowl. Looked like egg drop soup to me. There was a dish that did catch my eye. It was sweet potato souffle'. Now you are talking my language. We have this every Thanksgiving. This I can relate to. There were some ribs and chicken wings that caught my eyes. Those ribs look like they would melt in your mouth. The chicken wings were Teriyaki. One thing I noticed; that it was all meat. Where were the veggies? No bread? It would have been great to have a salad and green beans with this meal. I finally got sat down and I ate the things I dreaded first. Two bites each and then I ate the things I liked. They were all talking in a language I never heard before but I couldn't understand their English either. They were all laughing and having a good time. I guess Courtney and I looked isolated when a woman came over and started talking to us.  I found out that she was Japanese and she was a mail-order bride. She said she did not mind because he took good care of her and she got to hang out with her friends and come to church. She was so happy and bubbly. I really liked her. After I got through dinner, we ate celebration cake. I got to talk to the pastor for a while and then I knew I wanted to come back. It had been so long since I had been to church. Most were so dead and dry and the women were always in cliques. But this one; I felt as though I might fit in. Now it was time to leave and I already couldn't wait to come back. The next Sunday, I came alone because Courtney already had a church. I decided to come to Sunday School. This was the best because they didn't go by anyone's programs. He let the Holy Spirit teach him and guide him. He knew all the things I had been studying for the past eleven years since I left the church. So we went through the service and we were going to have dinner. It was someone's birthday this week They said they celebrated everyone's birthday. I was looking at the food to see what I really wanted to eat. There was this cabbage, noodle, and pork dish. This would be my all-time favorite. One day, maybe I would get to go somewhere exciting. All my children moved to Florida. Time for a new adventure. One day, maybe I can travel to Europe and Asia. Maybe we could all take a trip together. It's only twenty people. I just know I love being here and I finally found a home.


“New case, Noëlla.” Thump. A stack of files in a manilla folder lands on the desk in front of me, sending my papers flying. Great. Now my spotless office has papers everywhere. I huff and look up to glare at my boss’ departing back. “No case summary?” He turns back, talking a few strides into the office and closing the door behind him. That’s the good thing about being one of the top-ranking detectives in our firm, I get an office to myself, unlike others such as Otto and Schorlek who have to share one. It gives the privacy and thinking space one needs when uncovering confidential cases. “Young woman, aged in mid-twenties. Her name is Ennia Brown,” Ennia Brown? The Ennia Brown I rescued from a dark alley a year ago? I turn back to him, nodding in acknowledgement. “She’s reported claims of stalking and attempted murder.” Interesting. “Any reason why I was given the case instead of the others?” I might be a Detective Chief Superintendent in our firm, but there should be plenty of others qualified to take this case, especially those in his ‘Inner Circle’ who don’t have other things such as helping to run the faculty to do. “Celine’s in Egypt, Henrich’s in Germany, Jericho’s sick and Manuel, Maxim and Molino are... busy . I don’t want anybody else but the best detectives for this case, it’s pretty serious and there’s little evidence at this stage. Only the best could pull it off.” He pauses, “Oh, and the client specifically asked for you. Make the Anary Faralis Detective Agency proud Nöella.” Then he departs, leaving me to ponder the case. That still leaves Jane and Danni unaccounted for and I have no doubt he knew that. But what’s happened to Ennia since that night in the alley? I told her to contact me if anything was amiss and I’ve talked to her since then, but it’s been precisely thirteen months, two weeks and sixteen hours since I rescued her from the alley and the incidents date back at least two years. Why now? ～～～ It was eight-thirty in the evening and I’d stayed back at work a bit longer to finish up writing a case report. The weather was miserable, having rained just minutes before and the cobblestones were slick with water. A yellowed glow came from the rustic street lamps along the pavement, limning the edges of my briefcase with gold. Then I heard the scuffles, the thud and the scream. Alarmed, I raced towards the sound, approaching silently as to not raise any alarm. It came from the far reaches of an alleyway, that from experience I knew to be a dead end. The scream sounded female, the grunt that followed was male.

I peered into the alleyway, to see an auburn-haired female struggling against a bulky, dark-haired male’s solid grip. She was pinned to the wall and the brute was touching her in awful places, pulling at her clothing and drawing a dagger as she fought back. She stilled at the sight of the knife and knowing her chances were slim I slipped silently down the alleyway. Within moments I had my arms around the brute’s neck and a foot hooked behind his ankle. He slashed with the knife and without a second thought, I’d kicked it from his grasp. With the brute pinned on the ground and his neck held in submission, I choked the air out of his lungs, enough to render him unconscious but no further. Quickly, I picked up my briefcase, glancing up to the young woman before me. She still hadn’t run. “Are you alright?” “I’m o-okay I suppose. Thank you.” She looked away down the alley. “Will he be okay?” “He’s just unconscious. He’ll wake up in a few minutes so we should head off. Do you need somewhere to stay?” She shook her head, but her eyes were distant. I shouldered off my coat, wrapping it around her shivering form. “C’mon girl, let’s get you somewhere safe. We’ll get you nice and warm.” Within five minutes I’d directed her to a nearby hotel, had her swaddled in blankets and a cup of hot cocoa before her. She was too shaken to ask her any questions, but I could only assume what had happened. I remained with her for as long as I could, heading off home before my flatmate would worry about me. As I stood to leave, I retrieved a business card from my briefcase. “If you need anything, hun, just give me a call. I’m happy to help any time you need it.” I slipped it onto the table in front of her and quietly let myself out. The card on the table before her read: DCS. Miss Noëlla Anderson ～Anary Feralis Detective Agency～ Ph: 0427 738 813 Email: noellaa@afda.org ～～～ Peeking my head into Schorlek Kühn and Otto Schuster’s office, it comes as no surprise that Otto is playing video games and Schorlek is sitting on the windowsill reading a book. “New case, fellas. Briefing in my office in ten.” An acknowledging grunt from Schorlek. “But I’m in the middle of the boss level Noëllaaa. If you make me go now I’ll lose ALL my progress.” Otto whines. “Suck it up, Otto. I’ve given you ten minutes, that’s enough. You shouldn’t be playing video games anyway, you know that.” He whines again and I leave them to their activities, returning to my office. Ten minutes later, Schorlek enters my office, dragging a sullen Otto behind him by the wrist. We discuss the case, examining the details given and the evidence provided both photographed and in hardcopy. Schorlek and I figure out a plan forward while Otto sulks; he’ll confirm the DNA sample while I trace emails and calls to Ennia, then we’ll interview neighbours and retrieve security footage, then assemble the evidence and incriminate the offender. ～～～ “What did you find?” I ask my coworkers. “DNA specimen confirmed,” Schorlek says curtly. “Insights, Mr Kühn?” “There were a few sets of DNA on the letter, including Ennia’s own, but I narrowed down the suspect list to two brothers; Avery and Scott Lancaster, and another man called Jeremiah Hayes, they’re the ones that fit Miss Brown’s description. Mr Hayes is suspected to be a friend of the two brothers, he could be involved with the case.” Schorlek Kühn sites back at his chair and glances at Otto Schuster, the other detective on my team for this case.

“Anything new, Mr Schuster?” “Quit the formalities, please. Nothing new, but I have a question. Schorlek, were both brothers’ DNA on the letter?” “Indeterminate.” “Why?” “Unconfirmed.” “Well, I personally think the brothers are twins. Just saying.” “Any evidence Otto?” “No. Search the database though, I get the feeling they are.” I search the database, and sure enough, they’re twins, paternal twins at that. “Huh, look at that. Otto was right. They’re identical twins. Which explains why it’s determinate; they have the same DNA.” Schorlek nods and Otto grins smugly. “Well, fellas. Guess we have our list of suspects. I traced the anonymous threat emails and calls to Miss Brown to Avery Lancaster’s house and areas that he’s reportedly visited. Oh and it’s not listed in the case, but after she was cornered in the lane, the ID card was found on the unconscious man and it said ‘Avery P. Lancaster’, precisely the person all our other evidence has pointed to.” Other evidence such as him being one of Ennia’s ex-boyfriends and being one of Ennia’s suggestions of the suspect. “That Avery guy must be some sorta creep, considering the things on that file,” Otto commented. “I wonder what his middle name is. Peter?” “More like ‘p’ for ‘psychopath’,” I mumble under my breath. “Psychopath starts with ‘s’ idiot!” Otto says, turning to Schorlek. He puts his hands up, trying to tell Otto it wasn’t him but Otto gives him a sceptical look. “Dumbass, it starts with ‘p’.” Schorlek mumbles, glancing back at me. “Meeting over.” I get up to leave as they start to squabble. “Psychopath starts with ‘p’, Otto. You should’ve learnt that in high school,” I say, leaving Schorlek’s relieved face and Otto’s infuriated expression behind me. ～～～ Walking door to door in Avery Lancaster’s neighbourhood, Schorlek, Otto and I have found very little. The young family that lives across the road said that he’s a nice guy that tends to keep to himself but they’d only moved in recently so could not provide much detail. The lesbian couple and the old man living either side didn’t know anything of interest. Overall, there wasn’t too much evidence that they could provide, but they agreed to let us view their security feeds that had a view of his house. That only leaves interviewing Avery himself. Knock knock. The hollow sound reverberates through my fist as I knock on Avery Lacaster’s front door. “Good morning, is there anything I can do for you?” Avery’s puzzled face steps out from behind the door. “Yes sir. I am Detective Chief Superintendent Noëlla Anderson, and these are my colleagues Otto Schuster and Schorlek Kühn. We would like to talk to you for a minute if that’s okay with you?” “Uh, of course. Is anything wrong, Miss?” He looks genuinely oblivious and concerned, and I’m nearly convinced. He could be a great actor. “We’ll speak inside please.” “Was it my brother? I told him that rock adventure was a bad idea.” I raise a brow.

“Your brother is fine. If we may?” He lets us in, leading us through impeccably neat rooms and into the dining room. It’s business time. “Do you know why we’re here Mr Lancaster?” “If it’s not my brother being a doofus, then no, I don’t. Should I know?” “Perhaps. We are here to ask you a few questions about Ennia Brown.” Brief pain flickers through his expression. “Is Ennia okay?” He says, barely a whisper. “Considering what’s been happening in her life lately, she is doing rather well. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about her recent activity, would you?” “No, I don’t. I haven’t spoken to her since we broke up and I haven’t seen her since.” “Hm, interesting. Did you know that she’s filed a case for stalking and attempted murder with the AFDA?” “She.. what?” “You are the prime suspect, and all the evidence leads to you, so if you could tell us the truth that would be greatly appreciated.” He nods. “Now tell me again, when did you last see her.” “About two years ago, we went out with a few friends but I didn’t really talk to her. It was still awkward from the breakup.” “Right. Was anything of notice said?” “Scott said she was hot. Ennia ignored me most of the evening, but no, nothing of notice.” “Now why did you and Ennia break up?” “She was going to study overseas and my grandmother had just died, so the timing wasn’t great for either of us. It pained us both greatly, but we knew it was the best for both of us. Neither of us have been in a relationship since, at least as far as I’m aware.” “Would you be jealous if another guy showed interest in her?” “No, I would respect Ennia’s decision to move on. She deserves to enjoy her life.” “Oh come on ,” Otto bursts out, “Quit the sappiness. If you haven’t seen her in two years then explain why one year ago, she was attacked in a dark alley by a man fitting your description wielding a knife. A man, I might add, that had an ID card with the name ‘Avery Lancaster’ on it.”

“Or why your name was encoded into a death threat letter to Ennia?” Schorlek adds. “And why the threatening calls and emails were traced back to your very house?” Avery gets paler and paler with every question as if realising that he has no way out, realising that he didn’t hide his tracks well enough and he was caught. “I- I don’t understand what you mean.” “You hear what we said, Mr Lancaster. Your DNA was found on the letter, and there are all these other cases of evidence. Do you mind if we have a look around?” We show him our search warrant and he nods solemnly. Avery leads us around the house showing us through the different rooms of his house. There’s nothing much of notice in any of the places we search, this guy is pretty good at hiding his evidence.

“And this is the guest bedroom. My brother keeps some of his stuff here sometimes.” We nod and have a poke around. We’re just about to finish up when I spot a discarded plastic bag in the wardrobe. “What’s that Mr Lancaster?” “I don’t know. Some of my brother’s stuff. He visits sometimes and keeps some stuff here. I don’t monitor his stuff, this room is the only place I allow him to put his stuff wherever he wants and I won’t clean it up.” “May we look inside?” “Of course.” We open the bag curiously, with our latex gloves on as not to disturb the possible specimens. The bag opens to reveal a pair of worn woollen fingerless gloves, a roll of sticky tape, an ID card bearing Avery’s details and a few folded pieces of paper. Schorlek pulls out one of the pieces of paper and reads it aloud “For my dearest Ennia. Really, I thought you’d have noticed by now. Our connection is true and I love you dearly. Must you always hide from me? Show me what you can do in bed. Can you do that? Otherwise, I will finish what I started that night in the alley, if I can’t have you, no one can. Terror upon you, shall you not oblige. Take what you want from me, but I will always prevail, do not fail me. Love from your dearest, I miss you.” “Dark much? But that sounds an awful lot like a jealous lover’s letter. Did you write this Mr Lancaster?” Avery shakes his head, and his face is deathly pale from fear. Fear for Ennia or fear for himself? “Well you have a lot of evidence against you sir, I would recommend you start telling the truth or you’ll be imprisoned for lying to authoritative figures. Understood?” “I only wish to tell you the truth, Ma’am. I did not know that letter was here, nor do I know who wrote it.” “May we take it for evidence?” “Of course Ma’am,” And with that, Otto, Schorlek and I take our leave, sealing the evidence in decontaminated specimen bags and leaving Avery’s ashen face behind. ～～～ “So. What do you think of our adventure today? Avery’s house sure was suspicious.” “Yeah, I think we have enough evidence now,” Otto adds. “I think Avery is innocent,” Schorlek murmurs under his breath. I cut my glare across the table to him. “ What? Did I hear that correctly?” Otto shrugs. “You do understand, Schorlek, that EVERY SINGLE piece of evidence we have points to Avery Lancaster.” “But maybe that’s what the criminal wants us to think. Everything points to Avery, but if he truly did it, there would be some degree of a cover-up. This is all in the open. It’s too easy. Mr Lancaster’s DNA is on every specimen, his ‘pining’ for a lost love threaded through threat letters, class and emails all traced to his house, a house his brother visits often. Think, Noëlla, think .” “Are you saying it was Avery’s brother, Scott, that is doing this? What would be his motive though? It makes no sense Schorlek. It’s obvious it was Avery.” “Check the cams for the night of the alley attack.” I pull up the feeds from various residents’ security cameras and go back to the date of the attack. We watch as a car pulls up in front of Avery’s house and Avery gets out, knocking on the front door- Must be Scott, I conclude, and sure enough, a second Avery greets him at the door. They go inside, and about an hour later, one of the Lancaster twins comes out holding a plastic bag and there’s a lump under his hoodie near his hip. The knife he pulled on Ennia. Turning up the audio we hear a voice yell from inside the house. “Can you get me milk while you’re at the supermarket? Thanks! See ya, Scott.” Scott comes outside and gets into one of the cars that’d been parked outside before he’d arrived, presumably Avery’s and drives off. Why didn’t he take his own? We skip ahead to the dates of the emails and calls from Avery’s house and Scott had visited on every single one of them. “Didn’t Avery mention something about Scott having the hots for Ennia? And he seemed pretty concerned for her,” Otto suggests but Schorlek and I’s attention is elsewhere. The letter. The realisation dawns on both of us and as I peer over his shoulder I notice something I hadn’t when he’d read it out. Each sentence is on a new line and the first letter of every sentence forms another message: FROM SCOTT L. My face slackens with the realisation. “Do you see it Schorlek?” He nods solemnly. It all makes sense. Their DNA is the same, being twins, Scott tried to avert the attention from him, turning it on his identical twin, but ultimately his diversions failed. He’s been found out. “Otto. It was Scott. The letters and the ID card prove it. It was Scott.” I murmur. “So it was actually Scott C Lancaster, the evil side to his angelic brother Avery,” Otto says in an exaggerated scheming voice. “Seems to me like his initial was a foretelling; ‘C’ for cri-mi-nal, ” He smirks, and we all burst out laughing, the relief enveloping me that Ennia would finally be safe and that we’d done it.


“Let’s go Becca! You’ve got this honey!” Jacob Malson pumped his fist in excitement as his seventeen-year-old daughter sprinted down the soccer field. Her lanky frame moved gracefully toward the goalkeeper, each stride with a singular purpose of advancing toward her mark. Watching, Jacob couldn’t help but marvel at how she had changed through the years. He could still see his little pig-tailed girl running along with the other children like a flock of starlings after the ball and laughing heartily with every adorable trip and stumble. PING . He was brought out of his reverie by the sound of Becca’s shot reverberating off the goal post. His daughter fell to her knees in disappointment as the whistle blew signalling the end of the game.

        “What a game hun, you were great!” Jacob said as he put his arm around Becca, walking her to their car. “That last one was close, eh?”         “Yeah. I guess.” Becca said, her shoulders slumped.         “You guess? Come on, what d’ya mean? You scorched down the field like Beckham and were only off by an inch.” He gave her an encouraging smile and squeezed her shoulder.         “I dunno, dad. I just think if Kim had gotten the shot we may have won. I always miss when it matters.” She shrugged her father’s hand off as they approached the car and climbed into the passenger’s seat. Jacob’s heart sunk as he watched. He had always thought that if he filled his child’s heart with enough love and self-compassion that she would never have to suffer the human affliction of self-doubt. Unfortunately, the last seventeen years had shown this to be untrue.         “Ice cream," he said as he carefully backed out of the parking lot.

        Sitting on the patio of Slicker’s Café, Jacob and Becca both closed their eyes and focused on the warmth of the sun, imbibing its heat in preparation for their desserts. Jacob had told Becca as a child that their family had a superpower; that they could take in the sun’s rays and with its energy prevent ice cream headaches.         “You ready?” He asked.         “Born ready, dad” She replied, smiling with her eyes still closed. They both held their eyes gently shut until they heard the gentle clink of glass on the table. Two large sundaes had been placed in front of them and they smiled at one another, tapped spoons and dug in.         “Dad, can I ask you something?” Becca asked after a delicious spoonful of strawberry ice cream.         	“Anything, always.” He said, setting his spoon down.         “Do you ever think of going to jail?” She poked her sundae absentmindedly with her spoon. Jacob involuntarily laughed, having expected a question about boys or college.         “Umm… not really… is there something you need to tell me?” He laughed again and took a bite of his sundae.         “No, it’s not like that. I dunno. I just, wonder sometimes you know. What if people make mistakes that they never thought they’d make. Or what if you get caught up with the wrong people and are in the wrong place at the wrong time? Like, I was listening to this podcast, and there are so many innocent people in prison just because of bad luck or crooked cops. Or even just because they had a bad childhood, ya know?” She tried to take a bite of the ice cream but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Jacob took a slow breath, taking a moment to appreciate the complexity of youth and its insecurity with the unknown. “There is more in this world that we can’t control, than there is that we can, Becca. Unfortunately, some people start with even less than others, it’s true. But for what we can control; our reactions, our efforts… our choices. For those, we just try to do our best.” He reached out and grabbed his daughter’s hand, giving it a squeeze before she playfully ripped it away.         “Eww, dad. You’re so embarrassing.” She moaned and then began to eat her ice cream in large bites before slapping her forehead with a brain freeze.         The evening sun was setting as they drove west and Becca’s playlist was blaring loudly while she sang along in an even louder, and deaf tone, voice.         “Ya know, hun. If you just turn down the volume, you wouldn’t have to sing quite so loudly” Jacob yelled overtop of her and was met with a waving finger as the lyrics no no no came through the speakers. He smiled and squinted into the sun as they crested a hill and came to rest at a four-way stop. Becca continued to sing and wave her hands wildly through the air as Jacob accelerated forward into an explosion of glass. The music stopped. All noise and light and breath ceased to exist in a moment.         Light returned accompanied by pain. Jacob gasped, and for an uncertain amount of time he was looking without seeing. Slowly, the objects surrounding him gained focus and relevance. A hospital. His leg in a splint and a tube coming out of his chest, attached to a small plastic container with water swaying up and down with every restricted breath. And people. There were people.         “Mr. Malson? Can you hear me?” A tall man in green scrubs with a stethoscope leaned over him, looking at his eyes rather than into them.         “Yeah… yeah I can hear you.” He mumbled. The raspiness of his voice surprised him.         “Good, good. Your throat’s going to be a bit sore. You were intubated for two days Mr. Malson. You were in a car accident. I’m sorry to say that a drunk driver struck your car. Don’t worry, you weren’t at fault Mr. Malson. And luckily the other driver survived and will be held responsible.”         Jacob looked around the room again for a moment. There were monitors tethered to him which were flashing numbers in red, green and yellow. A large ventilator sat to the right of his bed with its tubing slung sadly over it. His bed was the only furniture in the room and even in his semi-oriented state he knew not to expect his wife at his bedside. It had just been him and Becca for so long… Becca. “Becca… Becca?” He forced through his raw vocal cords.         “Why don’t you just rest for now Mr. Malson, you’ve been through—”         “Where’s Becca? Where’s my Rebecca?!” He managed to yell with considerable pain, now starting to panic. The doctor stood up and shifted uncomfortably. “I want to see her. Just bring her in, or wheel my bed—" Jacob began.         “Mr. Malson… your car was struck on the passenger side… unfortunately your daughter’s side sustained the brunt of the impact… she was brought to hospital with you but we couldn’t…” He trailed off, his voice breaking slightly. A weight fell into Jacob Malson’s chest. There was no room for breath, no room for fear, no room for anything but pain. She was gone. His daughter was gone. He had protected her from her first breath but had sat beside her unconscious and unaware as she took her last. The room began to move...or was it him? He needed out, he needed it to stop, this pain. This indescribable, irrevocable pain had to stop.         “Let me out…” he said         “Excuse me?” the Doctor said, raising his eyebrows.         “LET ME OUT!” Malson screamed.         The men turned around at the sound of the prisoner struggling in his chair. He was still appropriately restrained in his pod with leather straps securely positioned on his arms and legs. An IV was firmly secured in his left arm which he intermittently jerked against his restraints but the serum was still infusing well. Like all other prisoners in the facility he had monitors in place to assess his brain waves, heart rate and oxygenation to ensure that he was optimally sedated for appropriate Thought Infiltration.         “Is that Malson again?” A short man in a lab coat muttered to his partner as he absentmindedly entered code into a large computer. He had a balding head with overgrown sideburns covering his jawline and a pair of pants pulled high up over his considerable girth.         “Yeah. Sounds like he’s reaching the end of his cycle. Bless him, he always lets us know.” His partner said from another prisoner’s station a few rows away where he was taking a blood sample.         “What was he in for again?” The shorter of the two asked. His partner stood up with his collection of vials and walked over to his  computer, opening the prisoner’s file and reading aloud.         “Drunk driving… the bastard killed someone’s kid. Apparently, a dad was driving his daughter home from a soccer game and Malson slammed into them after running a stop sign at a four-way. Drunk as a skunk. He’s been sentenced to 500 grief cycles. I’ll be surprised if he ever smiles again after experiencing that 500 times.”         “Well, here goes cycle 127.” Said the short man as he stepped up to Malson and hung a new bag of clear liquid on the IV pole. Malson’s arm stopped jerking after a moment and he began to smile gently as he watched her run down the field once more.


TW: suicide, attempted suicide This a story about a boy and a girl becoming friends to strangers. They firstly met at their schools. They were classmates but still strangers for each others. They were unaware that they will become so close to each others that when they have to separate both eyes will be filled with tears. One day their class teacher introduces themselves to each other. Boy never seemed interested in her because he don’t like to making friends. She thought he is arrogant, rude and cold hearted person. When they met for first time he simply ignored her. One day she asked him why did he behaved like this? He ignored her again and but this time she said with anger, don’t you see I asked you something. He replied, I know and I don’t like talking to strangers. She was quiet disappointed or you can say hurt from his words. He said, don’t mind my words but I’m kind a socially awkward person. So, I don’t like talking but gradually I will. She understood what he want to say and forgave him. After sometime they start talking and they were good friends.  Time passed and they pass out from school. They went to different colleges and they didn’t knew they will meet again or not. On last day of school, she asked him that, will you miss me? He was silent and after a sometimes he answered, I don’t know but I guess I will. She said, the same to him. Months passed there were no communication between them. They were so busy with their lives. Still they tried to contact each other but they couldn’t. There is saying that, “ Don’t matter how busy you are with your life but if you want to talk to someone you will spare time for them.”  After struggling a while, they were able to talk with each other. Both were happy but he felt that, for him she is more than friend. He was not sure that he really feels for her or not. One day, she didn’t texted him and he was worried that is she ok or not? After a week she texted him, that she had a fight with her parents and she is feeling depressed. She is having suicidal thoughts after hearing this he was shocked and stressed. He tried his best to lift her mood. She was fine and finally felt that suicide is not the option. For her, he started feeling and he could easily say that he really loves her a lot. He tried to confess her but he thought she is already having problems and he don’t want to make her sad. He didn’t confessed and he waited for a right moment. After two years, he confessed her but… every time things don’t went as expected. She said, she never felt for him more than a friend. He replied, its ok. We can love someone but we can’t say them to love us back. He respected her opinion from that day he never discussed about that again. Again she start having same problems but this time it was serious because she tried to suicide by having a extrados of medicine. She slept for two days. He was angry on her, she scolded her that, don’t you think what will your parents will do after you will suicide?, what will I do ? he said with tears in his eyes, you don’t know how much I love you and you think dying is easy. Until I’m alive you can't die and promise me you will not do this again. On that day she got to know how much he feels for her and she promised him. Both were reason of each other's happiness. They were attached to each other, they were best friends. They shared every small thing to big secrets to each others. Whether they talk for two hours or two minutes both were satisfied with it. Many people understand are feelings but there are few ones who can understand our silence too. When we love someone their problems are our problems, their happiness are our happiness. They were friends for 3 years and now they aren't. The reason of separation was broken trust. Whether it’s a relationship or a friendship trust plays an important role in every relation. We can think about a relationship without love but without trust no relation exists.  Same happened with them, late night she called him and was crying. Before he ask her, she started telling every thing. He listened her quietly and he didn’t said a word. When after a she stops and asked her why are you crying? You shouldn’t, don’t worry I’m here only. She told him, that her boyfriend accused her. He was surprised and couldn’t accept it. He wasn’t surprised that she had boyfriend but he was surprised that she didn’t told him about her relationship. He felt betrayed and trust broken. He simply asked her, you would have told me about him and without asking a question I would have accepted it. But now situation is different, I can forgive you but I will not able to forgave myself. I trusted you blindly, I loved you unconditionally and in return you taught me that you shouldn’t trust and love someone. I thought we will best friends forever but now… we are nothing. This relation never existed and I hate you. I hate that I loved without thinking of outcomes but you did this to me. I hope you will have a better life without me… I know its difficult to forget you but I will… She was crying and begging him that stay don’t leave him. He smiled and said, never beg someone to stay in your life. If they want to go let them go.

Moral: God gifted us an unique that we can love someone and we can express our love. People says that love hurts but it hurts more when you love a wrong person. If you want to live a happy life, tie it to a goals not to people or things.


TRIGGER WARNING: This story mentions physical violence, mild substance abuse, and profanity. Watching the time pass by keeps me sane. It helps me cope. It keeps the days, and thankfully the nights silent. I remember when my mother used to use her time to see other men, who only saw her as a sex object. Tip toeing past my door, in an attempt to sneak into her room as if they were stealing food from the fridge late at night. Noises of pleasure beating the wall until it bleeds white powder from its foundation. Waking the world, my world, from its peaceful state of silence.

     My father used to waste his money on cigarettes and booze. He would bathe in his own tears. Walking around as if he was the victim of his mental abuse. Of his physical abuse. Painting my mother’s face in different colors. Black circles were painted on rainy days. Purple bruises stroked across the arms and neck on stormy nights. Dripping red blood, stained on the ripped shirt and busted lip of the canvas.     I was fourteen when my parents first decided on divorcing. Fifteen, when they made it official. On my sixteenth birthday, neither one of my parents said happy birthday. Seventeen was the age where they stopped acknowledging me altogether. Lucky number eighteen, was there ‘I love you’ mute button. Three days before my twentieth birthday, my father died. Five days after my twenty-second birthday, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Fighting to save her life for two years, but gave up after the third. Seven months later, I met my boyfriend.      Andy.      The love of my life. My drug. He’d make me happy when I covered my cries. Taking me away from the world that was beating me down. Our time together was perfect. Until someone changed him. In times when he should’ve been making me smile, he was the one making me cry. He eventually became  the world that was beating me down. But every time I left him, he'd apologize and I would run right back.

       Andy was a drug lord and at first I wanted nothing to do with it, but then my new friend cocaine came along. Followed by my best friend heroine. They were my rock. My safe haven for when I'm in need of saving. And there was a time they filled my body with happiness so great, my heart stopped for only 4.7 seconds. A new record.       His little business in Chicago ended after one of his junkie friends overdosed on his supply. He says that it was so traumatizing, it would be best for him to move in. With me.       His failed business got so bad I had to buy a gun just to protect myself whenever I came home from work.

     There was a time when I worked at a medical clinic. One of the biggest businesses in the world. I was clocking out after a shift, when I realized that I had forgotten my keys at my desk. I didn't have time to wait for the elevator, so I ran up three flights of stairs. I hated those stairs with a passion. It always made me feel as though someone was watching me, lurking in the shadows of the corners I ran past.

    I had finally grabbed my keys and then stopped. I don't know why, but my body told me to stop and listen. So I did. There was no sound. I was stupid to ignore it because as I placed my heel back down on the hard, white tile, another step that wasn't my own followed. I breathed in. But someone else breathed out. It was a longer and heavier breath. I could almost feel it from where I was standing.  My body began to tremble. My knees began to buckle, but my mind told me to run without looking back.

Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look back .

I ran to the stairs. 1 minute. New record.      I kept running, and I kept listening. As my steps echoed, that person behind me had ran two steps closer. But I finally made it out of the building before they could grab me. I heard a thud but I was smart enough not to turn around. I ran all the way home in less than ten minutes. New record . I turned off the lights of my house, just in case they followed me. As I peeked out the window, I heard the door knob shake.

     “Marlee?” It was Andy. He was supposed to be with his family on vacation.

     “Andy? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Chicago with your family?” I stood up and opened the door to let him in.      “Flight got canceled. I have to leave tomorrow afternoon for the next one.”

He sat down at the dining room table. “After I heard about it, I just came straight home to see you. Didn’t take any stops because I was honestly too tired.” He asked what happened and I told him someone had chased me after my shift from work.     “WHAT?! Who was it?” He stood up with rage igniting in his eyes.     “Andy, sit down. They are long gone by now. Nothing to worry about.” I grabbed his hand and guided him back down to his chair, but he winced at my touch.     “Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?” I asked.     “Nothing. I’m tired. I'm going to bed”. He got up to leave but I grabbed his wrist this time, so that I wouldn't hurt him. I turned his hand over.

I was confused. “What happened?” His palm was scraped up. and bleeding. I ran to get the first aid kit. When I came back, Andy was just sitting there. As if someone casted a spell that made him paralyzed.     “Give me your hand. Honey, what happened?”     “Well nothing really. Some lady dropped her wallet and as I was running to give it to her, I tripped and my hand broke my fall. It's just a little scratch, no biggie.” He shrugged. I dabbed alcohol on his wound and he wouldn’t stop flinching so I decided to give up on cleaning it, and just chose to dress it.     “Was this at the airport?” I asked.     “No, it was over on Kinley street. By the bakery. Uh, what was its name? Oh right, Charlie’s Cookie Factory. Such a corny name.” He giggled. He looked up at me.      I was staring at him.      “I thought you said you didn’t take any stops. Why would you be on Kinley street?” I stopped wrapping the wound, and was now in a staring contest with him.      “That doesn’t matter. Are you done?” He asked with a serious look on his face.      “Yes it does matter. Why would you be on Kinley street Andy? Why would you be on the same street, my job is located?” I asked, becoming frustrated.      He snatched his hand away and stared deep into my eyes. I could feel them burning with irritation.

    “I said that doesn’t matter, Marlee. Now stop asking questions, and let's just go to bed huh?” I stood there, silent.

Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for time to start again but it wouldn’t. I couldn’t move. It wouldn't let me. He wouldn’t let me. But I provoked him, and you should never provoke a liar.

    “You were with that bitch weren’t you? Your new girlfriend. I fucking knew you were still seeing her. I’m done with you! GO TO HELL!-” He slapped me and the air left my throat.     So I said again: “Go to hell.” And spit on him. Andy grabbed me by my arm and pulled me so hard, I lost my balance and slammed my knee into the ground. He then grabbed my clothes as I was fighting back, and dragged me into the spare bedroom and beat me. Just like how my father beat my mother.     But this time, there was no storm. It was quiet. No sound. No thunder, lightning, no rain. Nothing. Just the wind’s calm tune as it walks through the leaves of the bushes in the neighborhood. After he finished painting his masterpiece, he walked out and locked the door.     I sat on the bed. Silently sobbing. I would never let him hear my pain. Never will I ever let him know that he is in control. I didn’t sleep because everytime I closed my eyes, I saw his. His scary, green eyes staring at my soul. I hate the feeling of its burn. So I just stared at the clock. The clock, yes the clock, watching the time tick away.     Tik. Tears. Tok. Sniffles. Tik. Silence. Tok. A year went by since that night and it was Andy's birthday. I picked up a couple extra shifts to earn enough money for a new watch he had been eyeing since I met him.  But every time I left the house for a late night shift, it seemed that someone else came in.

     09:23.

The clock read. It was three hours before his birthday so I decided to go home early to change into something more romantic, as I planned on taking Andy out at twelve.      10:12. I finally got home and walked to my porch. Step by step, my smile grew. Excited to make my love the happiest man on earth. Forgetting every somber memory of us from the last three years.

     10:22. I hear giggling coming from our bedroom,and as I open the door my heart falls down to my ass.

     Andy. The love of my life. My drug. Sitting next to a woman. A beautiful woman. The type of woman, to be with another woman’s man.

     Andy. The love of my life. Our time is precious. Why waste it?      10:45. Silence. For forty-seven seconds. New record. Stares. Tik. Sniffles. Tok.

     “Leave.” I say to the beautiful woman in my bed. With my man.

     “Andy, honey? Who is this?”

     Andy.

       “Leave.” I say once again.

     “Marlee? Why are you here? I thought you were working late tonight.” Said Andy shaking.      “Honey, why are you shaking?” Said the beautiful woman becoming a little nervous.      11:26. Step. Tick. Fear. Tok. Step. Tick. Begging. Tok.      “Marlee don't.” Said Andy rising from his spot on the bed, leaving a rip in the sheets from holding on too tightly.

     “Don’t what baby?”I said, lifting the heavy, new pistol from its resting place. “Take another step and I'll shoot your toe off.”       11:34. The man in bed with the beautiful woman. Perfect.      I've been wanting to end this nightmare, the minute he let me take the fall for his second business. His second business. Number two. Lucky. Number. Two.      He got caught selling dope in an alley. He had asked me to hide them in my purse. Of course I told him no. The cops searched him. Clean. They searched me. Clean. They searched his car. Clean. His bag. Clean. Our house. Clean. Everything was clean. My purse. Purse. The purse. My purse wasn't clean.

     Thrown to the ground. Screams of pain from my lungs rang in his ears like the church bells that everyone loved to listen to. From a distance.

     Four years. Four long, time consuming years. Taken from my life. Twenty-nine years old. Finally being released from prison. All thanks to good behavior. Isn't that amazing?      11:56. Aim. Tik. “Leave.” Tok. No movement. I slowly move my fingers down to the trigger. Breathe in. Tik. Bang. Tok. Breathe out. Tik. Breathe in. Tok. Breathe out. Tik. Relief. Tok.      “MARLEE! NO!” Screamed the man, trembling over the blood painted body of the beautiful woman.

      I was surprised at how he hadn’t lunged to hurt me like he would before, but i guess he knew he fucked up in the end and accepted what came next.      “Barely breathing. Just how I like it.” I giggled.

     12:00.

     “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Andy. Happy birthday. To. You.” I sang.      A hush fell over the room… and then I heard it. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. BANG! Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.


People don’t read like they used to. That is for sure. When I was lost one year. I think it was 1984 here which means 1976 to me there I was in Disneyland. First and only time I was there. I was like eight or nine, maybe. I had gotten lost in the Halls of President’s. Now in Disneyland there is a secret passages everywhere. And? Well, I saw a Disney character go into one of the passageways. My parent was elsewhere and? Well, I like exploring it is probably why I am lost most of my life. Anyway, I go into this hallway. Cement floors and a corridor going down into an underground passage ways. Like a pirate, I went off exploring. Figuring at this age that maybe Captain Hook had left something for me. So like most of my problem is remembering where I am at. Meaning? I am not an idiot. I counted one right turn etc. Figuring how to get back if I had to. After the fifteenth turn seeing the employees’ lunch room. No one was there. Finding the custom changing room. Blush, I walked in on Cinderella and some old guy fondling her. When she saw me, she screamed. The guy looked pretty busy trying to get his pants up. I figured it was time to take 15 left turns to get back upstairs. Well. That is a dilemna not dilemma in my reality. Meaning? I ended up in some private movie theatre. And? Well, they were watching the premier of the Black Cauldron. So? Well, there was a guy that looked like Disney there and several other people. One I remember and recognize when I got lost elsewhere. Anyway they were watching and talking about how the ending was bad. Meaning? Well, in the movie I saw. Meaning I sat down. I had no clue as to who was in the dark, and I was not interested being caught by Cinderella. They were talking about the ending. Meaning? Well, I got to see the movie after that. In the one I saw the witches boiled someone and the kid kept the sword and became some ruler of the Skeleton’s kingdom or ah yes now I remember my memory was the villain called the Horn King or something like that. So anyway, the original one I saw the kid for whatever nonsense became just like the Skeleton or Horn King for whatever reason. And I think the movie they boiled the dog. They were talking about how the music was praise worth and wondering how much they would have to pay critics to praise this evil ending. Then the lights came on. The guy evidently finally got his pants up because he ran into the theatre. The guy that looked like Disney turned to him and asked what he thought of the movie. And that was when I left. Now you might say. Silly, the movie you are talking about did not come out in 1976. All I can say is what I remember. And the secret ingredient was a dog. Now getting out of there, I ran. And ran. When I stopped running, I recognized where the heck I was at. I was somehow climbing the stair case for the Pirates of the Caribbean entrance to the dining area that one floats by when you are on the ride. So I somehow ending up almost like half way across the park in my little movie adventure. At this time I, being a nine or ten-year-old kid, realized how screwed or lost I was and went to find someone to ask for help to find my parent. Well, that did not work out so good. Evidently my adventure was recorded on some close circuit television thing. I ended up with the guy that looked like Disney. The conversation was spooky. He asked at the end what I had thought of the movie? I bluntly said I liked the dog better than the main character why not throw the main character into the pot instead and boil him? It was a rather long day at this time. My parent had started the search for me and I ended up being talked to. My parent at that time had to sign some papers, and I was forbidden to talk about anything. Years later I heard that the guy with his pants down got caught doing thing with a lady on the elevator that is in the Cinderella castle in Florida. This story of course, being in California. I always wondered if that movie did not make any sense because the one I saw seemed like a pretty solid story and the one I saw afterwards seemed dark and disjointed. As for the dog coming back to life, that part I liked. Years later, I meet one of the people that was sitting in that room elsewhere. He was a changed man. Seemed scared for his life. Why? He talked about things that made no sense to me. Like a train from Orlando Airport right to Disney World. How that the Empire State Building had once upon a time had an Evil Cafe. And the evil villains were made to look like good characters and public was sold on the idea. He even went as far as talking about a book Disney had gotten which was magical. Where from? No idea the story teller just told about how Disney had purchased a book right after losing Oswald. Now this is the problem for me. I had to ask who Oswald was. Evidently Disney story was different. I remember business college how Disney first character had been Mortimer Mouse. That you do not sign anything unless you are sure you know what it means or you could lose it was the moral of that college leature . So I guess I the guy was from elsewhere or my college professor was nuts. One or the other. Anyways, meaning the guy talked about how Disney had opened a book from Chaldean’s time. And if you were stupid or evil enough, you could just poof things into existence. Seemed rather far fetched. Even where we were talking, which was a Skiff room doing a bizarre secret project with sound and light. Meaning? If you have not guested it yet. We all are avatars in some absurd game. Laughter. No really you don’t believe me do you? The secret is we all eat plants. And plants are made out of light. And wola the secret ingredient of life are light making you nothing more than an avatar. Which is sad because unless you are playing pirate usually life is boring. Making me think whoever is playing me has a fate for me. The question is it I am pot asking God why I was made this way? Or a person kicked out of heaven for a dress code? Or am I just a traveling spirit telling you that you are nothing more than light? Shh.. Keep the secret to yourself until you ask what the key is. The key? Sure. After hearing that absurd story about Disney World and a book. I had to find the book. And? I know the where about in 1997. Since then? The storage area might have burnt down, who knows. Was I stupid enough to read the book? Read the Secret of Light and then comment what you think.


“You literally have a superpower,” TJ argued. “That’s cool!” “But it’s

not a cool superpower. It’s not like I can fly or shoot lasers from my eyes or something,” Chloe sighed. She was walking home from school with her best friend. They were very different, she and TJ. She was tall and blond with the awkward gait of someone who grew too fast and didn't quite know what to do with their body. She was bookish and introverted, not much into sports and preferred the company of butterflies to humans.

TJ, on the other hand, was athletic and gregarious. He loved to be outside and a sport had a ball, he was good it. He made friends easily and loved people. They were friends because their parents were friends and they’d grown up together. Chloe was a faithful fan whenever TJ was in a soccer match or baseball game and cheered like she knew what was happening on the field. TJ was willing to go on solo hikes and seek out blooming wildflowers or sit for hours staring through a pair of binoculars for an elusive species of butterfly.

That was their biggest difference though. Their biggest difference wasn’t discovered until just last week. They’d been on a hike, it being the season for the wildflowers to bloom, and Chloe had wanted to get some new photos. TJ went with her and good naturedly complained about sunburns and mosquitoes. He’d been goofing around on a rather precarious part of the trail when his foot slipped and she’d watched in horror as he tumbled over the cliff. Chloe remembered feeling a warm tingly feeling in her hands, wishing she could reach out and catch his fall when he was suddenly plopped gently back on the trail by a windswept ponderosa pine.

“You can command plants. I mean, that’s cool. Hey, can you make the grass grow and trip the other team at my soccer game tomorrow?” he asked. He had a baseball in his hand and was tossing it back and forth.

“TJ! That’s cheating!” she admonished. TJ laughed and chucked the ball toward her. She waggled her hands uselessly in the air and the ball sailed past her left ear and landed with a soft pfft in a trumpet vine. The vine reared back, tossed the ball in a perfect arc back to TJ’s waiting hands.

“Nice!” he exclaimed. Chloe sighed. The trumpet vine was more coordinated than she was.

“Stop it,” she hissed. She wanted to keep her newfound power a secret. If people knew, she’d have to go to the Superhero Academy and leave her books, her butterflies, her hikes, and her best friend behind. Students at the Superhero Academy lived up to literal superhero expectations. They solved crimes, saved hundreds from certain death, and generally kept society functioning. Chloe didn’t think she could deal with that sort of pressure. Plus, they had to wear crazy spandex suits that flattered the type of body she didn’t have.

“Chloe, you’re being ridiculous. You know you got an awesome power. You, like, command nature. That’s way better than some stupid laser eyes any day.” At that moment one of the Academy students with said laser eyes came by them on a hoverboard casually zapping bits of trash along the street, turning litter into ash. His hoverboard hit a bump and he tumbled forward accidentally zapping a newly planted maple.

“Oh no!” Chloe yelped and held out an arm. The laser sight bounced off the tree and was scattered harmlessly in the air. She could sense the tree’s great relief.

“Whoa!” TJ said, his mouth forming an “Oh” of admiration.

*****

Chloe often thought of that day, the day she was discovered and ripped from her quiet life and thrust into the busy world of the Superhero Academy. Over the past few years, she’d grown a bit taller, cut her hair, but still didn’t fill out the suit quite the way the girl who could command water did. She missed TJ terribly. She’d been taking final exams when he played in the state finals for baseball, but she’d heard from Sal (the boy who could had some kind of telescopic vision and could see for miles) that TJ hit a homerun and won the game. Sal didn’t give her this information out of kindness. He gave it to her so he could tease her about her love of the “normies.” That’s what they called people like TJ, normies. Sometimes they called her a normie too or a normie lover. She didn’t have any friends and was so busy with the demands of the academy that she hadn’t seen a butterfly or a wildflower in months. Okay, that’s not entirely true. She’d seen them, but for practice only. Poor things, subjected to her clumsy attempts at manipulating them. The flowers virtually screamed at her yesterday when she’d accidentally made a daisy drop all it’s petals. Do you want me to be naked! This is an embarrassment! The day after TJ hit the homerun she’d decided she’d had enough. She was dropping out of the academy. She went to the headmaster to declare her intentions, destined to live her life as a mediocre normie and being totally fine with it. Chloe marched down a long gray hallway. The floor virtually shimmered and she could see her reflection looking as frightened as she felt staring back at her. Chloe paused in front of the headmaster’s door and took a deep breath. The headmaster terrified her. He was a huge man of imposing strength who could tear a car in half with his bare hands. Superstrength. She knocked timidly. The door was gray like the hall and shiny. It had been cleaned recently, and not well, for Chloe could see the streaks on the surface. They marred her reflection, making her look wavy and noncorporeal, like a phantom.

There was no answer. She checked her watch. She was well within his office hours so she knocked again, louder and braver than she thought her hand could be.

“Come in!” the headmaster called. Stealing herself, Chloe went inside. The headmaster was speaking to a woman with purple hair. Chloe recognized her as a previous graduate. She’d been a senior when Chloe entered the academy for the first time. Telekinesis was her thing, Chloe thought. As if confirming, the girl twirled her fingers and sent the pens on the headmaster’s desk spinning in a complex dance.

“Alexandra!” he barked. Alexandra smirked and let the pens drop. He turned his attention to Chloe. “Yes Cleo,” he said looking disappointed that his next appointment was the girl with the plant thing.

“I’ve come to declare my intention for next year,” Chloe said. It was supposed to be her senior year. If she completed it, she’d be employed by the International Squad of Superheros or if she wished to further her studies, would be granted permission to attend the Superhero School for Advanced Heroics. She’d never been told of a third option. She knew if you got kicked out, you got sent to some sort of facility where they would rid you of your power before dropping you back into society. She’d heard it was quite painful but was willing to endure a few hours pain in exchange for a life she was happy leading.

“I’m going back. To Newland High School,” she said. “That’s not an option,” the headmaster said silkily, carefully arranging the pens Alexandra had deposited.

“You want to be a normie?” she said with a laugh.

“Yes,” Chloe said, definitely thrusting her chin forward.

“Not an option,” the headmaster growled. “We keep our own with us. Once you’re with us, you don’t go back to them.” “What about the expelled students. You send them back,” Chloe argued. She noticed a ficus tree in the corner cheering her on. Alexandra and the headmaster looked at one another and laughed. “Oh I forgot how naive we all were,” Alexandra said. She turned to Chloe. “They don’t go back.” “What do you mean? Where do they go?” Chloe asked. Only one student had been expelled in the past five years. It happened before Chloe arrived so she’d only heard rumors. Some boy who could fly but who kept invading foreign airspace and almost starting at least two world wars. “They’re dead,” Alexandra said matter of factly. She waved her hands gracefully in the air and spun the headmaster’s photos of his wife and kids in the air. “Alexandra!” he yelped, plucking the picture of his wife on a beach in Bermuda out of the sky. “Knock it off!” She shrugged again and gently set the one with the kids fishing in Lake Tahoe back on the shelf. “You have them murdered!” Chloe said, the familiar tingly feeling rushing into her arms. Behind the headmaster, the ficus stirred.

“Not really murdered. I mean, it isn’t malicious. They aren’t cut out to be superheroes and it’s too dangerous to let someone with powers run around in society unchecked. They must be disposed of,” the headmaster explained. “Now tell me again Cleo” “It’s Chloe,” Alexandra corrected. “Cleo’s the one who can shrink remember?” “Right. Chloe. Anyway, Chloe, let’s try again. You’re not our strongest student, but you haven’t royally screwed up international relations yet either. I think you'd be better suited for a career at one of our outposts. How’s the Amazon? Lots of plants?” he grinned. Chloe wavered. The Amazon didn’t sound so bad. It was teeming with life. She could protect it, turn the trees against the people aiming to chop them down.

“I could protect the trees?” she asked. The headmaster laughed. “Protect the trees? You foolish girl. Trees don’t need protecting. No. There’s an issue with the natives sabotaging the logging company. We need someone to take care of that. You could be our gal?” he said this like he was offering a rare treat. Chloe stared at him, horrified. She’d have to protect the ones destroying the forests, use her powers to oust the native people and watch the beauty of nature burn. She felt a rise of anger in her chest she’d never summoned before. “No,” she said menacingly.

She thrust her hands forward and before the headmaster or Alexandra could react, the fics had locked them both in its leafy branches. Alexandra summoned all manner of office supplies, knocking the ficus with a stapler, stabbing it pointlessly with a mechanical pencil and finally smashing the headmaster’s expensive (and heavy) desk chair against the trunk. Chloe raised an eyebrow. Trees were pretty impervious to being hit with stuff, though it did tend to upset them. “You’re just making it mad you know.” She inclined her head toward the ficus as a way of thanks and marched out the headmaster’s door. “Where are you going!” the headmaster shouted trying to stop ficus leaves from being shoved up his nose. Chloe peered over her shoulder. “The Amazon,” she said with a smirk.