Can you hear me? His words became a tattered piece of paper, snatched by the wind and sent fluttering off into the darkness. He sat hunched in the snow, his gaze not meeting mine but instead staring just past me. Hazy, unfocused. “I hear you,” I whispered. His gaze shifted, still not quite finding mine, but alert. I could see the closest trees through his right ear and shoulder. The finger that worried at his jeans looked thinned, like a spool of thread unraveled. A stiff breeze blew, and a few flecks of white flew from the back of his head.

“I didn’t catch that,” I said. Distress etched his washed out features, sharpening them for a moment. With a frown of concentration, he opened his mouth, deliberately shaping the words. Can you see me? “I can still see you.” Good . The simple word trailed off at our feet, written in heavy dark marker. Chewing at the knuckle of my thumb, I glanced around at the trees, on the lookout for shadows, for some imagined net or rope ready to haul this down. The trees rippled, pale trunks swaying in a silent breeze. Don’t leave me In a blink, he was close as possible, on his hands and knees, his face inches from mine, like a cat investigating an object it wasn’t sure about.

Don’t leave me The two notes fluttered to my lap, insistent. “I’m here.” I knew I could not say more. Our tenuous connection was already thin and frayed, ready to snap at the slightest wrong move. The dream never took much to destroy. In the past, I had tried to hold his hands, tried to comfort him, ask questions. But the questions were like rocks dropped onto a clear pond’s surface, and once those ripples distorted our images, the dream fragmented and broke.

In another blink, he was curled in on himself again, knees tucked against his chin and hands in his hair. Maybe his hair had once been curly, or maybe it was the tangle of branches and bramble I could see through him giving it texture. We sat in silence as he rocked back and forth in the snow. What’s happening to me I knew every question. Weeks of these visits, always on the edge between sleeping and waking, and the questions were always the same. “I don’t know.” Soon the alarm clock would go off. Soon the ground would swallow him up. Once, he simply was not there anymore, and I woke with a sinking dread that clung for the rest of that day. A few more things were left in our routine, my least favorite part. His thin fingers curled more tightly into his hair. At the beginning, this forest we met in had been green. The sky was always cloudy, but the trees looked alive. Each visit seemed to take a little more out of the forest every time, and its season crept by, bit by bit. I hooked my hand into the snow, scooping some up. Little black flecks littered it, like bits of asphalt caught in it. I smoothed it under my thumb, then crushed it into a little ball in my fist, then let the misshapen piece rock in my palm.

Waiting. I can’t feel my body There it was. Something else is inside it An old, familiar fear quaked deep inside me, but I pursed my lips and said nothing, studying the snow. Soon he would say he was numb, and again that he couldn’t feel his body. Maybe one of the questions reshuffled into the mix. The word “it” settled onto my palm. I made a fist again, and when I opened it, the word had been crushed in with the rest of the snow, the dot of the i and the cross of the t the only discernible bits left. The rest had flaked off, becoming more black bits. Can you hear me? “I can hear you.” His hand crossed into my vision, ready to grab mine. I flinched back, scooting across the snow and backing into a tree.

Wretchedness painted his fragmented face. One eye had turned completely hollow, a perfect hole in his head.

“I’m sorry,” I said, unable to explain our thin thread of connection, unwilling to risk it. He stared, his eyes focusing and properly, truly, finding mine. Horror flooded my veins. It’s almost over A wind roared up, buffeting the trees. Their scant few leaves ripped away in its wake. He stared at me, features slowly collapsing and twisting. Don’t leave me Snow swirled up and around, marked with his words and fear. Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me The snow piled up around us, coming up to his knees, his waist, his outstretched hand.

Don’t leave me don’t leave me DON’T LEAVE ME DON’T LEAVE MEDON’TLEAVEME Everything was white and flecked, my vision filling, my body paralyzed as the snow consumed him all the way to his neck. He did not budge, still focused only on me, a tattered remnant of a person struggling to speak as his fear screamed around us. His mouth shaped the words, and his rough voice scratched out, “I’m scar I jolted out of sleep and into a mess of cold sweat and blankets. You know when you wake up from an unsettling dream, and it sets up camp in some corner of your brain? You eat, clean, get dressed, and it tickles from somewhere in the recesses of your subconscious, prodding at your mood and thoughts. You know it’s not real, and that it was only a dream, but the subconscious whispers “maybe” all day. I stumbled through several days like that. The dream clung, a sticky residue that I could not seem to scrape off with dreamless sleep or copious amounts of coffee. The roar of wind sat in my ears, and his heartbeat of panic stayed in tandem with mine.

Several days later, I set up in a coffeeshop, staring at my coursework and unable to concentrate. The cafe was one of those small hipster ones that aimed at a cozy atmosphere. Soft lighting and round, soft looking furniture crowded the space. I’d picked it deliberately, needing the immediate warmth of people around me. Conversations flowed by, fragments trickling into my exhausted awareness. “-- too much homework. I’m dying--” “No way you did that!” “--know what’s going on with Peter?” I took a clumsy sip of coffee, my teeth clacking against the type of heavy mug this cafe liked. “--hi, and it was like he didn’t even know me.” “--text you later about--” “He gave this weird sort of smile, I dunno.” The two guys sharing a table behind me didn’t bother to lower their voices. I heard the chair creak as one leaned back.

“It’s just weird, he didn’t seem, like, normal.” I turned my head to stare out the window. His face was an inch from mine on the other side of the glass. I jumped a foot, sloshing coffee all over my hands, barely even noticing. The man had cupped his face against the glass to see in, his breath fogging over his features, muddying them. As soon as he stepped back into the light with an apologetic grin, I could see him more clearly. His face had color and flesh, almost how he seemed the first time we met.

He strode the few steps to the cafe door and pushed inside with a bell merrily announcing his arrival. The two behind me had fallen silent, though now one called, “Hey, Peter!” Peter said nothing, his grin plastered on as he walked to them. As he came closer, my heart threatened to fling itself out of my chest, either by force or through the hollow pit that used to be my stomach. This had to be a dream again, seeing him in the flesh, but the burning pain on my hand and soaking wet on my sleeve said otherwise. His feet caught my attention. No, not his feet. The crook of his knees. His legs bent at a weird, bowlegged angle, sinking more than necessary with each step. “Yo, what’s up?” the other guy said behind me, and my dream’s visitor settled in next to them with a lot of scraping of chairs. I felt him inches away. “Work was a drag,” Peter murmured, voice soft and slightly hoarse. “Ah, bummer.” I could only sit and clutch at my long-forgotten coffee, an anchor for the rising panic in me. How the fuck was he here? Okay, rationalize. Maybe we’d passed each other several times, and my subconscious grabbed his face and set it in the staring role of my dreams. Unbidden, I remembered the last thing he’d said: “I’m scared”. What had his voice sounded like? “Sometimes,” Peter said, “I don’t think they pay me enough.”

“Retail, man.” He laughed, but how a laugh is written, with two separate “ha ha”s, the briefest of pauses between each “ha”. A shiver ran down my spine.

I wanted to continue to sit and satisfy my morbid curiosity, to pick up every word and sentence and dissect them until all meaning and clue had been pried out of them. But that laugh. I was a coward.

I slapped my laptop shut and began fumbling my scattered things into my bag. After knocking back the last of the coffee, I shot up, slinging the bag over my shoulder. The three of them looked up at the sudden movement. In the crowded space, picked earlier for comfort, his face was close. Peter’s. The dream visitor. I stumbled mid-shuffle, and my bag knocked into the mug, sending it careening to the floor. We watched it spin, handle clacking once, twice, against the tile, until it came to rest a foot from his muddy sneaker. He bent in half and handed it up to me, the same grin still on his face. Trying not to tremble, I took it from him. His fingers were cold as ice. “Thanks,” I mumbled. My ears and cheeks burned as I dropped off the mug at the counter.

The cafe’s bell rang again as I stepped out into the brisk evening. A breeze snatched at my scarf. I wound it more tightly around me and then just stood there, blank with confusion and panic and embarrassment. Autumn had settled over the town, an early chill nipping at everything. All of us were bundled up in sweaters and scarves now. Anyone’s fingers would be cold as ice. I dragged my hands down my face with a soft groan and began shuffling back home, chewing on that embarrassment. As I passed the cafe windows, I glanced up at the trio. They were half-hidden by reflections of the sky and the first streetlamps flicking on, turning the trio into sliced fragments. Peter stared out the window, still grinning and unchanged. The reflection of the sky slid over his face as I got closer, hiding all but the profile of his nose and mouth. His head tilted, curious about something. His mouth formed words I couldn’t make out. I shivered against the fall air and walked home, turning my thoughts to sleep.


“Mum,” I paused and checked the time, “Mum?” Another pause, “Listen, I would really love to keep chatting, but I have to go.” The voice on the other end kept going on and on about the weather for the weekend and her garden. “That’s great mum, but I’m going to go now. I love you.” Before she could respond I hung up the phone as the front door swung open. I quickly dropped the phone face down on the couch and pretended to be focused on the television. A news broadcaster discussed new evidence in a case against a man accused of murdering his pregnant wife and their two small children. I listened to the footsteps behind me as my heart raced, I silently prayed he had missed me place my phone down. “Who were you talking to?” His voice whispered in my ear making the hair on my arms stand on end. My heart sank as I noticed his hand placed closely next to the phone. It was a simple question that had a simple answer, but in his mind, the simple answer would still be wrong. It didn’t matter who it was, he would turn nothing into something. “No one.” I quickly replied keeping my eyes on the phone. Before I could react, he had the phone in his hand and was trying to unlock it. “Don’t lie to me. Tell me your fucking passcode.” “No.” My voice was quiet as I got to my feet. “I said, give me your passcode.” He spat keeping the phone in one hand and his other gripped the front of my shirt. “Give me my phone.” My voice grew louder as I held his gaze. My focus became retrieving the phone and not what could happen in the process. A devilish grin spread across his face. “Give me the fucking passcode, you whore.” Forgetting his grip on my shirt, I lunged for the phone. He dodged the movement and in one swift motion shoved me backward and snapped the phone over his knee. I watched as he hurled it onto the tile floor in the kitchen. I stared at the device on the floor unable to move. The screen on one end was black and the other was lit faintly. A sick feeling overcame me, and tears threatened to fall from my eyes. The one piece of freedom I had was broken, and now I would need to come up with an explanation as to why. He knelt in front of me and whispered in my ear, “Remember this when you want to be a sneaky whore. You think someone will treat you better than me? No one, and I mean no one, will ever love you like me. Remember that.” He stepped over me and made his way into the other room. The tears streamed down my face as I quickly crawled to the phone. There was no one to call, no one I could tell the truth to. All of me felt broken, too broken to be loved. *** The car pulled in; I looked out the window. “Mum?” I watched as he got out of the car, “Yeah, it was great to talk to you, but I will talk to you later.” I said hurriedly. “Oh, okay sweetheart! I’ll talk to-,” I cut her off, “I love you too, bye.” I hung up before she could respond and quickly placed the phone on the counter as the door shut behind me. My heart raced as I stared at the phone, “Hi, honey.” I turned slightly and flashed a smile at him. My eyes remained low as he made his way towards where I stood, “Is everything okay?” He asked. I gestured towards the food cooking on the stove, “I’ve been cooking away. I’m making this Italian chicken pasta dish I found on the internet, and I think it’s going to be amazing. At least I hope.” My mind was racing, I knew he caught me placing the phone down. I waited for the altercation. He nodded slowly and kissed the back of my head before picking up the phone. “Can we talk about this?” He put it back on the counter. “What about it?” This was the moment I had been preparing for since the door shut. I kept thinking of all the ways to get the phone closer to me. I started to feel like a cornered animal and my heart began to race. He sighed and shook his head. “I’m not him.” He paused and pushed the phone closer to me, “All I ask is for honesty. If there is someone else, please tell me. Don’t keep it from me.” I stood dumbfounded as I had expected a fight, to be told I was in the wrong. All I could say was, “I know.” I paused for a moment, “I know you’re not him, and I’m sorry. I’m still learning.” My voice cracked as I tried to hold back tears. He pulled me in for a hug. I was engulfed in his warm and loving embrace and could no longer contain my emotions. I sobbed into his chest, soaking his shirt. “You’re a grown woman, you’re allowed to talk to whoever you want to. You don’t need to be afraid that I’m going to catch you, or that I’m going to be mad that you were talking to someone other than me.” My vision was blurred as I looked up at him, “Thank you. I needed to hear that.” It was the truth. There were many parts of me still broken from the past, and I needed to face them to heal and move forward. I was no longer trapped in a situation of constant pain and suffering. This, the here and now, was what it felt like to be loved how I deserved to be loved. “We will work on it together.” He smiled at me and wiped my tears. I smiled back and then swatted his hand to keep him from tasting the food on the stove. “It’s not ready!” I laughed. *** I stood by the stove preparing dinner when he walked in. A pile of mail left his hands and landed on the table. “Anything good come in the mail?” I asked. He shook his head. “Looks like just some bills and you got a piece of mail from some university. Probably a scam.” I watched as he walked into the bathroom and shut the door. I stood still listening closely for the sound of the shower running, and once I heard it, I rummaged through the mail on the table. The letter he was talking about was at the bottom of the pile. There in the corner of the envelope was the logo for South End University. I tore open the envelope and pulled the letter out. My eyes scanned the page and a smile spread across my face. “What is it?” His voice startled me. I hadn’t noticed the shower stop or heard the bathroom door open.

“I got in,” I said softly. “Got in?” He looked confused. He made his way toward me and took the letter out of my hands. I watched as his eyes scanned the letter and a fire was ignited within them. “What the fuck is this?” He met my gaze as I went to grab the letter from him, and he gripped my wrist to stop me. “I applied to college. I told you that was my plan, remember?” His grip tightened around my wrist, and I winced in pain. He crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor. “Oh, you told me. You told me? You don’t get to tell me what it is you’re doing. You ask me. This decision isn’t just about you. Do you even care about me at all?” “What are you talking about? How does me wanting to better myself make it so I don’t care about you?” I said confused. He laughed and threw his arms up. “You’re so stupid. This means we will never have anything nice because your dumbass just put us hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. So inconsiderate, and it’s a waste of your time. You don’t need to be busy with school when there is shit to be done around here.” I pulled my arm away from his grasp. “I don’t need your permission to do anything. I am going back to school, period.” I tried to stand taller to show I wasn’t going to back down to him this time but flinched as soon as he stepped forward. “We’ll see how long I allow you to take these classes.” He said through clenched teeth. When he walked away, I picked up the crumpled letter on the floor and stuffed it into my purse. *** I stared at the typed-up email in front of me, contemplating whether to hit send or not. The longer I thought about it the more I thought about when I had originally applied. All of me wanted to hit send and take the leap to better myself, but his voice played in the back of my mind; This means we will never have anything nice. “Hey, can I talk to you?” I asked. The television played the basketball finals which were very important to him, and part of me felt horrible for interrupting. Within seconds of me asking he paused the television and turned to me, “You can talk to me about anything.” He said. I shifted nervously in my seat. The words evaded me. I was embarrassed for even bringing it up, inside I knew he would support me. I still couldn’t help but feel I would be ruining his life if I didn’t talk to him first. I finally broke the silence, “I want to go back to school and finish earning my degree.” He caressed my hand in his and smiled. “Do it.” I searched his eyes looking for any sign of doubt, anger, or discontent. It was the answer I was looking for, but I still felt like it wasn’t the answer I was meant to receive. “You don’t think I would be ruining your life by making that big of a decision?”

He stared at me for a moment, knowing the reason behind my question. “You want to know what I think?” I nodded in response. “I think, you should never feel as though you are ruining my life by bettering yourself.” He paused for a moment tracing my hand with his fingers, “I also think, if I ever make you feel as though you’re ruining my life by doing something for yourself then I’m a horrible person.” “Okay.” I squeezed his hand and pressed send on my email. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he went back to watching the game. I noticed my heart rate slow and felt at ease. He is not him, I thought to myself, he will never be him . I am free to be me. *** “What do you think?” I asked. “I can’t believe you chopped all your hair; you look like a completely different person! I love it. It looks so good!” My best friend shrieked in excitement. “It is a change I’ve been needing. I’m so happy with how it turned out!” I said with a smile. “Has he seen it yet?” It was a dreaded question that I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Not yet.” I said, “He’s going to hate it though.” “What do you mean? You look good, why would he hate it?” She asked. There was a long list of reasons. I hadn’t told him about my hair appointment would be the first, the second would be the length, and the third would be because I was gone all day, and nothing got done in the house before he got home. “He just doesn’t love short hair on me. That’s all.” I shrugged. My mind wandered as I considered every scenario that could occur once he sees my hair. My best friend's voice started to fade into the background as I became lost in thought. When I pulled into the driveway his car was already there. I took a deep breath as I slipped my phone into my pocket to keep it as close to me as possible and slid my hood up. The door creaked open, and only one light was on in the corner of the room. He was sitting in front of his computer. His hands were moving erratically as they pressed and pushed buttons on a controller and a headset covered his ears. I crept towards the kitchen watching him waiting to see if he would notice me. When I made it to the kitchen, I let out a sigh of relief and let my hood fall.

“What the hell did you do?” His voice boomed startling me. I spun around to face him. “You scared me.” I held his gaze and could see he was expecting more of a response. “I got my hair done today,” I said. “When did you tell me you were getting your hair done?” He questioned. “I told you a couple of days ago when I made the appointment,” I said as I backed further into the kitchen.

“Oh, you told me. You TOLD me. I forgot we don’t ask about things anymore we just tell.” He looked at me with disgust as he reached out and touched my hair, “What the fuck did you do? Do you like looking like someone took a chainsaw to your hair? That’s what it looks like. You are supposed to ask me before you do anything to your hair, do you understand?” His voice grew louder as he spoke, and I continued to retreat further back into the kitchen. “I thought it looked nice,” I whispered and bit down on my lip to keep from crying. “I thought it looked nice,” he mimicked. “It looks awful. Women with short hair are ugly. You are ugly to me now, does that make you happy?” I shook my head still trying to hold back tears and was now trapped between him and the counter. “One day you will listen to me.” He quickly grabbed my hood and yanked it back over my head. He pushed down causing my leg to give out underneath me. I cried out in pain as my knee connected with the tile floor. Without looking back, he went back to his game. I slowly and quietly crawled into the other room and shut and locked the door. The pain from my knee was radiating down to my ankle. I sobbed and pulled my phone out of my pocket. When the screen lit up my eyes grew wide. I put the phone up to my ear, “Mum?” I said. “Pack your bags. I’m coming to get you right now.” *** The radio played softly in the background, and I fixed my hair in the mirror. “Thank you so much mum, I love it.” I smiled brightly. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Happy Birthday.” We pulled into the driveway of my home and his truck was parked outside. “He’s going to love it. I’m sure he’s even planned the most romantic evening for the two of you.” My mother gushed. “He always plans the best evenings; I’m not sure he’ll want to go out anywhere with me if he hates my hair though.” My smile slowly faded. I was filled with worry and doubt. It had been years since I had last done anything to my hair, and I could still hear his voice whenever I thought about changing it. You are ugly to me now. My mother took my hand and squeezed it. “Do you like it?” She asked. “Yes,” I said. “Then so will he.” She released my hand and looked toward the front door. “That man in there loves you the way you have always deserved to be loved. I thank God every day for that.” Tears were forming in her eyes. She embraced me and rushed me out of the car to keep herself from crying. I entered the home, and the lights were dimmed, candles were lit, and there was a small gift on the table. He came around the corner and stood in the doorway. “There’s the birthday girl!” I flipped the switch to the kitchen light and pointed to my hair, “Do you like it?” I asked. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. The longer he stared at me the more I wished I had on a hoodie to hide in. I started to feel insecure when he finally said, “Is that the color you wanted? It doesn’t look like the picture you showed me.” I could feel myself going numb, even though the words didn’t come directly from his mouth I knew he hated it. All I could think about was how my hair didn’t resemble the picture and how he must think I’m a liar. My mind began to race, and I felt the urge to run away. “Are you okay?” He asked breaking my train of thought. “I’m sorry I even dyed it, and it seems like I lied when I showed you the picture. I buy box dye to fix it.” The words fell from my mouth. I wanted to hide but had nowhere to go. He took my face in his hands and I focused on his deep green eyes, “Listen to me,” he said, “I never said you were a liar, and I don’t care if it doesn’t look like the picture. I don’t even care if you hate it. I think you’re beautiful, no matter what. Do you understand?” I nodded. “You are beautiful, and deserving of my love, of all love. I am not him; seeing you happy is what makes me happy. Do you understand?” I nodded.


"Richard, as we established in your first session, they’re yours. The information you share stays in this room. We are now in your third visit, and it’s mimicking the first two.  You haven't said a word for twenty-five minutes. If you aren't going to utilize the time—" "Well, Stanley," Richard interrupted. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward on the small sofa, and continued. "As you just pointed out, it's my time. You're still getting paid, so what the hell do you care?" Not even trying to hide his smugness, he leaned back, and casually draped his arms across the back of the sofa. "It's Dr. Bennett, Richard. Please try to remember that.”          “Who names their kid Stanle y, anyway?” Richard snickered, seemingly on a roll with his sarcastic wit. Dr. Bennett gave him a pensive look, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He set his notebook aside, and picked up the phone. After a brief pause, he said, “Amy, please contact Captain Sheridon at the 53 rd precinct. Inform him I’ll have my evaluation and recommendation on Richard Sullivan’s return to work status by tomorrow morning.” “Yes!” Richard blurted out. With a wide grin, he shook his fist in triumph. “Finally, something positive comes from this total waste of time. I should have been back on the streets two weeks ago.” Dr. Bennett removed his glasses and took his time polishing them. Putting them back on, he looked across his desk, and said, “Richard, you have no idea what my recommendation will be, and the only person who considers this a waste of time is you. Have you forgotten why you were sent here in the first place?” Richard’s grin slowly faded. He looked down for a second, then up again with a serious, defiant look. Shaking his head, he said, “No, I will never forget the day I thought that son of a bitch was going to hack me to death with a machete. It was a righteous kill.” “No one has ever said it wasn’t,” said Dr. Bennett in a soft tone. “So, what’s all this psychobabble bullshit for?” Richard raised his arms in a sweeping gesture, then ticked off points on his fingers. As he did so, his voice grew louder. “The guy was high; he came at me with a machete; I told him to drop his weapon, but he kept coming. I fired my weapon, as I was trained to do. End of story.” Richard opened his hands like a book, then closed them. He stared at the psychiatrist. The doctor nodded, then said in a low, calm voice, “Except that guy who came at you with a machete was only fourteen years old.”  When there was no reaction or response, he kept going. “Even though your own safety was at risk, finding yourself in a situation where you were forced to shoot anyone, but especially a child, had to be the most difficult circumstance anyone could imagine.” Richard still said nothing. His gaze moved from the doctor to the floor. Neither spoke for several minutes. Eventually, and in that same relaxed, comforting voice, Dr. Bennett said, “When you’re out there keeping the public safe, and the adrenalin is pumping, it must feel like the best job in the world.” Richard looked up, and said in a more thoughtful tone, “You finally get it. Some of it, at least.” He stood up and paced in front of the sofa. Moving toward the desk, he placed his hands on it, and leaned in until he was less than a foot from the doctor’s face. Dr. Bennett backed his chair away a few inches. Richard didn’t seem to notice. He said, “And that’s exactly why I need to get back out there. Ya gotta know Doc, patrolling the streets, having to be alert at all times, it’s my life. It’s all I ever wanted to do, and I’m good at it. I hope to make detective someday.” Dr. Bennett nodded appreciatively, and gestured for Richard to go back to his seat. Maybe there would be a breakthrough, after all. That was the most the man had said about anything related to the job. He said, “I understand how important your work is, and from all reports, you’re really good at it, but Richard,” the doctor tilted his head a bit, “what do you do when the chaos dies down, and the adrenalin disappears? How do you untangle all of the thoughts from the day when you find yourself alone? It’s only natural that events would play in your mind.” “Oh, so we’re back to that. That was sneaky, Doc, playing up to me like you understood where I was coming from.” Dr. Bennett rested his arms on the desk, and said, “Look, I know you aren’t a callused, uncaring person. Maybe you came from a family who thought sharing feelings and being vulnerable were signs of weakness. I don’t know, but I promise you they’re not. What happened that night had to have left some kind of impression. Not only was he a kid, but it was also the first time you ever fired your weapon. I’m just trying to help you come to grips with the issue, and recognize the emotions and be okay with them.” Richard fidgeted in his seat, cleared his throat a couple of times, then looked up at the doctor with a defeated look. Shrugging, he gestured with open hands, then dropped them. Tears glistened in his eyes. Swiping at them with the back of his hand, he cleared his throat again, and said, “You’re right. I haven’t slept through the night since it happened. I can’t see a kid on the street and not see him.” A sob escaped, and he choked out, “Damn him! Why didn’t he listen to me and just drop that damned machete?” Tears were streaming down his face. Dr. Bennett moved slowly around the desk until he was standing in front of Richard. “Because he was high on PCP. You did everything right that night. The only reason you’re here is because you needed to say it out loud.” Richard let out another loud sob, then sat down and covered his face with his hands.          A knock at the door startled both doctor and patient. It opened, and someone stuck their head in. “I hope you guys are done. We need the room for another role-play rehearsal.” “Sure. Just give us a second to gather our stuff.” Jonathan Wells, playing the role of Dr. Stanley Bennett, patted his friend on the back. “You’ve come a long way tuning in to your emotions. You almost had me in tears. Great job!” Randy Thomas, aka Richard, blew his nose and said, “Thanks.” Standing, he grabbed his jacket while Jonathan picked up his empty notebook from the desk, and said, “We’ve worked our lines ‘til we know them backwards and forwards. Let’s go grab a beer.”


The sounds of the fireplace slowly died and Lyla began to hear her grandfather’s cabin come to life. Without the crackling of the flames, she heard the creaking of the old wooden structure as the wind outside relentlessly pounded against it. With every gust, the walls whined, giving the impression that soon the roof would peel off and expose her to the elements. She was alone, it was getting dark, and she was terrified.

Lyla’s grandfather had built the cabin when he had first arrived in Canada as a young man. He raised her mother in it, and it was Lyla’s weekend refuge as a child. She had fond memories of playing outside in the woods while her grandfather collected the sap from his maple trees to make her candy. However, every time the night came and darkness crept in on those woods, she would be rushed inside and sat in front of the stone fireplace. Her grandfather would tell her never to go outside when the moon came out, and that something evil lived deep in the forest.

She hated these fireside stories and resented him later for scaring her as a child. He spared no details as he lectured her on the horrifying creature he claimed to have seen. Tall and pale, with skin pulled so tightly over the bones you could see every detail of its thin skeleton. It had bright-coloured eyes that glowed in the darkness. Its fingers were long and slim with nails like claws growing to a fine, sharp tip. It ran faster than the eyes could follow and was able to draw you out with the call of its many voices. He would always finish his tirades by telling her, ‘Lyla, if this monster doesn’t kill you, it will change you forever.’ Many years later, Lyla lay on the rough wooden floor of the cabin in front of the fireplace where her grandfather used to scare her, wishing he were here as the sun went down. His delusional lectures made many around him think he was insane. One night, he disappeared and was assumed to have wandered off into the woods surrounding his cabin. They never found him, and every weekend since his disappearance, Lyla would return to the cabin, hoping he would walk through the door. The fire had died and the once warm floor quickly grew cold. She knew she needed more firewood if she had planned on making it through the harsh Canadian night. The stock was empty and her only chance to avoid hypothermia was to go into the place she had been terrified of since she was a child–outside. She buried her fright and rose off the floor and onto her feet. She walked across the room to the small wooden table next to the door, picking up a packet of matches. Pulling one out, she dragged the grainy tip across the table and a small light illuminated the room.

In the soft orange glow, she was face-to-face with a picture hanging on the wall of herself as a baby in the arms of her grandfather. His smile beaming through his thick red beard, he looked down on her with eyes full of love and happiness. A tear rolled down her cheek as she wished he could look at her like that again. Next to it, another photo drew her eyes as his bright yellow touque made him stand out against the snow surrounding him. His sleeves were rolled up and he was carrying a bucket of sap. On his bare forearm, red from the cold, she saw his tattoo. The name Lyla clearly inked onto his skin with her birthday underneath it. He got it the day after she was born.

Wiping the tears of these memories off her face, she shoved the match into the lantern on top of the table and the small orange light became a shining beacon, bringing the whole room to life. She picked it up and reached for the rusting doorknob. Her grandfather's words echoed once more in her ears as she grasped it.

‘If this monster doesn’t kill you, it will change you forever.’ She hesitated as she remembered every terrifying lecture, but she needed wood to get the fire burning again. She had no choice. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to clear her mind of her grandfather’s monster, she grasped the ice-cold handle and opened the door.

She stepped out of the cabin and into the night. The cold air stung her face so intensely it burned as if it were hot. She pulled a scarf over her nose and continued further into the snow. The woodpile became visible on the edge of the glow from her lantern. She trudged through the snow, lifting her legs up high to free her feet and reach out for her next step.

She trekked forward, just steps from the covered pile of logs when something caught her eye. A line of tracks in the snow emerged from the woods, circling the pile of wood and leading back out into the tree line on the other side. They were long and spaced apart as if a person had made them, but Lyla shook her head.

‘Probably just a coyote or something,’ she muttered to herself under her scarf. ‘Just grab your wood and get back inside. Grandpa was sick, there is no monster.’ She stepped over the line of tracks and reached for the tarp covering the wood. She wiped a layer of snow off the top and whipped up the corner to reveal the wood pile underneath. The partly frozen tarp ripped at her pull, and she fell back into the thick white blanket of snow. She was partly submerged and struggling to get back to her feet as she stared up into the trees. The light from the lantern shot up into the sky and revealed a pair of bright yellow eyes staring down at her through the branches.

She screamed in horror as the eyes that haunted her childhood dreams were no longer a thing of fiction. Unable to get to her feet, she crawled in the snow as if she were swimming in a white lake, trying to return to the safety of the cabin. She heard the snapping of twigs and branches behind her, followed by a loud thud. She reached the doorway of the cabin and threw the door open, then turned around to face the noise. It stood on top of the pile of wood, illuminated by the lantern she forgot in the snow. A tall and thin humanoid creature with skin as pale as the white snow it stood in. It was so skinny she could see its bones pressing outwards as if they were trying to escape the skin containing them. She slammed the door shut, locked it and pulled the heavy wood table in front to barricade it. Lyla burst into tears as she backed away from the door. Her body was not frozen with fear, but convulsing in horror. Her shaking was so violent that she could no longer stand and she fell to the floor at the base of the now dark and frigid fireplace. Her monster was no longer fiction, it was very much alive. Years of therapy to recover from the fear her grandfather rooted within her were thrown out the window. Her seemingly crazy grandfather was telling her the truth. He was not trying to scare her–he was trying to warn her.

Lyla lay on the floor, praying for her grandfather to help her when she heard a deep voice cry out from beyond the door.

‘Lyla please help me! It’s so cold out here!’ She sat in silence, still vibrating from shock. The voice, though muffled through the door, was familiar to her.

‘Lyla don’t leave me out here, please open the door!’ it called out once more.

‘Grandpa?’ she thought to herself.

She stood again, her legs gaining strength at the thought of her grandfather being just outside. She walked towards the door, troubled about what to do. Her grandfather had been missing for months, she knew it could not be him. The voice kept calling from outside as she got closer and closer to the door. She propped herself up onto the table and grabbed the dusty curtain covering the window at the top of the door. Pulling it aside, she cautiously peered out, the lantern still lighting up the front of the cabin, but there was nothing there. Suddenly, a figure stepped in front of the window, its yellow eyes staring directly into hers. It shrieked so loudly that she covered her ears to protect them from the sharp note. The figure rammed into the door and the barricading table gave out, throwing her onto the floor.

She rolled over to face the door as the figure stepped into the darkness of the cabin and grabbed her ankles. It had hands so cold to the touch they felt like ice through her thick denim pants. She was pulled out into the cold once more, screaming as she went. The creature dragged her through the snow while she kicked and screamed. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to free herself from its long talons. She got closer to the lantern that still burned in the snow and saw the arms gripping her legs tightly in greater detail.

The left forearm had small blurry numbers which she recognized as a tattoo stretched thinly on the pale skin. Above it, clear as day to her terrified eyes, the name Lyla in blue ink. Her prayers for her grandfather to come for her were answered, but not in the way she had hoped.

Her grandfather released her right leg and the tattooed arm swiped at her head with his long claws. She fell motionless into the soft bed of snow. The light from the lantern now faded as she was pulled into the darkness of the woods. Her grandfather's words echoed in her head.

‘If this monster doesn’t kill you, it will change you forever.’


It was moving day. That was the way that her kids had put it, the day that she would leave behind her whole life, everything that she had worked for, the house that she had lived in, loved in, lost in, and go find herself in a sterile room. Of course, the house looked nothing like she remembered it now. It was all boxes, all her memories packed up into tidy little boxes. They were labeled, of course, but her old eyes had a hard time piecing together what those cramped fonts said from so far away. Part of it may have been that she just didn’t want to. She didn’t want to think about trying to fit an entire house worth of memories into a room. It would be her room, but in another sense, it wouldn’t. She was just borrowing it for the time being. Then, when she was gone, it would be someone else’s to borrow. Forever on and on, the cycle would continue of geriatric wanderers, lost to their families and their properties, shuffled into rooms that, despite the effort, never really lost that sameness.

A sighed pulled through her, taking more energy than it used to. Everything took more energy than it used to. Fondly, she remembered the days when she sat in this chair, this one with the now- broken arm, and told her grandkids never to grow old. She was old then, but she felt infinitely older now. What she wouldn’t give to be only that old again, the old that wasn’t devalued by society. The clock was ticking from one of the boxes, but she couldn’t hear it. She just knew that it was ticking. She knew that time was still going in the same way that she always had, although this was more a walk with an old friend than the grand stands against it that she had taken in the past. However, her friend was waiting, counting down the seconds until her children would come in their cars to take her and her things away from her old life. She wanted to remember every detail. If only she had the energy to take it all in a little bit more. It was in these slow, measured, careful scans of the room, achingly full of memory, that her eyes lit on the box. It was one that she hadn’t seen in years (a number that could better be described in decades, quite honestly), with a thick, simple top and solid hinges that kept it closed. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but she would know it anywhere. Her younger hands could have found those clasps slowly peeling from the wood in their sleep back in her prime. She pulled it into her lap from its hiding spot on a nearby shelf (tucked behind some old photo albums, nearly pushed out of sight), relishing the solid weight of it, remembering all of the times that she had completed this same action in the past. The clasps were more difficult now. Her joints reminded her of this, protesting the small, delicate movements with sharp jolts of pain that arced up the backs of her hands. The treasures inside would be worth that, however.

Pulling back the lid, she saw it, written all over the old, yellowed paper, long protected by that simple box. His handwriting. Long since gone, George had been her high school sweetheart, the man who’d stayed with her as she went to college (helped her fight with her family that she should even go), they’d begun a family, and then he got sick. Those days were bitter. Those were the ones in which she wasn’t sure that they would make it, any of them. There were just so many bills. So many things to do and not enough people to do them. There was not enough time in the day. George had sent her letters in high school when they were young, dumb, and had nothing to worry about and again when they were separated by distance while she was getting her education. When she couldn’t see up from down, that was when the letters started again. Then, when they were at their lowest. His hand was more mature, shakier because of the illness, but it was still his. It was her light through those dark times, the push to continue on. When he wasn’t there to send them anymore, they were the reminder that he was still close. It wasn’t even that they contained anything inspiring, just pure nonsense, letting her know that he was there, that he was present, that he cared. Then they began to hurt too badly and she put the box away.

She thought that they were gone forever. Yet here they were. Again, at her lowest, he always found his way back to her, his brash, childish penmanship melting into a more adult version, always reminding her of the good things in life, the reasons to keep fighting. He didn’t need to write to her anymore. He had already said everything that he needed to say. And it did feel like he was saying it all to her again, consoling her, telling her it would be all right. She knew, deep down, that soon she would be joining him. It had been too long already. That little room couldn’t hold her forever.

The metallic caw of the doorbell announced the arrival of her son, on his way up. He knew the door was unlocked; he just rang the bell to be polite. She no longer needed to worry about the house, the boxes, how everything would fit- she had George. He had found her again. “What have you got there?” her son asked gently. He seemed to feel the need to treat her like she was a child again, but this time, she minded less. She used to get mad, snap at him, but she could have sworn, just for a second, that the hand he had placed on her shoulder felt like George’s hand, older, more competent, reassuring.

“Something from the past,” she said. “Now, are we ready to go?”


Damn! My car had hit a pothole, and now I am stuck in this hot, dry, and dusty little Karoo town until another tyre to fit my car could be located. I buy a cold drink and find a bench under a bedraggled excuse for a tree. I feel as bedraggled as the tree with me blouse sticking to my body and my hair hanging limply down my neck. As I try vainly to get the sand out of my shoes, I notice an old man who had been intensely watching me negotiate with the mechanic now limping his way to the bench to sit down beside me. I have no idea why cars can’t be standard; why we can’t have ‘one size fits all’, and why mechanics all over the world shake their heads while trying to rub car grease off their hands with a cloth that is full of grease. Everyone knows that the car is not going in for an operation, and that it can be fixed, but if you are a woman, the mechanic has a field day; the only sign language he knows is how to shake his head and wipe the oil off his hands, and the more he shakes his head and studies the oil on his hands, the more you are going to pay. I am so caught up in my own woes that I am barely aware of the man sitting beside me until a puff of smoke drifts past my nose. Cigarette smoke makes me nauseous, cigar smoke is even worse, but the aroma of this particular brand of pipe tobacco is not only welcome, it is intoxicating to my senses as it takes me back to a time when I was just a little girl over half a century ago. There had been a major polio scare in the city and schools had closed as children were at high risk. To keep me safe, my parents sent me off to my Uncle Chappie who farmed in the Karoo. Perhaps it is because of returning to this arid area that my nostalgia has slipped in. No, it is definitely this rich smell of pipe tobacco that I remember so well. My uncle usually had his pipe clenched between his yellowed teeth, even when it was not lit. I can’t remember when last I had seen someone smoke a pipe; perhaps that is why the comforting smell makes me look at the stranger who smiles at me; I quickly looked away before he can start a conversation. The aroma of blended tobacco takes me back to the little whitewashed rondavels with thatched roofs clustered around a courtyard. There was no electricity, no running water, and I loved it. I had my very own rondavel to sleep in, and a candle next to my bed. In the morning I would be up before sunrise, and along with Uncle Chappie, we would go down to the dam to brush our teeth. He would tell me how important it was to look after my teeth while I looked at his stained teeth that had worn away where his pipe sat. Those halcyon days were spent learning how to milk cows and herd the sheep to different pastures. I learned to herd the sheep to the trough to drink as they did not drink from running streams. The farm worker’s son taught me how to communicate with the animals. I named him Hop-a-long, and we developed such a close bond with each other and with the animals that all of my uncle’s animals were thriving under our care. I taught Hop-a-long to read, and he tried to teach me how to read spoor. He was an amazing tracker; he could tell the difference not only between the different types of animals (sheep, goat, or buck), but could even tell whether they were male or female. All I could discern was the difference between the spoor of cattle and of sheep. My favourite time of the day was in the evening. I would sit next to my uncle on the bench watching the stars appear while we waited for my aunt who was preparing dinner. The delicious aromas that came from the kitchen were succeeded by the smell of the pipe tobacco. Lighting the pipe was a ritual. The old tobacco would be knocked out on the heel of the boot, then a pipe cleaner would be found in a pocket somewhere; once it had been poked into the pipe a couple of times, it would once more disappear into a pocket. The tobacco box would be fetched, this was no ordinary box; it was small and rectangular with a picture of a boxer on the lid. I would hold the box and trace out the word ‘Chappie’ that had been engraved above a picture of a boxer whose legs seemed to be too skinny for his body. The tobacco was then pressed down into the pipe with a calloused thumb; only once it had been tamped to the correct degree was the pipe lit, and we would sit back and enjoy the cool evening breeze. Well those days were long gone, I am about to go and find some water to drink as the cold drink had done little to quench my thirst, when the man sitting next to me starts knocking the tobacco out on the heel of his shoe. I shake my head. I must be hallucinating, this heat has obviously caused me to dehydrate. The man still says nothing, he just puts a little wooden box down on the bench between us. I give the box a perfunctory glance, then I stop and stare; the picture of the boxer has faded away, but I can’t take my eyes off the word ‘Chappie’ which is still clearly discernible. I look at this man who is now beaming from ear to ear, and I can’t believe my eyes. “Hop-a-long, how did you recognise me?” I sign. He puts his pipe down to answer: “I could never forget the girl who taught me how to speak with my hands.”


A wise woman once said, “If I could turn back time if I could find a way, I’d take back all the words that have hurt you, and you’d stay.” I wondered what she meant until the day I told you that I wasn’t sure if you were the love of my life. I don’t remember what brought this on. Memory is hazy and then it has an aching clarity. It is blurred, then it is searingly sharp. I wonder if you remember this, too. I wonder if you remember that one day we were fine, then we weren’t. In a moment love went from being exciting and new to a source of peril. Did you know that the person with the proverbial sword can cut themselves, too? Breaking someone else’s heart can shatter yours, and there is no balm or sympathy for the enemy.

Before you hate me, you have to remember, that I was 19 and the only other loves I ever had were taped to my walls. Or it was tragically unrequited. There were the athletes with girlfriends who didn’t look anything like me. The musicians who would never make me their muse. The others at school who looked past me. The boys who couldn't find anything lovely within me, the girls who didn’t realize I could fall in love with them, too. That is where we met, in a young adulthood that left me primed for rejection. I had gotten very good at being alone. It is a skill to let people know you and keep your core so guarded. I developed the skill of being friendly and somehow distant. Everyone thinks they know me well and yet no one really does.

You looked like everyone else on the surface. And so we started our romance the way so many do, as rivals. You were the only person who would have a retort for my opinions in class. The only one who could keep up with me and the only one that I could gather any respect for. Then you scribbled something on a torn piece of notebook paper and slid it towards me- your screen name. A screen name- that is now in a time capsule with my low-rise jeans and Xanga page. Those memories are tucked away in my treasure chest of a heart, where I retreat when the world feels loveless and friendless. Here you came, breathing and hairy and mildly annoying but somehow I couldn't get enough of you. I would sometimes joke that you were like penicillin- a mold that I saw the benefit in. You became so much more than that. Everything was heightened in your presence and in some exhilarating way, felt like standing at the edge of the world. In a way, it was; I will never know who I would have become without you. Somehow diner burgers felt gourmet and rides with the windows down and radio blaring was the most romantic thing. We were a relationship of firsts: first late-night phone conversations, first trips out of the state, then the country, first person to see me naked, in body and soul. I can’t forget that these first-time adventures were also met with first fights, first tears, first insults, and first betrayals.

Yes, you were the first, but could you be the only one? The prospect of forever is touching and terrifying. Forever of what? With whom? What else could be waiting for me? The future unfurled itself with one more opportunity and three more possibilities in each step. What if the love of my life greets me on the French Riviera? Would we lock eyes and hold hands, reclining on the deck of an opulent yacht? Could I find completion in the arms of a foreigner with an alluring accent and tan arms? Or would I meet this great love on a safari, as we hold our breaths watching a lion stalk his prey?

Could we meet in the mountains of Aspen? I don’t ski, but what if they wandered into a warm lodge at the end of the day, sore from sport, looking up to find me savoring a hot chocolate in some fetching fair-isle sweater? Or what if the love I yearned for all along meets me at the twilight of an exhausted life, in a nursing home with diapered bottoms and soft meals? What if great love is not meant for my youth, but for the end of my days, like the comfort of a quilt after a long day spent in discovery? Young love is easy, but loving someone when the shadow of beauty has fled with memory and flexibility, leaving arthritic joints and fading vision? What if the best is always yet to come? Then, I thought, we would only know our truest love when we are breathing our final breaths, crossing into the Beyond.

No, I don’t know if you’re the love of my life. But I do know my indecision crumpled your face in the worst way. Though I hate to admit it, you were the sun. And I managed to dim the radiance in your eyes. Words are like weapons, they wound sometimes. Looking back, I do know it was the beginning of the end for us. You started to think that you would never be enough for me. You wondered if I would ever be satisfied with anything. In some heated arguments, you told me that I might never be happy and that you could never make me happy. In a way, you were right. I still don’t know who the love of my life will be, because life never stops revealing itself in interesting ways where the blush of a stranger can hold the bounty of affection I’ve been looking for. A stranger is just a lover I haven’t kissed yet. Don’t you know that life and love are endless until they are not? Hurtful as it was, there was a bit of wisdom in my youth; we can only truly take stock of our lives at their completion; you can’t truly look backward and live at the same time. I have pushed forward, determined to believe that looking back is a wasted exercise. But if I could take back the words that have hurt you, would you stay?


Growing up, I always felt out of place whenever they’d start talking about the business. At first, I thought I’d grow out of it and come to love these business meetings and the view of everyone in a slick business suit that look like they’ve never experienced a single wrinkle. They look suffocated by how buttoned up their shirts look. I always wondered how they could sit behind a desk staring at numbers and letters for hours on end. At the age of twenty, I still don’t have a liking for working in an office. I’ve always loved the outdoors. If I dare tell my parents that, they might fall ill. They seem to be allergic to the outdoors for they never want to leave the comfort of their offices. We walk through the main door and whatever activity that seemed to happen before we arrived suddenly stops. Everyone seems to be busy typing or reading something. I know that look. I use it whenever my parents give me an office assignment to do. I can barely focus to get through half of it. “Good morning Mr William. You’re coffee?” She passes the foam cup to my father with her hand slightly shaking. She closes her eyes slightly as my father takes a sip and slowly nods in approval. She seems less tensed as she updates my father on the errands he has for the day. She leaves shortly after with a shy smile and a brief hello as she heads back to her desk. The office hasn’t changed since the last time I was here. Still big, classy and cold. It only has the necessities: three seats, a huge desk and a desktop that matches its size. The drapes are a dark shade of grey which seem to accentuate the room. The man standing right in front of me is my father, The Mr William McCroyale whose clothes are always ironed and black shoes never seem to attract dust. His hair is never unruly and lies obediently in a neat fold. His watch never has a stain and his shirt ever white. He is neat and organized. His blue eyes are ever stern. “How do you like the place, Lillian? All of this will be yours someday.” He smiles as he looks around his office. One might think that he’s just received news that his only child has won the elections. I fidget uncomfortably yet he doesn’t seem to notice. He beams as he sits down and slowly begins to go through the paperwork that’s lying on his desk. The outdoors and all the activities that came along with it give me joy. Sitting in an office seems tiresome and draining. I don’t want to disrespect my parents by telling them that I don’t want to carry on with their legacy. Disappointment will be an understatement. As I look at my father now, his eyebrows furrow, a sure indicator that he is deep in thought, I can’t help but wonder what his reaction will be when I tell him the news. I enrolled in The Tourism Agency for one of their courses and got accepted. Just as I’m about to speak, there’s a slight knock at the door. “Come in,” his deep voice resonates the entire room. His secretary walks in. Her leg is twitching as she tries to control herself. Is she always nervous? “Sir, Mr Clayton’s here to see you.” My father looks up as he puts his paperwork aside. He never puts his work aside. I panic. Who is Mr Clayton? He walks in taking in his environment with a disapproved look in his eyes. “I see the office hasn’t changed. Still a simpleton?” He asks with a smirk plastered across his tanned face. He looks exactly like my father; well dressed, clothes ironed and black polished shoes. His assistant, standing right behind him, is busy biting on her lower lip as her shaky fingers hold onto a folder. “I assume that this the girl you were talking about.” He slowly scans my body as if checking for an error.”Meet Lilian. My daughter.” He says with a proud smile. “It’s lovely meeting you, Mr Clayton,” I say biting on my inner cheek unsure of the events taking place. “She’s perfect,” He says with a smile as I turn to look at my father with a questioning eye. “Perfect for what?”

“You will be marrying Mr Clayton’s son, Ronald, to merge our businesses.” My father says calmly. His smile slightly falters but he’s quick to regain his composure. “It was lovely seeing you, Will. I will keep you posted on the wedding plans.” He leaves soon after, his secretary following closely behind him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask between gritted teeth. “Did you take me like a piece of property that you could sell me off to whomever you wanted to?” He looks at me waiting for the moment I’d keep my mouth shut. “Lilian dear, it’s been a dream to expand the business and we thought that this would be a great way to start.” My father says trying to look composed. Before I have the chance to talk, the door opens and in walks my mother who has a big smile. She’s dressed to impress with her animal print dress and heels that seem far too tight. “I was close by and thought we’d have lunch together.” She says as she stops in her tracks, her eyebrows furrowing together as she takes a glimpse of my sorry state. I hadn’t realized that tears were flowing down my cheeks. “What’s going on?” She asks with concern as she approaches me. “Now isn’t a good time Lydia. How about we…”

“No,” I interrupt him before he completes his sentence,” I have news for you too. I recently applied for enrollment at The Tourism Agency for their courses and just got accepted. I don’t want to take over after you leave the office.” I say as I take in their worry stricken faces. Tears begin to flow down my mother’s face. I thought I’d feel free once I let that off my chest. So why does it still feel heavy?


Everything was good, I recite. It wasn’t, but as I feel the gazes linger on my skin, piercing through my clothes, the humid air almost drowning me in heat, I knew I couldn’t faint.

Not here, Not in front of all these people.

I feel light-headed. “Asian.” They whisper, lips curving into small upside-down crescents, feet scampering away, like a mouse avoiding a cat, hands clutching at their possessions. I look down at my plain dress. My hair slides down like a black snake, spreading itself onto my white dress, yellowish brownish skin giving the typical Asian look, finished with thin, split eyes. People stare point, whisper. “Asian, Chinese, go back to your own country.” I walk, faking, acting, putting on a mask of nonchalance.

A woman approaches me—skin white, designer handbag at her arms, eyes filled with sickeningly fake worry. Her bag is made of snakeskin, decorated with sand-like specks of gold. She smiles, stretching out her lips. It looks unnatural. “Are you lost?” She asks.

I try to reply, my own lips curving into a small smile. But my smiling lips refuse to turn into shapes that make sounds and talk, so I just shake my head. She leaves, muttering about my rudeness, blissfully unaware of my condition. I leave her be.

After the nineteenth turn down from a company, I felt like I was dreaming. People had said it would be hard for a foreigner to get a job in another country, and I had thought differently. I was wrong.  It wasn’t just ‘hard’ for a foreigner to get a job, it was as possible as finding water in the Sahara desert-just not going to happen.

I looked at the buildings towering over the people, like an empire made of glass and iron looking down at their fleshy slaves. Stumbling over nothing, I wondered mindlessly through a light-saturated scene: the sunlight berated down on the hundreds of people, like an invisible whip slashing across work ants, cafés and small shops spilling out into the pavement. I sighed. My feet were aching, dress stained with sweat; I looked a mess. Shaking off waves of confusing emotion, I started toward a bench when a man abruptly came into my path, spilling his papers and drenching my dress with his water. “ I’m so sorry, Miss. Are you ok?” Afraid my voice would reveal my fatigue and discomfort, I nodded, not speaking a word. The man looked genuinely worried-a rare emotion for me to come across, at this period of time. I was confused.  Another wave of unknown emotions threatened to crash across my mind, a tsunami of dangerous emotions, and I panicked. The sky seemed to swim as I  stumbled backwards,  trying to escape from the man’s eyes.

The air was like honey melting in water, and I felt like a fly that had dived in, hypnotised by the fake, deceiving, sweet scent. My heels half taken off from my feet, the blindingly white light reflecting from the buildings started to look like blindingly white snakes, tangling in with my black hair. I didn’t fit in, I reminded myself. But if so,

where do I fit in?

Nowhere. I would always be a misfit. Stranger. Monster. Weirdo. Asian. Foreign. I felt the strength slip out of my body. Anticipating the fall, I closed my eyes, and let black cloud my mind. I was too tired to fight anymore.

——————————————— When I opened my eyes, it was to a scent of stale medicine, a stench of death and life mixed together in one building. A hospital. I sigh, regretting letting my body fade into unconsciousness. Sitting up, my hands clutched the white sheets as a brush of pain painted my body, briefly colouring my vision white. Lips cracked and dry, I started testing my voice. “Hello?” I watched a doctor come to me, dressed in white, carrying a clipboard and a pen that looked like a passage straight to Hell. I knew what he was going to say.  “ Miss Donia?” He spoke with a slight accent, I  realised. He spoke naturally, confidently, unlike how I would ever speak. “Miss Donia?” My heart thumped rapidly. I had to speak, I knew I was being rude. But I couldn’t. My mouth wouldn’t move, lips pressed stubbornly shut.

Resigned, I nodded, eyes refusing to meet his. “Miss Donia, thank you for responding. Your records say that you have been to several mental hospitals for a cure to your strange condition…being unable to speak at all in front of people…am I right?”

Again, I nodded. I let his bold, confident voice wash over me like a wave washing over the golden shore, calming me down. “Miss Donia, you fainted today because of severe stress and sleep deprivation. I will prescribe you some sleep pills and stronger anxiety medication to help you with your current condition. You may stay here for an hour or so.”  I closed my eyes. Darkness was familiar to me, as I often spent the hours together while laying on my bed silently listening to the sounds of the city, rumbling of cars and the soft murmur of people entertaining my mind. Here I heard nurses shouting, metal wheels rolling against the floor, people crying and laughing. While this lulled my ears, I dreamed of my childhood, thousands of days and nights wishing, desiring and dreaming about speaking freely, with confidence and standing up for myself. Then came the thousands of days and nights of immense, indescribable disappointment as the realisation that my superpower, speaking with confidence, would never come. It would be as unattainable as flying, or becoming invisible—just a fantasy of my mind.

While I slip in and out of consciousness, I hear the news announcer speak from the TV. “….Asian discrimination as been increasing rapidly during these days…Everybody just calm down as Asians are not the one to blame for this virus…” Her monotone voice pierces my mind. I wake up.

Recalling my dream, I smile lightly as I think carefully about super powers. While pondering, my body automatically proceeded to pat myself down, make myself look presentable. The once cold looking pasty white hospital walls now helped find my things, and I picked up my phone. While scrolling down on the small white screen, I gasped out a laugh, my face stretching to accustom to the unfamiliar expression.

A small text had come from my twentieth company, saying they would consider employing me. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no, and I was happy to receive a proper response. Hands still and emotions calm, I pushed myself up, ready to start my life again. Silently, I replied to my past self, who longed for a superpower that could allow her to talk. I knew I already had a super power. I always had, though it took some time to realise it. My superpower was the ability to live. It was a unique, special superpower, created from the days and nights I had cried and bled, never giving up on myself. It gave me a barrier, not a perfect barrier, sure, it disappeared when things were harsh,  but it was

there.

I walked out of the hospital, lips still stubborn and unable to speak, clothes still slightly wet, but my eyes were different. The humid, honey-like air still clung on to my frame, and people still whispered, gazes looking at me as if I was a sculpture in a museum, unabashed and bold. But I had regained my barrier, my fatigue and stress resided for the being. Everything was good. Actually good.


           Hector contorted his face as he pulled his nose to the side, flattening out his nostril. He carefully studied the line that ran along the base of his nose, connecting it to the rest of his face. With surgical steady hands, he dragged a cotton swab, soaked in rubbing alcohol, along the smooth valley, gathering up even the most infinitesimal speak of dirt and oil. Exchanging the cotton swab into his right hand he pulled his nose once again, this time to the right, and repeated the methodic cleansing. Upon completion, the swab landed upon a pile of fifteen similar swabs, each one soaked in alcohol, each one assigned to a different area of his young face.            Prior to the beginning of the ritual, he had never anticipated the growing pile of cotton swabs, but upon the conclusion of his first stroke, a swab that rode along the bottom of his jaw on the right side: the true filthiness of his face was revealed. A shade appeared on the soft white cotto, causing him to set down the single swab and retrieve the rest of the pack. He couldn’t risk cross-contamination, not tonight.            Thew next swab’s lofty location was across the hairline. Hector held back his dark black hair, and instead of rubbing, decided to dab the cotton at the very conjunction of the face and scalp. Pulling back the smooth hair proved slightly more difficult than he could have expected. The hour-long shower, which consisted of a thirty-minute hair conditioning soak, proved effective, softening his hair to where it held little resistance to the light pull of his fingers. The momentary setback caused him not even the slightest bit of frustration, but rather a slight smile, indicating his realization of the success of his immaculate grooming.            As he reached the left temple he paused. It was at this spot, on his older brothers face where the event occurred. An event that directly contributed to this evening’s ritual. Five years ago, as his older brother, Miguel, stepped into Karlew Middle School for the first time, beginning his sixth-grade year; a small red bump pushed through his coffee-colored skin. The newly formed pimple had beaten through the creams, exfoliators, and preparation. Unfortunately, the blemish went undetected, by Miguel. If it had, he surely could have hidden the blemish behind a sticker, as pre-teens often do, as in the least combed his hair forward, obstructing the view to others. But no, Miguel didn’t notice, and if anyone else had it went unmentioned until lunch time when an uninspiring fellow adolescent shouted out, “Hey Cano”, a lazy version of ‘volcano.’  Edven thought the pimple only lasted a single day, thanks to an old home remedy involving a paste containing, baking powder, honey, and garlic; the nickname followed him throughout his life. Through creativity, a little fortune, and the short goldfish like attention span of middle-schoolers, he was successful at convincing everyone that the name came from his explosive speed in P.E. Yet Hector knew the truth, and would on occasion, find his brother, alone, his head buried in his hands, melodically repeating over and over, “Cano can’t yo…. Cano can’t yo.” Hector had no idea what he meant by the depressing mantra and dismissed it as a hormonal imbalance. Yet he swore to himself that he would not allow puberty to cause him even the most similar of fates.            His sister, Olivia had had a very different experience with middle-school puberty. Her skin was flawless, the envy of both friend and frenemy. Not one picture existed of her face being less than perfect. Even after posting an exhaustive catalogue of the week, she had the flue during her fifth-grade year, her face remained unchanged. On social media she was constantly being accused of using filters, and despite her most noble attempts at proving the naysayers wrong, the comment section continued to fill with scandalous accusations. From the safety of online separation and even visual distance she was both desired and despised, yet upon closer approach her pubescent initiation was made potently and pungently clear. She stunk. Her armpits exuded a smell that can only be described as undead. A putrid mix of damp decay with floral notes of relentless rot. No over-the-counter deodorant could mask the unforgiving odor. Eventually a secret concoction from Romania was discovered to contradict the stench. Hector had always assumed that the creator of the miracle potion had received the Nobel Prize for chemistry or for some other humanitarian centered category. Fortunately for Olivia, the moment of her ‘flowering’ occurred as she and some of her friends were hanging out behind the cafeteria next to the dumpster. The smell was easily explained and upon discovering that the fungal fragrance was exuding from her own body, she quickly made and excuse to leave. She then had to suddenly, “take care of her ailing aunt” for the next several months and only had contact with her friends through social media. To help sell the lie, Hector had to dress up on several occasion, impersonating different cousins and enduring the olfactory onslaught as he posed in several staged pictures.            Despite the odds being stacked against him, he was determined that he would beat puberty, with both its subtle and blatant attacks. The hour shower not only prepared his hair, but his body as well. He had scrubbed places he had never scrubbed before, using both luffas and exfoliators. With the last dab of the cotton swab upon his hairline he was finished. Never had their existed, in the history of the world, a cleaner, unblemished young man. A proud grim slowly formed. “I don’t know how you did it?” he charmingly questioned his reflection, “but somehow… you did.” He ended the exchange with a finger point, wink, and an even larger grin. The rising confidence exposed his teeth in an overly positive smile.

           He immediately leaned forward. Pulling down his lower lip while jutting out his jaw, he inspected his lower teeth. Not one speck of plaque or discoloration. His gums were a deep rea, contrasting the whiteness of his teeth. Next, he raised his upper lip to inspect those teeth as well. Dental perfection. Raising his hand as a cup in front of his mouth, he let out a quick exhale. Breathing in he could only detect the subtle fragrance of mint. “Not going to happen.” he slowly stated, leaning unusually close to the mirror, “You did it.” Another over-confident smile exposed his teeth, which for a moment looked slightly yellow.            “What the….” he quickly let out as he leaned even closer to himself. He smiled again. They were slightly yellow. To his shock as he closed his mouth to confront his own stare, his skin too began to take on a slight yellow hue. Quickly he closed his eyes. Titling his head down he turned on the faucet. Catching some water in his hands he splashed it onto his face. He looked up again. The yellow hue continued to grow. Another splash of water revealed that even his hands appeared to have a yellow hue, yet when he looked down upon them, his hands appeared perfectly normal. Once again, he held up his hand to the mirror. The reflected hand was turning yellow, yet the back of his hand continued to have the same complexion. Even his exposed chest was slowly becoming yellow. In a frenzy he continued looking back and forth from no mirror to reflection. Comparing the two there was a difference. The mirror was turning his whole-body yellow, and oddly enough a yellow that seemed familiar. In a fit of frustration, he turned away from the torturing glass, and then he saw it. The wall opposite the mirror was yellow, and not just any yellow, the exact shade his body was morphing into. In horror he turned back to face his jaundice counterpart, realizing instantly that he wasn’t turning yellow but instead his reflection was vanishing. “No… not today,” he screamed as he placed both hands upon the mirror, each holding their fading twin. “Please,” he quietly pleaded, placing his forehead upon the cool glass, “I was supposed to have a few more years.” He looked up once again and stared into his own eye; eyes he would never see in reflection again.

           As his phantom body slowly disappeared, he stepped back to take one last look. “I guess I’ll… see ya around,” he slowly let out. He smiled one last time, not an overly confident smile from moments before, but a large smile, big enough for him to be sure. And there amongst the fading yellow teeth, he saw them, two extending fangs.


By the time I was outside, the leaves were on fire. Usually, I’m not a stickler for rules, but standing there, watching the leaves; only the leaves light up in flames, it reminded me of you. I would’ve said the leaves shouldn’t have been alight like that; it was against the laws of science, but this isn’t my story, it’s yours.

If you were here you wouldn’t have bothered with the fire extinguisher, so I don’t either, only watching the leaves smolder in the fire, from a safe distance of course. You might’ve confronted the leaves themselves, stomping on them with those ugly boots you always insisted on wearing. Now, as I watch the leaves burn to a crisp leaving not a trace of flame, I think of those ugly boots. I never did get around to throwing them away.

On the first couple of days, I didn’t believe you were truly gone. People came to my house and gave me their condolences, but what could they know? Every day felt like a blur of routine, forcing myself every day to look outside and remember. Isn’t it weird; that I had already known and didn’t cry? After the leaves stopped burning, I felt the cool damp grass under my fingers. On lucky days, you and I would have enough time to visit the mall, drink our favorite bubble teas and collect dandelions in the parking lot where small mounds of weeds grew between the cement. We’d set our shopping bags down and gingerly place the dandelions into your grandmother’s vase. Your grandmother baked the best cookies when she was alive.

“Doesn’t everyone have a grandmother’s vase in their home?” You had exclaimed, snorting in that special way that meant you were joking and dead serious at the same time. That day, I had calculated the probability of having a vase in a house, and though I searched day after day, my long-lost grandma’s precious vase was nowhere to be found.

“Calista, Calista, don’t be so rigid!” You used to tell me, bumping your elbow into my shoulder. I wished some of your creativity would rub off on me eventually, but she was always the cool college student, and I was the geeky kid nobody wanted to be seen with. Maybe that’s why nothing can surprise me now. Not rabid squirrels, or dancing donkeys for all I care! Not even leaves burning brightly in the mid-afternoon sun.

“Hey, Cally! You wanna catch Starbucks with me?” June always wanted to help me, to be my friend, but you were the only one who I would truly want. I wrapped my almost threadbare fleece over myself protectively, not looking into June’s eyes. She persisted, tugging on my shoulder. “We’ve missed you, Cally. Please re-join the program.” I felt myself moving up to get my bike from the garage. It had been sitting there, my own Vespa, collecting dust, missing its glory days. Maybe I did need to take a break.

The wind blowing through my hair felt like freedom. June and I swept through the inner roads, watching unfamiliar houses covered in Halloween decorations fly by. Leaves littered the roads, and when we drove past them, they blew higher and higher into the sky. We were nearing the intersection to the only Starbucks in town when a familiar brownstone caught my eye. Without stopping to tell June, I made a frantic U-turn, sending my loosely clipped helmet flying onto the road. My Vespa skidded onto the sidewalk, almost crashing into the rickety mailbox dangling from a thin post. It had been a while since I’d been to the McAllister house.

Your brownstone used to be the fanciest on the block. As I walked up to the door, I saw your family’s initials carved into the brick. Where lush flowers hanging from the roof once lay, a brown clipper dangled instead. Your once-proudly boasted tulips now hung limply over the sides of the pot. I almost forgot that your family had moved away once you were gone. Somewhere in Arizona, they said. Somewhere they could find themselves.

I didn’t bother finding the hidden key you always kept in the gutter. The door was termite infested and the house looked all set for Halloween though there were no decorations. I bet I could find all your old belongings, every last one. It felt like intruding, breaking, and entering in your home, but I needed this. Needed your comfort echoing within these walls.

Inside, the walls are thinned out, and paint chips off of the walls in slow, deliberate motions. Tiny drawings of stick figures decorate some of the walls, and I suppress a small smile as I run my fingers over them all the way to your room.

You told me you were leaving a long while before. We had set up a small game of cards when the complaining started, you telling me we were meant for more. You ran your fingers down that silky smooth hair of yours and told me you were leaving. It was all so simple, so well crafted, the old Ford flipped upside down over the cliffside. Broken glass everywhere. You were always crafty, I'll give you that, but I couldn’t believe you had left me for bigger things, bigger dreams than your best friend.

I neared the garage, pausing to check if my thoughts were confirmed. Sure enough, your mini cooper wasn’t there anymore either.

Perhaps it was because you donated it or your family took it with them, but I would for once like to believe, confide in something I wasn't sure about.

Suddenly, the door opened and I knew it was June. She joined me in the backyard on top of a large stone, both of us turning to look at the glowing bright stars. Your story might end here, on this quiet, peaceful night, but I’m not sure I would like my own to end right now. I turned and stared at June square in the eyes. “Starbucks, tomorrow?” “I wouldn’t be happier.”


She dragged a finger through the sand again, watching the valleys she was creating intersect then crumble. “Did you hear me, Sarah? I said, ‘Will you marry me?’” Jake swallowed and looked around, all of their friends were starting to wander off sensing the awkward tension and wanting to distance themselves. Sam was shaking his head, a silent attempt to deter Jake from further embarrassing himself. Sarah still didn’t respond and began poking holes in the sandy highways she had traced around her legs. Jake snatched her hand and she finally looked him in the eye. “I don’t want to get married.” Jake could feel his mouth gaping open like a fish and snapped it closed. The last of their friends peeled away, letting the couple have a moment of privacy. “Why, Sarah? I thought you loved me?” She just shrugged, rolling the comment off her shoulders as if he wasn’t falling apart in front of her. Jake dropped her hand and stood up. She turned back to the sand, not in embarrassment or sadness, but in genuine disinterest. He had the sudden urge to kick sand in her face, to make her hurt the way he was hurting, but he didn’t. Instead Jake stomped away, feeling his face burn and to his shame tears stinging his eyes. He really thought she would say yes. He had asked all of their friends to come watch him propose. Sure, he didn’t have a real ring yet, but he didn’t think she cared about that kind of thing. He thought she would find the twisted ring of grass and flowers romantic. He crumpled the makeshift ring in his hand before throwing it on the ground. He had put himself out there, heart full of love, certain she felt the same. It was fast, but they had been together every day for months and had known each other since first grade. They worked side by side and sometimes Sarah would hold his hand at lunch so everyone knew they were together. Just last week Sam had announced to everyone that Jake and Sarah should get married. Jake could tell it embarrassed Sarah, but she hadn’t disagreed. How could he have misread everything so poorly? No, he couldn’t be this wrong. He knew they were in love. He had never been in love before, but it wasn’t something you just made up for fun. It wasn’t make-believe. Jake wiped his eyes and turned back to beg Sarah to reconsider, to remember all the good times. He wanted to remind her of that moment she was moved to a desk near his, when they first began spending their free time together, when they first said ‘I love you’. But Sarah was gone. The sand was pockmarked from her fidgeting and he thought he could see her hair ribbon half-buried where she had been sitting, apathetic to his declaration while he took a leap of faith, laying his heart bare. Jake whirled around, looking for Sarah in the sea of faces. He recognized everyone there, but couldn’t find his Sarah until… There she was, her pink cotton candy dress still dusted with sand, her hand firmly planted in Sam’s. He was smiling down at her as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Jake fell to his knees, tears streaming freely now. When Jake had invited him to witness his shame had Sam known? Had they already been secretly together behind Jake’s back, or was Sam taking advantage of the moment? Jake’s hands curled in the sand and he began throwing fistfuls in his anger, his sadness. His other friends glanced over from where they were now walking in groups, gossiping about him and Sarah. He hated them all, he hated Sam, hated Sarah. He marveled out how quickly his love shifted into something ugly full of rage. He didn’t know what to do with all of these emotions bubbling up, overwhelming his rational thoughts. Jake kept crying and flinging sand at the world until he finally began to tire. He didn’t notice when Kelly sat next to him, delicately arranging her rainbow skirt around her legs, waiting for him to calm down enough to see her. Jake took a few more sobbing gasps before realizing he wasn’t alone. “That wasn’t very kind of Sarah.” Jake laughed at the obvious statement but nodded his agreement. “I really thought she would say yes. I thought she loved me.” Kelly smiled sweetly at him and gently took one of his hands in hers. She uncurled his fingers and carefully wiped away the sand before linking her fingers with his. “I’ll marry you, Jake.” Jake looked at her in shock and saw she had slid the crumpled ring of grass onto her finger. Kelly had been waiting for Jake to notice her for over a year. She had watched him and Sarah get together, had watched them laugh and hug while she sat in silent agony. Kelly had been Jake’s friend since kindergarten and had loved him ever since he shared his goldfish crackers with her. He had been the only one to help her when she fell in the hallway, dropping her crayons and crying in embarrassment. He had knelt next to her and offered comfort, just as she now sat comforting him. She pulled him up to his feet and hugged him tightly, not caring what people might say. Sarah had hurt him and already moved on to Sam, Jake deserved to be happy too. She knew he might not feel the same way. Kelly knew she might feel the same rejection Jake had just experienced, but it was worth the risk. She held her breath and stepped back, watching Jake’s face transition from confusion and into something close to joy. He nodded with a smile and reached out to link their fingers again. The bell rang and just like that, Jake’s heart began to heal. He felt lighter as he and Kelly walked hand in hand out of the sandbox and back toward the classroom. After all, the heart of a second-grader is a resilient thing.


“ I know it’s a little different, but that could be a good thing Em. We wanted a change afterall, to make a difference and escape the rat race...well here it is.” Tugging anxiously at her tightly drawn back hair the young woman, newly graduated with her Bachelor in IT majoring in sustainable technologies simply smiled...albeit a little grimly at her fiance as she studied her surroundings. The coolness of the underground dwelling was surprisingly soothing on her skin yet it did nothing for her claustrophobia. When Jake had suggested they try this 6 month project building sustainable agricultural technologies in rural communities Em had jumped at the opportunity. After going straight to university after highschool and spending 5 long years of studying intensely and working in dead end hospitality jobs Em knew she needed an escape, a chance to ‘broaden her horizons’ before she got stuck in the rat race...climbing the corporate ladder and doing what was expected of her. Jake’s proposal mere days before their acceptance into the program had worked well, at least she had someone to keep her sane as she attempted to ‘push her comfort zones’. While she knew she was going to be uncomfortable at times on this trip she had hoped that...well she had assumed that wherever she would be living would be her safe space, a place she could relax and rewind in. She had always been heavily introverted and needed her space. The oddly beautiful yet quirky cavern she stood in had her engineering side geeking out while her more withdrawn persona internally freaked out at the fact that she was expected to live underground for the next 6 months. Jake, being a typical architect, was already running his hands over the copper coloured rock walls, his face slack in pure wonder as he took in his home for the next little while.

The only good thing about this whole experience was that she had the opportunity to use her hard earned degree to build an entirely solar powered commercial farm, the first of it’s kind to be trialled in the Southern Hemisphere. The other good thing was that her best friend seemed happy...well ecstatic was the better word.

His almost blinding grin thrown in her direction as he started chattering about the ‘miracle’ that was Cooper Pedy had Em’s anxiety slightly releasing it’s hold on her. If Jake was happy then perhaps this trip wasn’t going to be as bad as her inner introvert thought. After the past year’s events...especially his battle with several viruses and his major engineering project, he had been exhausted...drained. This trip was good for both of them in different ways, she just needed to keep reminding herself of that. Especially when her fiancee seemed truly carefree for the first time in almost a year. Inhaling deeply as she attempted to ignore the musty scent of mould and clay in the air she attempted to fake at least some level of believable enthusiasm, at least for his sake. If he suspected that she was unhappy or anxious he would do anything to help her, even if that meant giving up on the experience of a lifetime. As Jake ran her through the more scientific side of the underground housing in Cooper Pedy Em simply studied her surroundings with a more simplistic view, while she wasn’t an artist she could appreciate the natural beauty of the house, of the town itself. Her new home sparkled in the soft yellow lighting, the mineral and crystal fragments embedded within the Earth walls glittering like the incredibly clear Milky way visible through the glass sky light above the dining room.

Despite hating the outdoors, detesting exercise and having a unhealthily codependence on her laptop Jake and her seemed to fit together perfectly despite their almost opposite interests. Perhaps this trip was a good opportunity to test how they worked as a couple, as a married couple. Sure they had been staying at one another’s student flats for years but they had never had a house together, they couldn’t afford it...no one could afford a house in Sydney these days, especially near the universities. Living together in...in different circumstances, it would be a good test...a good indicator of their strength as a couple. While her initial view of their new housing arrangement had been negative, perhaps she could see the positives after all...even if it was for her fiance's sake. As the program coordinators left to allow the couple to settle in for the night Em watched in amusement as Jake sorted through the hefty collection of DVDs that were stacked in an alcove carved into the Earthy walls of the room itself, next to the small but modern flatscreen. Despite the lack of reception it appeared that they weren’t at a loss for entertainment. Especially when he held up several boxsets of television shows they had both binge watched hundreds of times before. With a genuine smile Em looked at her future husband as she pointed at the Monty Python box set, it was going to be okay..better than okay, they were going to be great. They were going to have the experience of a lifetime and make great leaps in sustainable farming technologies.

“ Apparently the pantry is stacked with our favourite foods, that’s why we had to complete that weird form as part of the application process. I’m going to go and grab us some snacks before we settle in for the night.” Nodding back at him, Em watched him leave the room. Allowing herself a moment to simply relax she headed over to the spacious couch as she wrapped herself up in fluffy blankets, Cooper Pedy’s version of internal heating...a much welcomed reprieve from the rapidly cooling air of the desert night outside. Looking up at the starry sky above her she took in the surrealness of it all...the incredible detail of the twinkling heavens away from the skyscrapers and light pollution, the surprising cosiness of her underground house. The fact that she was about to make a significantly positive difference in terms of environmental sustainability with the love of her life by her side...it made her feel like the luckiest woman on Earth at the moment.