The night I rolled into Eastbrook, after fifteen years away, the cold air burned in my lungs as if I’d swallowed a hot coal, my frozen breath was the smoke rising from my chimney esophagus. When I moved uptown, I thought for sure I’d left this small town behind. I thought I’d never walk these streets again, but then I never thought I’d take a gig like this either. Empty pockets are a powerful motivator.

Turnabout is fair play though, that’s what I tell myself. Policing blackmail is a joke, you always run the risk the blackmailer releases your secrets anyway. You can keep a man behind bars, but what about information? Ideas have a reverse life sentence, once they’re out, they’re out for good. So there’s no choice but to beat them at their own game. That’s what brought Mr. Beckett to my humble office just last night.

“Mrs. Colt” he said directly, opening the door without knocking. “Just Colt,” I corrected. He paused, uneasily, “... Colt, I have a favor to ask.” “I only do favors for my friends. And I don’t have any friends.” “A euphemism, please forgive me.” There was a drawl to his voice, a southerner. That would explain the discomfort with dropping the honorific, southern manners and all that. He continued, “I find myself somewhat uncomfortable with the services I’m about to request.” The disparity between his confidence to open my door with no introduction, and his sheepish need to identify my marital status gave me my first clue of what kind of man Mr. Beckett was. He was a man who was used to being listened to, and who treated appearances as a precious commodity. Probably wealthy, I could use a wealthy client right about now. “Well I can assure you, discretion comes with the profession. Mister…?” “Beckett.” “So Mr. Beckett, what’s so urgent as to bring you into my office when you could have called, but so uncomfortable you can’t admit you’re about to pay for it? I take it you won’t be wanting a receipt then?” “To be frank, blackmail.” “I see. That can certainly be a tricky situation. Tell me, what was the nature of the threat?” “To be upfront ma’am, that’s why I would like to hire you. I’d like to make my own threat.” “I don’t do blackmail,” is what I should have said. I’ve said it before.

Being a private eye is an unfortunately rotten profession. When I started down this path I dreamed of being a modern Sherlock Holmes, using my brilliance to help people in their time of desperate need. Instead I mostly find myself helping desperate people confirm their worst suspicions.

Every urgent act of investigation that doesn’t crush your soul, the police already do for free. So only two types of cases walk through my door. The first kind is people at the end of their rope. These are the cases where the police have done their due diligence and turned up zilch, usually missing persons cases. So, desperate with nowhere else to go, they dig into their pockets and pay me to carry on, holding out hope for good news. But it’s never good news. The second kind is a case where the client is too embarrassed to go to the police, they need someone a little more subtle . So I spend my days tailing lying business partners, and catfishing cheating spouses, and every other scheme born from suspicious minds. These types of jobs are lose-lose; best case scenario the client pays me a bunch of money to find out they were wrong, and no one’s ever satisfied with being wrong. It only feels like it was worth the trouble when you find out something awful. And sometimes the truth is awful, and then there’s no satisfaction in being right either. Like I said, lose-lose. But that’s just the above board stuff. I get a lot of skeptics and cynics in my office, but usually, people hesitant to go to the police go by a different label; we usually call them criminals. It’s not worth mentioning all the underhanded crud some folks think I can do for them, but blackmail is an obvious one that falls in a skillset like mine. Investigators find the truth; blackmail is just using the truth as a weapon. It also happens to be a crime. That night I told him as much at least, “I think you’ve come to the wrong office. I solve crimes for a living, I don’t commit them.” The snow crunching under my boots was unfortunately quieter than the sound of my growling stomach, and there’s nowhere open around here to grab a bite this late. That’s half the reason I left in the first place. Barely eight o’clock and every store window is dim. The hunger is a reminder of what brings me crawling back now, empty stomachs follow empty pockets. With one hand I produce the business card from my breast pocket, and with the other I turn up my coat collar against the cold. “Grand Rosewoods: Luxury Bed & Breakfast - Jonathan H. Becket, CEO” it reads in ornate gold letters. I flip it over to the other side. “42 Meadow Lane'' is scribbled along the back in Mr. Beckett’s nearly illegible cursive. This is the place, the sign reads “Eastbrook Cottages.” I’d heard of it before, but I’ve never been inside. I’ve never had a reason or a desire; I still have no desire but I have my reasons. It was a real sob story.

“I have worked hard all my life,” Mr. Beckett had said. “And I’m not too coy to admit, by now I have become a man of means.” I don’t get a lot of those in my office. Maybe I should have already stopped listening by now, but it has been a hard year. It was all I could do to keep the lights on, and I was starting to rethink the cases I had said no to before. And now a client walks in with an offer that could turn it all around. He could put my books back in the black, and even add a little christmas bonus on top. I could at least hear him out. Beckett owns a chain of luxury B&Bs; he’s got Grand Rosewoods all over the north east. He started with just one, and now he’s opened fifty more. He was set to open one in Eastbrook this year, but he had to stop construction rather suddenly. You see, Mr. Beckett has a daughter; a daughter who grew up in the lavish conditions his hard work has afforded her. It would seem she’s fallen in with the wrong crowd, and gotten herself in a bit of trouble. The way he tells it, he wanted to make sure she had it better than the lowly life he grew up with, and so he may have been a little indulgent with her. I know the type, there’s nothing daddy’s money can’t fix. Can’t say I relate, but then I’m no angel either. Who knows where I would be if I’d grown up in that world, living the lifestyle of the rich and famous? So last month Mr. Becket gets a package in the mail. An envelope with pictures of his daughter and the previously mentioned wrong crowd. He didn’t say what was in the photos, and I didn’t ask, but it was clearly something a young lady wouldn’t want the world to see. Also in the envelope was a note that just said, “leave Eastbrook, or else.” “And you’re sure it was this Miskin?” I asked. “He practically said as much at the town hall meeting. Even though all my permits were approved, and everything was ready to go, he told me if I didn’t stop construction I’d regret it. You can ask around, there were witnesses. He’s my only competitor in the area, who else would benefit?” I was skeptical, but I listened anyway. I rang the doorbell. A few obnoxiously cheery bars of the Twelve Days of Christmas play from the door chime. It only takes a moment before the door is answered by a smiling man with a red knit winter sweater and green trousers and suspenders. “Welcome, come on in,” he waves me inside. “Let’s get you out of the cold. Can I take your coat?” He asks, looking at me over the top of his glasses. The man looks to be in his late 60’s, maybe 70’s. His hair is solid white and he has a short well trimmed beard. This is him, this rosy cheeked innkeeper is my nefarious blackmailer, Chris Miskin. “No that’s ok,” I say. “I’m still thawing,” I give a forced smile. “You must be Jennifer Colt, our last guest for the night.” “That’s me.” “Welcome to the Eastbrook Cottages. Are your bags in the car? I can go get them if you’d like.” “No need, I walked from the bus stop. I travel light.” I gesture to the duffle bag slung over my shoulder. “Wonderful, it’s amazing how little we really need isn’t it? Let me just grab your room key. But is there anything else I can do for you?” My stomach growled. “Actually, you wouldn’t know somewhere I could still grab a bite to eat? Maybe a late night diner or something?” “You’re in luck. Our chef just happened to stop by to prep for tomorrow’s breakfast. I can take you to the kitchen and we’ll see what he can whip up.” The kitchen is thankfully close at hand. The cottage is quaint, few frills, just homey. I try to keep an eye on the innkeeper as we walk, get a judge for his personality, his ticks, his tells. I rack my brain for a probing but innocuous question, but it’s a short walk. “Right through this door, Ms. Colt. Why don’t I take your bag on ahead to your room?” “Thank you sir,” I hand him my bag. It’s light, like I said. I push through the swinging kitchen door. Standing in the center of a sea of stainless steel furnishings, facing away over a three bay sink, is a tall man in a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has tattoos, and a backwards ball cap in lieu of a hairnet, and a blue apron tied around his waist. “Excuse me,” I say, “not to bother you, but the man at the desk said I might be able to get a bite to eat?” Slowly he turns towards me. “Well I’ll be, Jenny Colt.” I’m stunned, who in this town would remember me? I’ve been here five minutes and already lost my anonymity. He slings a dish towel over his shoulder. “Of all the kitchens, in all the restaurants in this little town, you walk into mine.” Nick White, what are the chances? I thought he was in prison. “Well it would seem this is the only one open. How are you Nick? I thought you were in jail?” “I’m out on good behavior, finally made the nice list. You know some folks think you’re dead?” “Well then we’re both doing better than expected I guess.” I look down at my shoes, when I look back up he’s making that goofy grin of his, the one where all his teeth show up to the gums. Why’d it have to be Nick? This could be a distraction. “So, a bite to eat? I think I can help with that. How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?” “I could go for an omelet.” “One omelet coming right up.” It was a very good omelet. * * * The next morning, I’m up with the sun. I try to write down everything I’ve observed so far. My natural inclination is to start looking for motive. Apart from petty competition, what does Miskin have against Beckett? I have to remind myself this isn’t that kind of job. I’m not looking for answers, I’m digging for dirt. I’ve walked long enough through the whiteout of strict dogmas and it’s cold out there; it’s time for me to operate in the gray for once. Miskin kicked a hornets nest, and now he’s gonna get stung. That’s just the way it goes. I consider for a minute that maybe he’s got nothing to hide, and I won’t find anything. Honestly the thought is a relief at first, but I’ve been in this game too long. I’m not sure any of us are innocent. I make my way to breakfast. And there he is, Nick White. He looks different. Today he’s wearing a crisp white chef’s jacket, and a chef’s skullcap. His tattoos are covered, and his face is serious but soft as he serves a croque madame to a guest. When he sees me, he flashes that goofy grin again. I look away. Miskin bounces from table to table, smiling, shaking hands, asking people about their plans for the day. Almost everyone he meets he greets by name. You could call it personable, but maybe he’s just gathering information? “Good morning Ms. Colt. How did you sleep?” I had a fantastic sleep to be honest. “Ok,” I say, “can’t complain.” “Can I call you Jennifer?” he asks. “Colt,” I almost say, but what comes out is “Jenny.” Jenny? What am I saying? No one has called me that in years, not until last night that is. “What are your plans while you’re in Eastbook Jenny?” As he asks I can see his eyes glance down at my notebook. He’s observant, detail oriented you might say. But this isn’t my first rodeo, I can use this to my advantage. “I’m a writer actually,” I say. “I’m just looking for inspiration. Something ‘slice of life,’ you know? Maybe a little small town drama. You wouldn’t happen to know any?” “Plenty, but I don’t gossip,” he gives me a wink. “I spoke with Nicholas, he says he knows you?” “Yeah, we hung out a little back in high school. I lived here for a few years before my folks died and I moved in with my cousin in the city.” Was that too much? I don’t need to tell this guy my whole life story. But then again, a little honesty can often throw off suspicion, maybe it is the best policy. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he seems sincere. “Maybe you could ask Nicholas about the goings on in town? After the lunch rush I’m sure he could show you around.” I give a polite smile and make my way to a table. A voice from over my shoulder asks, “back to back omelets? Or would you like to see the menu?” Before I brush him off, I think better of it. I can make the most of this. The Nick I knew wasn’t the most principled person, and for whatever reason he seems to like me. Maybe this will be my informant, intentionally or otherwise. “I’ll have the french toast actually.” Looking up at him, I realize he’s actually quite handsome. His height used to make him awkward and lanky, but he’s grown into it now. “A good choice. I’ll get right on it.” “And Nick?” He pauses on one foot. “Do you have anything going on this evening?” * * * Over the next three days I tried every trick in the book to gather intel on my target. I asked the guests what they knew about Miskin. Many of them said they come here for the holidays every year, and he always remembers them, and personal details about their lives. Charming or suspicious? One morning over breakfast, I asked Miskin directly about his life and how he came to be here. He gave a brief response about “living the dream.” I tried not to seem too keen on the details. Through it all, I tried to work an angle on Nick, I needed to build his trust. My first day here he took me to an ice cream parlor. “Ice cream?” I asked incredulous. “It’s snowing outside Nick, it’s not cold enough?” “It is never too cold for ice cream.” As much as I hate to admit it, it was worth it. Best scoop I’ve ever had. Yesterday, he approached me. That’s a good sign, for my purposes at least. He showed me to a coffee shop. “It’s a perfect atmosphere for writing, don’t you think?” My jaw hung open confused for a moment, before I remembered that was my cover for being here. It was sweet really. I didn’t get much investigating done that day, but he was right again. The small town ambience was a nice change of pace from city living. Today I was able to spring my trap. We went for a walk downtown, a walk that I knew would stroll right past Beckett’s unfinished construction. I looked at the sign, “a new Luxury B&B. Do you think you’ll apply? Step up to the big leagues?” “And leave the Cottages? Never.” “Why not?” “You may not know this Jenny, but not a lot of people will take a chance on an ex-con. Miskin really saved me, helped me turn my life around.” “He’s an odd fellow Miskin. Can anyone really be that cheery?” “It rubs off on you.” It was true. I’d been in a better mood since I got here. A strange one, but a better one. Could I really do it? Could I keep pulling the thread on such a charming old man? Suddenly Nick leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I had no words, but another sound broke the silence. My stomach growled louder than a thunder clap. And I remember why I came, empty stomachs follow- “Why don’t I cook us up some dinner? At my place?” And for the first time I can ever remember, I thought to myself, maybe I don’t need the money. A full heart is a powerful motivator.


“No, no, dad! Just keep it straight up! Now you point it to the target like you’re holding a pistol. Just hold it straight up, yeah, like that. Now look at the screen, look at the screen. Ok. Can you see the target? Make sure it’s somewhere in the middle of the screen. Now press the power and volume buttons together. On the right-hand side. The two top buttons. Right. Are you pressing them both?” The old man sighed, despair in his eyes. “I’ll never get the hang of this,” he said. “That’s because you moved your phone, don’t move it. Here.” His son impatiently took the phone from his hand. “Here you go, target in the middle, press buttons, piece of cake!” The targeted plastic cup shot from the table like an arrow and landed on the windowsill. “Now you,” the son said, and placed the cup back on the table. * The old man had been a wizard all his life. And quite successful too. With his cloak, staff, wand, and spells he had saved the world from peril more than once. Then one day, a parcel was delivered to his door. He even had to sign for it. When he unwrapped the sturdy carboard box, it contained a shiny cell phone together with a brightly coloured folder with screaming letters: HERE IT IS, YOUR OWN BRANDNEW PHONE! There was also a letter, and he recognized the letterhead of UWA , the United Wizard Association. Ah, now he remembered, the last UWA meeting, almost a year ago. There, the Board announced that every member of UWA would receive a cell phone. He thought they had just forgotten about it. The letter read: As announced during the meeting of 14 th March, we are sending you your personal cell phone. To make your phone operable for wizardly work, you must download the special WIZZ-app from the app-store. This app will be upgraded regularly, so that eventually the device will function as a full replacement of staffs, wands, and spells. Private use of the phone is permitted if this will not interfere with work. Having no clue what it all meant, he placed the box with the phone on the table. * “Cool! Wow, cool!” His son rushed to the table without even taking his coat off. He carefully took the phone from the box as if it were a breakable artifact. “This year’s model, wow!” “It’s for work,” the old man said despondently. “It needs an app with double p so I have to find an app-store somewhere.” * Unlike most wizards, Geodefrith had not remained single. His wife Mildred ( Millie as everyone called her) passed a few years earlier, and he loved their son Fernando as the living memory of her. And for himself, of course, although he could be a pain sometimes; but a friendly pain. * With the aid of Fernando, the new phone was in working order within an hour. Geodefrith’s head was still spinning and buzzing with terms like SIM-codes, fingerprint-recognition, downloads, upgrades, data . Before he knew it the app (with double p ) had been installed, and Fernando told him his profile was complete. “You see, dad, it’s hardly brain surgery. Now all you’ve left to do is enter your spells.” Geodefrith started. “My spells? But those are secret, private. They’re all in here!” he said, tapping his forehead. “But they’re required if you want the app to work,” Fernando answered, “just sit down and enter your spells, I won’t look, ok?” It had taken Geodefrith years and years to memorize all the spells he needed. He sat down on the couch with the phone on his lap. His fingers slowly and unstably typed in the first spell. After a minute, he threw the phone aside and sighed: “This is not working. Forget it!” Fernando looked up from his own cell phone, laughing. “What’s not working, dad? How many spells have you put in?” Geodefrith raised his arms in despair. “None! I keep getting invalid input, make sure the spelling is correct; remember, some spells may be case sensitive. ” “I don’t know how you spell all those spells exactly. They’re in my head. When I need them, I just cast them.” Fernando said: “But there must be a way to know the spelling of your spells, right?” “Of course, they’re all in the Secret Book,” Geodefrith exclaimed, “haven’t needed it for years. It’s going to take me weeks to enter them all.” To make a long story short, defying all rules of secrecy and privacy, it took Fernando a little over forty-five minutes to copy all Geodefrith’s spells from the Secret Book into the phone. In awe, Geodefrith watched his son’s fingers race over the shiny screen. * “Now you,” Fernando said. Geodefrith held the phone as straight as possible, and his shaking fingers fumbled to find the two buttons on the right. When he pressed them, the plastic cup shot against the living room window. “I got it!” he cheered, “incredible! I still can’t get over it that the phone knows exactly what spell to use!” Fernando smiled. “That’s why they call it a smart phone, dad.” * Spells came in variations, of different magnitudes. There were spells that were hardly more than a simple magical trick, such as moving objects, or making things disappear. Or, a bit harder, spells that could move a wizard from one place to another in a flash, sometimes miles away. Then there were those to fend off danger, such as a sudden thunderstorm, a flood, or an avalanche. Some spells could be used to protect against de spells of others, especially members of the Dark Order of Wizards ( DOW ), a group with a questionable reputation that split off from the UWA centuries ago. Regularly, there were encounters between members of both groups, sometimes leading to serious clashes. Never, however, could these spells be used to kill or destroy. Even in the fiercest fights between opponents, spells were to be used only to defend, to annoy or fatigue the other. Both sides adhered to this unwritten rule; wizards died, naturally, but never by the hand of another wizard. The deepest spells did have the power to destroy or kill. In rare cases, where imminent peril was extremely profound and potentially lethal, a wizard might use such a special spell. From the beginnings of wizardry, any wizard qualified as such, had every spell at his disposal. But during the leadership of Frankfrith the Glorious, who acted as chairman of the UWA for more than six centuries, the Rule of Limitations was introduced. Seemingly randomly, wizards might lose their “licence to kill”, or any other spell, for that matter. * By a small margin, Frankfrith had been elected as the 19 th Chairman of the United Wizard Association. But he soon managed to extend his power by placing his most avid supporters on key positions in the organization. He appointed Glowfrith as treasurer, and Pensefrith as Scribe, a kind of personal secretary. Ilbreth, nicknamed the weasel became Deputy Scribe, taking care of “daily matters”. Frankfrith’s rule was characterized by modernization , which, as most wizards agreed, was in fact Pensefrith’s idea. The old communication system between the board of UWA and individual wizards, by using heralds to deliver messages in person, was abandoned and replaced by periodical letters signed by Frankfrith. * Nine decades after Frankfrith was elected, at the annual UWA meeting, he was surprisingly flanked by two large figures, who were introduced as Ironfrith the Unwavering and Bullfrith the Wielder, both members of DOW . Frankfrith had hired them as private security agents, to protect him from an “increasing number of serious threats by certain groups.” It was from that time on that the periodical letters from the Board were signed Frankfrith the Great, and later even Frankfrith the Glorious . * A few weeks after Geodefrith had received his new phone, there was the annual UWA meeting. All members gathered in a large hall. Beverages were served before the meeting, and Geodefrith sensed a lot of tension, mostly having to do with the new phones. After Frankfrith had opened the meeting and hammered away the approval of last year’s minutes, Donfrith the meak , the gentlest person that ever roamed the earth, raised his hand. “Ah, a question,” Frankfrith said, “please, go!”  Donfrith’s crackling voice sounded through the hall. “About these phones, Frankfrith, are they really necessary?” Frankfrith looked down with a kind smile. “I am afraid they are, Donfrith. There’s just no other way.” Then Donfrith said: “But what was wrong with staffs and wands and spells? They always worked well, didn’t they?” “Yeah, what’s wrong with staffs?” someone shouted from the other end of the hall. The figure of Bosefrith had risen, and he spoke with a booming voice: “It’s all about control! He uses those phones to track us everywhere!” Soon almost everybody was screaming and shouting, until all voices joined together in a chant: No phones, no phones, no phones! Then there was a tremendous bang that stopped the turmoil immediately. Bullfrith’s fist had landed on the table with such great force that it almost split in two. His huge shadow loomed over the hall. Geodefrith was sure he saw flames and smoke coming from Bullfrith’s maw when his thundering voice echoed: “Enough!!” * This is to inform you that the introduction of cell phones has been a great success. The latest upgrade of the WIZZ-app makes the next step possible. The Board is proud to announce that from May 1 st , all staffs and wands will be deactivated, and spoken spells will be rendered ineffective. Representatives of the Board will be collecting your staffs and wands. During the coming months you will receive notification of the exact date of collection. Your collaboration is appreciated. On behalf of the Board Frankfrith the Glorious Geodefrith put the letter aside. Although, with the help and support of Fernando, he had mastered most of the features of his phone, he still liked to wander about occasionally with staff and wand, leaving his phone at home. Casting spells the old-fashioned way felt great! That was all going to end soon. “A good thing,” Fernando said. * It had been an easy day. The world seemed to be in a pleasant Spring mood. Geodefrith’s horse was trotting home and the old wizard smiled broadly. He was looking forward to a quiet dinner, a fine wine, and a good read. He sighed, complacently, until he spotted a silhouette on top of a hill. Oh, bother, he thought, there goes a quiet evening! He had immediately recognized Wellfrith the Gloomy, who came galloping down, waving and shouting: “Heya there, Geodefrith the Silly, old stoop!” True enough, of all the dark wizards one could encounter, Wellfrith was probably one of the least bothersome, but he was such a show-off. “Good eve, Wellfrith,” Geodefrith said, “wishing you a good journey!” “Not so fast,” Wellfrith replied, “let’s not forget our good manners, you ancient creap!” “Oh, come on, Wellfrith, let’s forget it,” Geodefrith pleaded, “I just want to go home.” Wellfrith looked at him with scorn. “You lamentable fossil! You know what the code says: we have to exchange some spells.” Geodefrith sighed. “Ah, well, you can have it your way!” He took his phone out of his pocket, waiting for Wellfrith to produce a wand or staff but, much to his surprise, Wellfrith held up a phone as well. “Take this!” the dark wizard yelled. Wellfrith pushed his phone in Geodefrith’s direction, but nothing happened. Then Geodefrith aimed his phone, target in the middle , nervously pressing the buttons on the side. Wellfrith was thrown off his balance and landed on one knee. “Well, I never!” he grunted as he got up. “You treacherous old fart!” He aimed his phone at Geodefrith, but suddenly raised his hand. “Hold on,” he called, “gotta take this!” He put his phone at his ear and started talking, turning his back on Geodefrith. After a minute or two, Geodefrith heard Wellfrith say: “Ok, let’s talk again later, I’m in the middle of something now!” But before they could exchange any further spells, another call came in. After the third, and twenty minutes later, Geodefrith sighed and said: “Come on, Wellfrith, may I go home now?” Wellfrith looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, why not,” he said, “stupid phones!” Geodefrith smiled and said: “I couldn’t agree more.” Wellfrith replied: “I’d give my right arm for a good old-fashioned sturdy staff!” * “It’s all Ironfrith’s doing,” Wellfrith said as the two old wizards joined part of their journey. “Ever since he’s associated himself with your Frankfrith.” Geodefrith answered: “It’s Pensefrith, really. He’s behind it all. It ought to be stopped!” Wellwrith stroked his beard. “You know, there might be a way,” he said. “We could call for a popular vote. I know a big majority of DOW members want staffs and wands back. All we have to do is to send a message to all DOW and UWA group members; it's the only thing these phones are good for!” And so, it happened. Text messages were sent to all the group members. * There was a rather heavy knock on the door. Geodefrith got up to open and was surprised to see Bullfrith on his doorstep. “You are requested to come,” he growled. “Sorry, got other plans,” Geodefrith answered lightheartedly. “You are requested to come!” Bullfrith repeated, a bit louder. “And I still have other plans!” Geodefrith replied. With his big paw, Bullfrith grabbed him by the shoulder and forcefully pulled him away from the door. “Hey, take it easy,” Geodefrith squeaked. Bullfrith dragged him along for some fifty yards, where Frankfrith sat waiting in a four-wheeled cart. Geodefrith was pushed into it. “What’s going on, Frankfrith,” he said while getting up. The cart rattled along the cobblestone path. Frankfrith looked at him affably. “Now that was not a very smart thing to do, was it?” he said. “What wasn’t?” Geodefrith asked, annoyed, brushing the dust from his cloak. “Well, my dear Geodefrith, if you are to commit high treason, it’s not smart to do it all out in the open.” “What do you mean, high treason, what are you talking about?” Frankfrith calmly stroked his beard. “You must understand, my dear old friend, that the Board cannot overlook individual, disgruntled wizards who undermine board decisions taken unanimously.” “Not undermining; I was just asking the others to vote for or against using cell phones, that’s all.” Frankfrith answered: “We’ll see,” and kept quiet the rest of the way. * Geodefrith was escorted into a room where Pensefrith, Glowfrith, Ironfrith and Ilbreth were seated at elevated tables. On the floor below, a single chair was standing. Bullfrith pushed Geodefrith in the chair, and he and Frankfrith joined the others. Frankfrith mildly looked down on him, and said: “It is the Board’s decision, Geodefrith, that it would be in your best interest to, erm, enjoy a few weeks, months of rest. All expenses paid, of course!”  Geodefrith looked up angrily. “So you’re sending me away!” “Believe me, we only want what’s best for you,” Frankfrith answered. * The resort was comfortable, but he never felt at home. There were no other wizards, as far as he could see. Most of the guests were older people, shuffling about with or without a walker. He spent most of his time in his room. He had his cell phone, but after the Limitation Rule had been applied, only very basic spells were available to him. Sometimes, some of the guests had visitors: families, children, grandchildren. No visitors ever came for Geodefrith; it was decided that would be too stressful for him. He sent messages to Fernando, complaining about his situation, but only received encouraging text messages back, wishing him speedy recovery. He thought he was being censored. * Once a week, a nurse came by, a sweet young lady, who would sit with him, asking about his wellbeing. She gained his trust and he felt comfortable enough to pour out his heart to her. How he was kept there against his will and wished to go home to his son. She promised to find out more, and she became an ally in his quest for rehabilitation. He looked forward to her visits, the both of them plotting to find a way to reveal the truth. Then one day, she was not there, but instead two male nurses grabbed him and put a needle in his arm. * When he woke up, two older men, dressed in white, stood at his bed. The first one said cheerfully: “Welcome, sir! Welcome to the world!” The other man added: “You have been asleep for quite a while, but the operation went very well!” With shiny eyes, Geodefrith said: “Thank you, doctors!” The first doctor said: “You will be going home to the resort in about two weeks. You’ll be happy there!” “There are absolutely no signs of rejection,” the other added. “The chip is nicely embedded.” Geodefrith smiled at them. “Thank you, doctors,” he said again. * Geodefrith sat comfortably in a chair in the recreation room of the resort. There was the liveliness of children running about. A lady came in holding hands with a little boy who held a toy car in his other hand. “There’s the gentleman,” she said, “there’s the gentleman who can move things. Ask him if he can do it.” Geodefrith smiled at the boy. “Just put your toy on the table,” he said. Then he took out his phone, aimed it at the toy, and simultaneously pressed two buttons on the side. The toy moved. The boy screeched and jumped up and down. “One more time!” he screamed, excited. Geodefrith laughed. He was a happy man.


Memories are forever, that’s what they say. Another visit to my childhood home reminds me of those sweet memories. The grass is green and full; the tree is fruitful. The covered porch still provides protection from the rain and is home to a great spot to pull out a book on a cool spring morning; a morning like this one. Walking up to the front door allowed for plenty of time to let it all sink in. The happiness, the sadness. The good, the bad. It feels real. The screen door greeted me with its groaning. This sound became the norm when I would run out to play with friends, as long as mother approved and my homework was done, of course.

I reached into my purse and found the key ring. The square one would do the trick. I inserted the key and felt the deadbolt move as I rotated it… Voila! Home sweet home. The warm air embraced me as I walked through the door. The fireplace kicked on as if I had just caught it slacking off. From the entryway, I peered into the kitchen aka my second classroom. Many tears stained my 8th-grade math homework at that table. Mother always dried them by serving up a batch of warm chocolate chip cookies. The flooring groaned beneath my feet as I loitered in the entryway, taking it all in. The stairs looked remarkable. The hardwood tread remained untouched. Despite its supposed perfection, I knew where its scars were. Third step up from the bottom of the staircase, next to the banister, there was a sliver of wood missing. Barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. But I was because I did it. I was a little girl when we had discovered the joys of sliding down this staircase. You see, back then there were thick strips of fabric that ran up the center of the staircase. Mother said it was to help us not slip as we walked up and down the tread. Little did she know about our newest endeavor. We slid down the stairs for hours. Laughing, crying, feeling the soreness in our backsides from the smack of the tread as we passed over. One day we got the urge to go faster. We wanted to go so fast that we could open the front door and fly out onto the porch. My brother Tim found a cardboard box left over from Christmas gifts. We tore it up to make a cardboard sled. Tim, being the risk-taker, volunteered to go first. He planted himself firmly on the base of the cardboard and held onto the front to prevent his feet from sliding off first. I positioned myself behind him and on the count of three, he went. And boy did he go. That cardboard moved over each tread as if it were levitating. He made it out the front door in 2.5 seconds. He made it look so easy! I was eager to give it a go. He returned to the top of the stairs and gave me the sled. I positioned myself and gave him a thumbs up. Three, two, one… I was off, but not for long. Halfway down my left foot came off the cardboard and caught traction with the tread. My body did a 180 and next thing I knew I was taking a chunk out of that 3rd step with my tooth. One dentist trip later, mother found out what we were up to and removed the fabric that lined the steps. Something about not being able to afford our mischief. I gazed at the framed photographs lining the wall as I walked up the stairs. Mother and father. I don’t remember him much. He left us when I was still in diapers. She said someday we’d be together again. I waited and waited, but it never happened. Later I matured enough to understand that he’d passed away. Got sick. Tim and I were all Mom had worried about after that. We were all she needed in this life, she’d say. Tim and I hung three steps up. We were all dressed up, him with his comb-over and me with my perm. The distressed backdrop didn’t help us out at all. I hope Mother didn’t pay too much for these. Once at the top of the staircase I peered down the hallway. Walls lined with more pictures. On the left side, a small table still sat outside mother’s room. It really just caught plants and however much gum I could muster in a day. To the right was my room, and down at the end of the hallway was Tim’s room. I consider myself lucky. The bathroom was right next to my room. I was able to sneak in there before Tim every morning before school. Made him late a few times. I took a deep breath as I grasped the doorknob to Mother’s room. I opened the door and found that everything was exactly as I’d left it. It was cozy, inviting, and had a fresh floral scent just as it did when I was little. It was her hobby as a florist that brought this smell here. Roses, tulips, buttercups, and chrysanthemums. You name it, she grew it and cared for them with love. She garnered quite a reputation as the community florist. People didn’t just buy them because they were beautiful. They could tell the care that she had given to them and they respected and adored that about her. She gave that kind of love to everything and everyone she cared about. Her heart had no limits. I took one last breath and shut the door behind me. I made my way down to the kitchen table and pulled out my laptop and a notebook. No other place gave me the comfort and security that allowed me to work freely without interruption. After all, this book wasn’t going to write itself. A month goes by and I’m back for my routine checkup on the house. The screen door greets me once again. The house welcomes me with its usual comfort, but something felt off. An unexplainable chill. A glance confirmed that the fireplace wasn’t turned on, not that it needed to be. The summer heat was keeping it plenty warm outside. It should be nice and comfortable in here, but strangely enough, I wouldn’t mind the fireplace kicking on just to give me its familiar comfort. As if on cue, a hint of life shows and the fire begins to glow. I begin my usual rounds. Glancing at the chip in the 3rd step, I make my way upstairs. Mother, Father, Tim, and myself. I switch on the lights and watch the hallway come to life, except for Tim's room. The light flickers just outside his door, barely hanging on. Well, light bulbs don’t last forever. There should be more bulbs in the storage room next to the kitchen. Walking past the living room I could see the fireplace barely keeping on. One problem at a time, I tell myself. Moving past the refrigerator I find the old storage room where mother used to hide our Christmas presents. It wasn’t a very good spot if you ask me. I crack open the door, dust everywhere. Looks like I found my next task after that pesky fireplace. Wooden shelves line the walls. Three shelves over and there they are in bulk packaging. Sixty-watt bulb: check. I quickly replaced the light bulb and returned the hallway to its former glory. I put my hand on mother’s door for a brief moment. Yearning to look inside I grasp the knob and turn it. To my surprise, the door remains shut. I try again… nothing. I look down and feel my heart skip a beat. A lock is more visible than ever. We’ve never had locks on our bedrooms and I know for a fact that this door has never been locked in my entire existence. Still trying to process it, I move to the storage room to see if any sort of key is hidden away. I rub my hands together as I pass into the kitchen. The fireplace is out. After a good ten minutes of searching, I reach my hand onto the top shelf and feel around. Dust, dust and… a key. I return to the door and insert the key into the lock. Mechanisms turn and the door greets me with a groan as I open it. I peek in expecting some grand change. To my surprise it remained untouched, but it’s colder. Much colder. Even with everything in its place, there’s still a sense of emptiness. I reach my hand along the wall to turn on the light. The bulbs barely muster any light. They are dim, ready to burn out at any second. Great. At this rate I’ll need to buy a whole year’s supply of bulbs for each visit. A quick trip to the storage room and two packs of bulbs later, mother’s room shines with life. The boxes remain on the table as I move on.  Feeling accomplished but disheartened by the unexpected repairs, I returned to the kitchen table to work, donning a sweater in the process. The leaves begin to turn; orange and yellow cover the street. I return to see the tree has lost most of its leaves. I make my way to the door, loosening my scarf in the process. The usual screech is accompanied by a subtle ‘crack’. I finish opening the screen door and witness a piece of the hinge fall to the porch. I turn the key and open the door to the house, preparing to take off my coat as I feel the warmth of the fireplace welcome me out of the crisp fall air. To my disappointment, I kept my coat on, and re-tighten my scarf. I quickly run over to the fireplace to get it going. The gas turns on, but no flame. The tread began to moan under my feet. Mother, Father, Tim, and myself. As I reached the top, I see Tim’s light was out again and so was mine. I became disheartened as I glanced over at mother’s door and saw that her light was flickering. The bulbs sat on the side table. After mother’s light the box was empty. As I placed it back on the table I couldn't help but look at the lock on her door. It felt different. I pulled the key from my keyring, moving with hesitation. I insert the key and begin to turn it. Stuck. Confused I turn it in the opposite direction. Stuck. Overwhelmed I step back from the door, leaving the key in what used to be its home. I don’t understand I repeated to myself over and over, feeling tears of frustration well up in the corners of my eyes. I sat on the top tread with my elbows propped on my knees, my head in my hands, trying to make sense of it. That key had worked last time in the lock that wasn’t even supposed to be there. It had never been there.  A sense of loss began to fill inside of me. There must be another way. If there’s a lock then there has to be a key to open it. I just have to find it. Determination propelled me down the stairs and straight into the storage room. I began rummaging through the shelves using more and more force as time went on. Behind the box of spare nuts and bolts? No. What about the old key box on the wall? Of course not. I searched high and low only to come up empty-handed. The more I look for what seems to be a figment of my imagination, the less time I have for why I come here every month. Deep breaths. One, two. In, out. I’ll figure this out. I always do. But for today, a cup of hot chocolate, mom’s favorite, will wash away the anxiety. I sit down, begin to type away, and lose myself in my notes, trying not to worry about the issues that plague me. Those lights outside of mother’s room would burn out without me noticing, and that would be the last time they were ever alive. Months pass now. A blanket of snow covers the streets. The sidewalk hadn’t been cleaned since first snowfall. On the slow, methodical trek to the porch, I notice the paint chipping on the east corner of the house, next to the living room window. The house begins to show its age. The screen door made its usual complaint, also reminding me that I still haven’t fixed the bottom hinge. I remove my thick mittens and retrieve the house key. Shivering, I finished opening the door, only to wish that I had brought a bigger coat. My breath danced away from my face. The glass on the face of the fireplace was frosted. The storage room held no solutions. I’d have to call someone about this. In the meantime, hot chocolate will warm me right up. Just the way mother made it. I retrieve a pot from the cupboard, fill it with water and place it on the stovetop. I turn the knob to find that the pilot light won’t even show. That memorable clicking sound from breakfast with mom won’t even sound. That’s dead too. Of course it is, just my luck. I grabbed a pack of light bulbs from the storage room anticipating what awaits me upstairs. I carry on, bringing my frustration along with me like a dear friend. Mother, Father, Tim, myself. The lights over the staircase began to dim as I moved along the tread. Darkness engulfed me as I reached the top of the stairs. Every bulb was out. Only natural light from downstairs was able to find its way up, providing enough light to avoid tripping. Approaching Tim’s room brought a sense of calmness and warmth. Something this house was missing too much of. Once I reached his door, the good feelings washed away and were replaced by more frustration. It’s done. The light socket is completely fried. I groan and begrudgingly move to my room. More frustration. Then disappointment fills my heart. I’ve loved this home. What’s happening? Turning to mother’s room, I test the durability of the box of bulbs on her door. A loud crunch answers that. As the box crashes to the ground, my hands begin to shake with anger. This door. Why… I stopped short of the door, acknowledging the lock. The key… I left it in there last time. I know I did. Where.. Where did it go? I grasped my head, trying to maintain my balance as the room spun around me. Why do you keep me out? A sense of desperation fills my voice. The answer lies hidden; a memory surrounded by fog. I regain my senses long enough to reach out. I turn the knob. It’s still locked. I turn it again, breathing faster and faster with each attempt. Come on. Come on…Come on! The fog begins to swirl. Why won’t you let me in?! Fists meet the door as my emotional pot begins to boil over. Why can’t I come in?! Fists louder now; eyes swell. Why can’t I see you?! Fists throbbing, my foot meets the door with equal purpose. The fog begins to dissipate as the tears fall to the floor. Why can’t you just remember? Why can’t we be normal again? The desperation turns to pain. Not physical pain. The pain of losing someone even though they are still with you. Knowing that you’ll never have them the same again. I rest my head on the door. Knees weak, heart heavy. A sense of hopelessness fills my heart as the fog clears. I remember now. A hand rests on my shoulder. It’s Tim. His eyes are red and rest in dark circles. “You can do it. You’ve always been the strong one.” His smile gave me comfort in knowing what came next. I returned my gaze to the door, only it wasn't the same. The lock remained, but this door was fixed to a hospital room- room 428. The door was metal, the knob a handle. I grab it and finally felt the door release, letting me in one last time. Our family is gathered around the bed. People I hadn’t seen in years. They began to part as I inched closer, one foot in front of the other. As the crowd cleared, I saw her. She was hooked up to life support. Had been for some time now. It felt like ages, really. She wasn’t exactly conscious., not that it mattered. She wouldn’t remember me now. She forgot my name about three years ago. Tim’s five years. No, she wouldn’t remember us at all, no matter how hard we tried. I leaned over and grasped her hand. I shivered as I felt her skin, cold as ice. I spent what felt like an eternity staring at her face. Burning it into my memory, wanting it to be as detailed as possible. I broke out of my trance and leaned into her side. I whispered in her ear: “I’ll always remember.” My heart sunk as I watched my mother take her last breath. The machine beside the bed relayed a steady tone. The grass looked greener than usual. Tim says he hired one of the neighbor boys to take care of things when we weren’t able to. The tree looked as alive as ever, shading my walk to the porch. The screen door opened without a complaint. I pulled out my key ring and held the key that Tim gave me in my hand. I inserted it into the door and turned, reading the inscription engraved within the door: Memories are forever. -THE END-


Heather grew up in a world infused with shame and silence. A world governed by fear. She grew up in this small town, which implied that she has some working knowledge of the town and its social attractions. From a childhood spent in the playground, progressing to years spent in the mall and the cinema, to becoming an idealistic teenager with starry eyes seeking big adventures. Yes, she should know this town, but she did not.

Heather grew up with her mother, Ann, who was difficult to predict. Most days Ann’s sadness was manageable, but some days it was not. Regardless, they did everything together and on the days that Ann could not do anything Heather did it for her. In those years, that was all that was necessary. These days, not so much. These days, fear still influences Heather’s world, but it is anger that constantly boils beneath the surface. Anger, guilt, shame, fear, and mistrust. A concoction brought about by the death of Ann, which left Heather alone. Heather had to learn survive in a world she had not been prepared to live in and to do so; she had to adapt certain truths. Truths her mother said were better off unacknowledged. Nonetheless, change is inevitable, often unwanted and without a doubt, uncaring. Heather had to face certain truths. This is something she was working on, in a manner of speaking. One day, she told herself, she would not feel this anger, fear, or guilt. Yet, for now, she feet it. It is always present. For now, it is a part of her. She tried denying its existence. However, it is a very much, big part of her. But, she is working on it, most days. Like today. Today, she was going to try to open up to others, but not too much. It should not be difficult as these were the relatives of her mother. Relatives she did not know existed until Ann’s death. So technically, she is not alone; she just feels a great sense of loneliness and emptiness. A feeling she felt would worsen despite the planned family gathering; which would serve as an introduction to her extended family. It is difficult for her to imagine this not being a disaster. It is difficult for her to imagine stepping into a room filled with people and fitting in. It is difficult for her to imagine that she can carry on a conversation about things that mean very little to her but that she has vague ideas about. It is difficult to imagine trusting someone new in a way that she has only ever trusted her mother. Will they dismiss her as too strange? Will she run for cover under the shame ingrained in her? Will she been left standing in a corner, wanting to kick herself for coming? Will she, in her eagerness to belong, frighten them away? Why did I bother to do this? Why am I doing this to myself? I should take Sheldon with me! He would keep me clam. She berated herself continuously as she looked over at the glass case containing the little turtle her mother had gotten her. Her throat burned with a heaviness she desperately tried to ignore. She refused to cry. Yet, that did not stop her from wanting to. Heather was in her bedroom, sitting at the foot of her bed. Her hands resting on her knees. She was in a dress she purchased some time ago because she thought it was pretty and that it might look good on her one day. She was wearing makeup she put a lot of effort into in hopes that it would help her blend in. She had her hair done in the same way she saw the pretty people on the internet wear theirs. On her feet, she wore shoes that did not feel comfortable but looked pretty. Yet she did not feel the way she wanted to feel nor did she see herself the way she wanted people to see her. Heather wanted to be acceptable and capable. She wanted to be normal. She locked eyes with herself in the mirror. What she was, She thought to herself, was alone and guilty. There was a look of defeat on her face. She was familiar with it. Her mother would not approve, had she been here, Heather thought. No one who would understand this. No one will understand it. She was beyond comprehension. What does it matter? Why do I even bother? She asks herself. Then she cried. Her hands muffling her mouth, even though she cried silently. It was a habit she developed a long time ago, even before her mother had passed. One tear, two tears, and three tears ran down her cheeks, taking her make up with it. Her eyes were red. Her mind was racing. Her heart hammered in her chest. She felt unfixable. She met her own eyes again in the mirror. She did not like what she saw before, but she liked what she saw now, even less. This is not who I wanted to be. Heather thought to herself, once, twice, thrice. Each time, a new sense determination was present. She closed her eyes. She breathed in. She breathed out. Once, twice, a thrice. She opened my eyes . This is not who I am. She thought to herself. This matters, because I matter, what I want matters. And I want to experience more. She felt her shoulders slackened, and something firmer took hold in her belly. She did not give herself the chance to back out. She quickly repaired her make-up and left to attend the gathering. All the time, repeating to herself, I can do this. I can do this. *	*	* Almost 2 hours later, Heather sat outside in her car.  Her relatives were still making their way to their cars. She was feeling so much better than she had before. It was not a perfect experience, and at times, she felt like running away, but she did not. A victory on its own. My awkwardness in public will disappear given time, and that is what I need to give myself . She thought to herself. Time and perhaps some gentle patience . She added.

She laughed quietly as she recalled the madness that fear had brought over her. She felt light, and strangely bright, as though she glowed with the small victory over self-doubt. She quickly ducked her head as an uncle or someone  walked pass her car. She could not quite recalled his name but did not want to ruin the victory by having a relative spot her laughing with herself. She enthusiastically returned his wave. She started the car and began backing out of the parking spot. Once she was on her way home, she returned to her earlier thoughts. Fear will come back one day to show its ugly head. She soberly thought to herself. This is not the end for me , she added with sigh. One-day fear will visit again and rear its ugly head. Until then, I am working on it she said to herself. One day at a time. For now, she simply wanted to enjoy the feeling of connection imprinted on her by her new family  members.


A nice night for a chat 39/10/2019 Ella enjoyed her night walks in the Pembleton Cemetery. Despite a name that invoked stately residences, Pembleton was not an upmarket zone. The grid of unadorned streets was lined with 50’s wooden boxes in various states of dilapidation, high fences boasted a variety of graffiti; some bordered on art, others sported ugly botches and ill spelled profanity. The pavements were cracked, in parts weeds were winning the battle to regain control. Not the path to the cemetery though. Age worn well-attended cobbles led to a set of grand iron gates that led her through a stone wall of gothic proportions. The cemetery was a gentle hill of manicured grass and elegant gardens presided over by stately elms and an aura of dignity. This cemetery had been here long before the suburb had decayed around it; even before the time when the streets were promises of quiet family life in neatly matching boxes and white picket fences. A time when a village had dreamed big. Cemeteries old or new; ancient and revered or military squares of lined up plaques all tend to offer one thing. Silence. The people here are at peace. Many of those in Pembleton’s cemetery had been at peace for over a hundred a century. A warm blanket of security settled over her. Coco was asleep with her Nan. Rob may or may not be back from wherever he had stormed off to. Ella needed the solitude of the nigh time cemetery to think. She was a little surprised to see two elderly men chatting on a bench, it was rare to see anyone there during the day, less likely so late. She gave them a nod and walked on. “That is her.”

“That is who?” “My granddaughter. They still live here you know. He got a new car last week. One of those modern sleek things. Looks like a suppository.”

“Ahh… (chuckles). My family have gone. But what brings you here tonight old friend? It is so long since we sat here together wagging our chins.”

“It just seems like a nice night for a chat.”

“Yes. It does.”

“So what have you been up to Reginald?” “Ah Bill! I have been having fun! Of course. I rather like visiting the Nortons. They brought our place on Edgar St. I pop in. Enjoy a cuppa. Let them know what I think of their lack of improvements of the old house. They don’t know what to make of me!” He chuckles. “You old shyster Reg! “So what do you do with your time then, William?” “I hang with family mostly, keeping an eye on them.” You got to have a bit of fun. I still pop down to Benny’s sometimes. Remember Benny’s?” “Hahahaha! How can we forget! We had a few rumbles there back in the day. What are they up to in there Reg? I gotta come in with you one night!”” “It’s bigger, noisier. All parked up with big dirty road bikes outside. A lot more rumbles. No honest flying fists these days.” Reg scowled. They get mean. Mean drunk and mean fists. Sometimes knives. Hard looking girls. Not like Bessy and Pats! Still, I will give them a pat on those tight butts and they have no idea where to look hahahah!” “Ahhh! There is some nostalgia for you. Back when bad girls were good!” He chuckled wryly. Those gals knew how to make a man feel good. Until I met my Elizabeth of course. And you settled down with Katherine. Or pretended to.” “Heheh! Don’t get me wrong, I loved my sweet Katherine. A good girl. A good mother. But, I reckon it just did a good man good to pick up Bess in the old Ford once a month or so.” Reg grinned salaciously. “My Lizzie was everything. Sure I thought of Bessy and Pats from time to time, like recalling a childhood sweet you no longer want. Like those milk bottle candy when they were good. They just aren’t so good no more. I reckon I would have one of those again if I could.” “What happened to your boys Reg? You had a couple didn’t you?” His brow creases, trying to recall. “Good as I far as I know, gone off to Australia. Land of sand and weird critters. Too far for me to go. No idea even how.” Clouds had rolled over the moon immersing the cemetery in a velvet cloak. The air was a little chiller. The two men did not notice as they sat quiet for a time in their memories. “Your granddaughter’s a fine looking lass. No ‘semblance to Lizzie though.” “No, but you should see her wee girl! Just three months old. The spit of my Lizzie. She looks at me and her eyes light up, gives a smile that’d melt an iceberg. She knows me! Ella thinks little Coco is looking at her; but no, it’s me she’s seeing.” Bill settles back with a happy grin. His grin fades as his thoughts take a darker turn. “I reckon her man is no good. Not a stupid old coot like you, nasty. Sometimes I see a bruise on her that don’t look like she banged into a door. Come to think of it I hang around there a lot and I hardly see him. Maybe I better pop into Benny’s with you, mayhaps that is where he’s lurking.” He thinks for a bit. “It’s good this chat Reg. It’s waking me up. Making me think. Living in this dump how did that man of hers buy that fancy car? And why does she walk up here all on her own?” “Yes old friend. I think we been woke up for a reason.” “It has been a nice night for a chat.” The two men shook hands. Ella completed her circuit; as she walked down the curved path toward the gates, the moon shone briefly through a thin patch of cloud bathing the two old men in a luminescent glow for a few seconds, before they disappeared altogether. Ella shook her head. She was seeing things. Pembleton Star 1/11/2019 Last night local man, Robert Drake, was declared deceased after a fall from Denny’s balcony. Why he stumbled backwards over the high rail is a mystery; but observer Candy Floss said “He looked like he had seen a ghost.”


The August heat remained heavy and oppressive well past sunset, but John found himself light on his feet as he waltzed up the drive, and against all odds, he was humming. It was a jaunty tune that wasn’t recognizable to him, but he continued on, discovering the song as he went. The date with Wendy had gone quite well.  He hadn’t expected much - he rarely did - but she was such a goofball, comfortable in her own skin, and the way she held his gaze sent his stomach fluttering. Sure, she isn’t the biggest hiker and she couldn’t tell you the difference between her phone camera and a DSLR, but hobbies seemed less important than whatever connection they found tonight. He took out his phone and spent the last few minutes of his walk flipping through the pictures they’d taken by the river. It was hardly necessary, though, as Wendy’s carefree smile was already engraved in his mind. John unlocked his door, walked in, and dropped the keys in a pewter tray nearby. He paused, then reached in to pick up his wedding band. He’d taken it off a few times when he left the house for dates, and quickly slipped it back on where it found a familiar groove. He absently fingered the gold ring as his thoughts settled and he returned to ground level. As he turned over thoughts about the date in his head, they took a turn, and small doubts bubbled up: She really didn’t care for his hobbies. Was she really that charming, or was she just pretty. She laughed at that joke a little too hard.  His shoulders sagged, and he reached down to the pewter tray again. There was another ring lying next to the keys, gold and studded with small diamonds. It was his wife’s, and it hadn’t been worn in almost two years. He scooped it up and stared at it cupped in his palm. So…Not too bad, I hope? The voice in his head cut in. “Hmm,” John stirred out of his meditation. “Oh, yeah it was fine. She was fine.” So you hated it? John rocked off of the sofa and made his way to the dimly lit kitchen, “No, I mean we had a good time. Just feels a bit weird, ya know.” He shuffled over to a small ceramic bowl on the counter and dropped her ring in with a clink, watching it settled next to the words “Love you, always.” Well, it might take a few more tries. I’m sure it’ll come back to you soon enough. The light from the kitchen spilled out across the hallway and John followed it to the gallery of pictures hanging on the wall. They were all of him and Beth. Some he’d taken of her with his full kit, attempting to capture all her wonderful facets, and some were just for fun. He settled into the padded chair he’d placed in the hall a few months ago, and began his nightly ritual. He took in deep breaths and looked slowly over the photos hung on the wall. Each frame held a strong memory for him, and he’d lost countless hours reminiscing on the physical projection of his past, letting his mind hop from scene to scene. It sometimes brought him joy to remember what life had been with Beth, but sadness always burrowed its way in before the night was through. Fitting for tonight, John was particularly focused on one of his favorites – His first date with Beth. They took a cheesy selfie, walking out by the river, waffle cones dripping with ice cream and wide grins covering their faces. “I knew even then. You were fun and free,” he said. Oh, I knew you knew. I don’t think you stopped smiling the whole time. Loser. After a beat, the voice settled back into a more serious tone. And, Wendy? What did you guys do tonight? “Uh well we went by the river, grabbed some ice cream from –“ “John!” The voice cut in sharp and very much not in his head. John twisted around awkwardly and stumbled backwards into the wall of pictures, sending some crashing to the floor. He scrambled to sit upright, keeping his wide eyes fixed on the floating visage of Beth. She was glowing and translucent with tendrils of white dancing around her like tall grass. The pale gold dress from their first date hung loose around her, blown by a nonexistent wind. “Beth, you – what,” he smacked his palm into his forehead a few times and looked back upwards. Still there. “You did not,” She yelled down at him, punctuating every word. “You are making this impossible!” “I – I’m not,” he stuttered out. “It just seemed like a good idea. It was hot today and she lives right there,” he shook his head. “Wait, what is happening,” His head swam with dozens of questions: how is this happening, what are you, are you real, but he settled on just one, “Why are you here?” The specter of Beth floated down into a crouch next to John, “I’m here because you need me to be. You’re stuck on me…on us.” She pointed up to the remaining pictures clinging to the wall, her glowing hand like an accusatory beacon. “But how are you here,” he asked, questions spilling out of him now. “And I’m not stuck.” “Not stuck? You’ve been staring at us every day and you’ve gone on the exact same first date three times now.” She took a moment, her furious, luminous eyes softening a bit. “All this,” she gestured up to the gallery. “This was us. It was great and lovely and us. You aren’t going to make that happen again. And this,” she said spinning in a morose circle before settling back to the floor, “this is me now. You won’t let me leave. I need to rest, and you need to live.” John looked over Beth more completely now. Her misty form sprouted wisps of spectral energy that reached out to him, wrapped around the center of his chest, and pulsed with a glowing light alongside his heart. “See,” she said. “You’re holding on, and we’re both trapped here until you decide to let go.” “Well, if I can’t find another you, then why try? That’s all I wanted. Its all I want still.” John’s eyes welled up and a few tears spilled down his cheeks. “It’s not fair what happened.” He curled up beside her, aware of the empty space her ghost left. Her perfect face stirred up knots in his stomach and a strain in his throat. Pain and emptiness pulled at him as he saw his wife, knowing it wasn’t her returned to him. “I didn’t know I was holding you prisoner,” he admitted, whispering now under shaky breaths. She rose above him and strands of delicate thread swam to cover her. They gave off a radiance and fell away to show her in a blue flannel shirt, muddy hiking boots, and an Osprey backpack – a copy from their trip to Banff. John found the photo he took of her among the mountains, scattered among the smashed frames on the floor beside him. “Remember when you said the mountain river was clean enough to drink? A pure source, straight from the ice.” She flashed finger quotes and a broad smile for the last bit. “Yeah,” He smirked, sitting back upright, “and then I puked in your back seat all the way down the mountain.” A little warmer now, John stood and followed her past the wall she floated through and into the kitchen. “Will you listen to me this time, then? The water you’re drinking isn’t safe. You’re letting the memories of our past cloud your mind and your judgement. Are you going to waste away in front of your pictures every night, clutching those rings and holding me prisoner to watch you suffer? I loved you, John, but I would never have wished you to be a slave to grieving over me in death. It’s okay to go on.” John let her talk, and he let the silence follow. He knew she was right. He was wallowing in self-pity and his increasingly baggy shirts let him know he was wasting away by the day. When the quiet stretched on for a few minutes with her form hovering in front of him, he took a leap. “I’m scared.” He let the emotion sink in, “scared of finding someone that means something to me.” “But John, that’s exactly what you need. Someone to –“ “I don’t want to lose you. If I love them, how could I keep you?” “Look at me,” said Beth, rising over him. “This is what I am now. I’m a ghost – not real. I am not Beth. I’m the memory of her, and memories won’t get burned away the moment you find someone else.” The words ran hot and tired from her mouth. Her anguish, for a second, bubbled over into rage, so she forced herself to pause. “I’m sure I can bring you comfort sometimes, but leaning on this every day just sours into pain.” “How can I just move on?” He was standing now, eyes eager for some deliverance and hands held out and passing through her translucent arms. “How do I let you go?” “I’m already gone,” she whispered, “but you won’t be forgetting me. You’re making room for new life to be lived.” She looked over his shoulder into the hall again, addressing the pictures. “These memories you’re keeping are perfect days, and they make you cling to all the bright spots of us. We weren’t perfect, and I know you know that, but you can’t expect our best days to happen on first dates. You have to chase someone who makes you happy and see where they can take you.” Beth’s ghost transformed again, this time wearing a simple t-shirt and sweats. “Keep the memories, but let go of those notions of me and how faultless our love was.” She sailed over to the gallery wall, covering it with her hazy form. “This was me every day. Not dressed up, having adventures and posing for your photoshoots. Not your perfect image of me. This was me when we sang our goofy songs and cooked new dinners and stayed up too late watching true crime. This was me when we were building our real relationship and living . Remember this and what it took to get here, but don’t try to remake our life.” John nodded silently and strode away with purpose. He returned with a plastic box, kneeling to the floor to pick up the broken frames. He picked up each photo, admired it, and placed it gently in the box. He looked to Beth, feeling as though he were betraying her still, but she too was looking at each picture with a soft smile. They recounted the stories behind each, and laughed like they used to. Within an hour, all the pictures and curios in the hall were neatly and purposefully stowed away. Beth motioned for John to rise, “come,” she said. “One last thing.” He followed her dimming spirit to the kitchen where she hovered over the ceramic bowl he’d dropped her ring in. “its time,” she pointed to his own ring and then back to hers. Tears ran down John’s cheeks and pattered onto the counter. He kept his head low, not wanting to look her in the eyes. “It still hurts,” he said. “Why does it still hurt?” Silence hung in the air at that, so he twisted off his own ring and he set it in the bowl beside hers. Both rested nicely beside “Love you, always.” He crinkled some parchment paper around the bowl to protect it and held on tightly with both hands. “It hurts because it meant something,” said Beth. “Now, though, we both need rest.” Her eyes shone with tears. “Can you do this for us?” “Yeah,” he managed. “I’ll always love you.” John padded over to his storage box and placed the ring bowl right at the top. He sealed it up and walked it up to the attic. He returned to an empty room save for a few shards of glass he would have to clean up. For now, though, he just wanted sleep. John shut his eyes, letting and the warm glow of Beth ease him into sleep. … He awoke in a mess of blankets and pillows in his bed with salt clinging to his cheeks. A flood of sadness, anger, and confused hope battered him as he turned over the visit from Beth last night. I know I know he thought to himself, and himself only. John rolled to a sit and pulled up his phone. The black screen stared back at him for a moment while he decided whether he was ready, but Beth’s voice echoed in his head to let go and he gave way to it. He mouthed as he typed out, “Hey Wendy, had a great time last night. Any plans today?” The minutes passed as he blankly stared at the text he sent, feeling regret wash over. To push the thought of rejection from his mind, he pushed out of bed and got himself ready for the day. He walked through the now empty hallway and smiled at the pictureless wall. The scene stirred him, and he hurried back to his room to grab his camera gear. He finished packing up his camera bag when a ping sounded from his phone, plastering a smile to his face. “No plans,” read the text. “Want to grab lunch?”


Shelley knew to keep quiet; years of conditioning will do that to a person. There was little to take- there never was, when you rarely even feel like a guest at a new address you learn not to burden the space with stuff. “Shelley, are you packing?” the question didn’t need to be asked but her Mother was in full panic mode. Time was always of the essence when they were moving.

“Yes, nearly finished, Mum” but as the last syllables left her lips, she immediately regretted them. Thoughtless, thoughtless Shelley. Shaking her head, she knew she had made an error. Words were like bombs in these high-stake situations and she knew better than to drop them when her mother was already so close to losing the last of her sanity. “Nearly finished, Shelley for Christ sake, I asked you two hours ago, how can you only nearly be finished?” She could hear the sigh telepathically as even her teenage hearing couldn’t pick that up from downstairs. Nonetheless she could visualise her mother’s lips purse as the air escaped. She could visualise her prematurely wrinkled face screw up in fear and misplaced anger. Misplaced as she knew that Shelley was not the reason, they were in such a rush, knew that Shelley’s behaviour hadn’t ruined a perfectly good home. Shelley knew better than to retort or add a match to a situation drenched in gasoline. She hadn’t always been so reserved, in fact at points, she had been downright cavalier. But, shouting, bitching wailing, only extended the inevitable and in most cases, led to her misplacing or forgetting the very few possessions she had attempted to collect. For years she had struggled to contain her temper, to bottle the emotions that bubbled from their childish to hormonal ways, but any behaviour can be learned if it is practiced enough. The hands on the clock were acting in a way contrary to the laws of physics. One minute Shelley felt that time was dragging and the next time she looked half an hour had passed. It was currently in the former of the two. She sat amongst the three lowly bags she had packed, the ruins of another failed address, another failed attempt, another failed series of promises. Glancing at the slowly moving hand on the clock she realised that it was past any semblance of dinner time. Darkness had shrouded them and this time not just because the electricity had not been paid. Lets be honest a bar bill often necessitates being paid over lighting when the landlord is 6 foot 4 and built like a semi pro wrestler but her mother had always liked to keep the lights off when they were doing their midnight flit. Shelley could hear her mother bordering on the frenetic downstairs. Cupboards were being shut with increased loudness, her movements back on forth from the rooms becoming more chaotic as she bundled up the last three months of a home. Three months of stability that was always teetering on an edge of the consequences of a shoddy gambler. It was always going to end like this, history had never failed to repeat itself, but they were all falling into the chasm once again. “Shelley, come down here your father will be home any minute- he won’t want to wait around” of course he wouldn’t – he never does. When you’re running from your present and your past you tend to want to do it at pace. “Coming” Shelley uncrossed her legs, thankfully before the pins and needles had fully set in. Looking around, for what would be the last time, she realised she had liked this place. It was much better than most of the places before, when black mould would creep up the walls, permeating everything it touched with its ever increasing growth. The ceiling had also been intact which, again, was a nice surprise. You cannot take clean and dry sheets for granted. Picking up the bags she moved down the stairs. Down to the turmoil that surrounded her mother. The disaster that her mother had tolerated and been a participant in. I’m sure she felt that she was doing her best, keeping her family together, but could you keep something together that was so fractured industrial glue couldn’t even fuse the cracks? Downstairs bags were strewn near the front door ready for the fleeing exit. There would be no goodbyes from neighbours just skid marks on the road being the last memory that they had resided here. In fact, I’m sure the neighbours didn’t even know their names. When you move as often as her family did, it was always best to not give a forwarding address. It makes those unpaid bills that bit harder to be repaid. “Shelley, thank god, your dad is on his way, help me move this picture” of course there was a picture to be moved. Her father’s fury could always penetrate plaster board. Thankfully they had become resourceful in fixing and mending in short time frames. If she ever got to finish her education, she could always look at career in interior design. As the picture was finally adjusted her father walked in. His permanent odour of stout and Marlboros trailed in behind him, like a ghost of his afternoon. Shelley was quiet once again as she helped her mother move their pitiful belongings to the car. Her father, as inept as usual, stood on his phone shifting from foot-to-foot anxiety billowing from his pores in the same way the cigarette smoke billowed from his mouth.

Not for the first time Shelley felt the hate rise tasting its hot bile flavour at the back of her throat. She knew this wouldn’t be the last time they would flee in the night, but she knew these days were numbered. She wouldn’t be a teenager forever and even if her mother wouldn’t leave, she knew she could, and would.

As she got into the backseat of the car it was only this thought that stopped her from screaming.


Well, this is quite the predicament. They offered me top of the line but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when they said “The best security”, well whatever a room is a room. I walk in and feel the plush carpeting hit my feet, it’s like walking on a sheep. I look for my bed and toilet and see nothing.

“Hey, where do I sleep?” I asked, “Where else but on the floor? Have you felt it? It’s amazing.” He says back.

“Ok, but where do I go to...go?” I ask, “Oh, there’s a panel that pop’s out and has a toilet, forgot which one though.” He says with a laugh.

“Well alright then” I reply. Well, I should probably assess my current living situation. No bed, a toilet I can’t find, and it’s so damn bright in here. That’s the best I can see for now, well, I suppose I should try and make myself comfortable, they’re saying I could be here for a while with all that’s happened. I go to sit on the floor and immediately regret it. The floor smells of a person who hasn’t bathed in a week. It felt soft through my socks but I guess it must just be my socks. It has a smooth leatherish feeling to it, I can feel that the flooring has different segments to it, like its multiple pillows layed on the floor. But I cannot explain how soft it is. It’s like pressing down on a mattress but there is no end to how far you can press. I lay my head back in comfort as I start to drift into a deep sleep. I wake up back in my bed, back at my house. What was that? Was that a dream? I’m so lost in my thoughts that I nearly forget to glance at the clock. Nine am, shit I’m late for work! I arrive at the office at Twelve, now I am even more late than I was before. Now I have to deal with my boss which is great.

“Why the hell are you so late?!” The boss asks me, he has a bit of a bourbon smell to his breath as he screams at me. So he’s been drinking? That makes my luck even better. “Hey boss, my car broke down on the way here sorry.” A lie but it’s to save my skin. I don’t know what would happen to me if he knew the truth. “So it took you five hours to get your damn car fixed?!” A bit of his saliva hits my co-worker Steph, sorry Steph but better you than me.

“Uhhh yeah?” I reply “This is the last damn straw, if you’re late one more time I swear I will fire faster than you can even blink!” He walks back to his office after he says this. Thank god I get one more chance. Well now to go back to my daily routine of… what is it I do again? Wait why am I blanking on this, I spent four years of my life to get a master’s in… I blink and find that I’m back in the room. What the hell? So it wasn’t a dream? I can barely wrap my head around it when a man puts down a plate of food and simply says, “Dinner” So that must mean that it’s evening time right? But when it got to work it was Noon, what the hell is going on here. I get up and go to the door and ask where I am. “Where you belong” is the only reply I get. Well, that answered zero of my million questions. But at least I know the people outside my room are just the sweetest kindest little things. I try to peer out the door’s mail slot but I get the door opened on my face. Which doesn’t hurt really but it sure does hurt my feelings. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” A man asks me, “I just want to know where I am, frankly I’m very confused,” I reply. I wonder why they’re looking at me like that, all I asked was a… I wake up back in the void I now call home, feels great to be in control again. I look to see two guards looking at me with the weirdest expressions.

“What are you two looking at?” I ask simply. “Oh, you’re back. It was nothing, just some suspicious activity, carry on.” I’m back? What the hell does that mean. Well, whatever I suppose I could find something to do now that I’m awake again. I move to some of the walls, seem like they’re made of the same stuff as the floor, interesting.

I rip the parts of the wall off and make myself a little bed of sorts, I get yelled at by the men but I don’t care, it’s better than sleeping on the floor. I lie down to rest my head and reminisce on why I’m here… I wake up back in the room, what happened to the guards? Weren’t they right in front of me just a second ago? And why am I lying down? I’m lost in my thoughts that I don’t even see someone come inside.

“Hello? Mr. Schmidt? Is that you?” She asks softly. “What? No no, my name is James Cameron. Could you tell me where the hell I am and what’s going on?” I ask frazzled.

“Oh well I am sorry Mr. Cameron but that’s Classified to you, I suggest that you go back to sleep now.” She says to me. “But I don’t want sleep I want answers! Where am I? What’s going on? Why won’t you people tell me anything?!” “Administrate the sedatives,” She says to the men outside, “Wait what? Get your hands off me! I said get them off-” I awaken on the floor with guards surrounding me, I sit up and they start to question me. “Hello Mr.Schmidt, how are you today?” She asks “I’m quite alright thank you for asking” I respond. “Wait I’m confused,” A guard whispers “What’s going on here? Earlier he said he wasn’t Mr. Schmidt, now he’s saying he is.” “Oh well, it’s quite simple,” She responds “He, Mr. Cameron, Has undiagnosed DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder. While we were talking to Mr. James Cameron earlier we are now talking to Mr. Richard Schmidt.” Well, that’s not surprising, I’ve always wondered why I wake up in the middle of the night and sleep in the morning. Well in that case maybe I could have some fun with this other personality. “Hey,” I ask “Could you tell James what I did? I think it would be hilarious.” “I can’t Mr. Schmidt, that is classified information to him. You’re the only one meant to be in here but we can’t help that he’s in here too.” Is the unsatisfying response I get. Dammit, I guess I have to be a bit smarter with this question. “Well technically speaking he and I are the same people, so he has every right to know as I do,” I ask. “Well that is a good point, but like I said it’s classified to him,” she says. “Then can you remind me what I did I seem to be blanking,” I ask and then I close my eyes in a split second to make the switch, I want him to hear what I’ve done, this false personality will be in for a shock… I wake up again and the lady from before is saying something. “Three accounts of First Degree Murder and One of Involuntary Manslaughter.” “Wait what?!” I say shock ringing in my voice. “Hold on.... Tell me your name.” “James Cameron I told you that already.” “Ugh Damn it he tricked me!” She’s very upset with someone. “Well, now that the cat’s out of the bag I might as well tell you everything,” Well I guess it’s time to learn why I’m in here. “You have DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder you, or the other you, decided enough was enough at your workplace and brought an automatic assault rifle and shot twelve people. Killing three and injuring the other nine. We have reason to believe the three he killed were for a reason so that’s where the three accounts of First Degree. The account of involuntary is when you ran over a woman crossing the street as you, the other you, ran.” Holy shit… Holy shit so… I have another person inside me?! This doesn’t make any sense… i-if I did I would know right? I’m so lost… Wait… “Wait if this… other personality did these things then why am I here? I didn’t do anything wrong.” I say sternly “While that is the case Mr. Cameron you and he share a body per se. So we can’t just let a known murderer walk free even if you did nothing wrong.” She says “Well, how long will I, we,

be in here for?” “A very very long time Mr. Cameron, goodbye.” She moves toward the door but stops suddenly, she turns back to me, “I’m very sorry that this has happened to you Mr. Cameron, I wish I could change things but I cannot.” She then opens the door and leaves with the guards. That was the last time I ever saw her again. But this is just the beginning of my other self’s antics.


The Commander was at his work station. There was a lot to do. With a sigh, he absorbed the contents of the report he had requested:

“From the Institute for Space Exploration To the Commander-in-Chief, Space Exploration. Honoured Sir, Planet 451.23 Our brief You have directed us to investigate this planet, its constituents and life forms, to determine whether it might be profitable for our people to visit it in the name of peace and commerce. Limitations on our investigation The subject planet is surrounded by a protective shield.  Probes sent to discover more about the planet have simply burnt out on entry into its atmosphere. Larger vessels have been able to break through, but have then had negative results.  On one unfortunate occasion, of which we believe you are aware, sir, our engineers mistakenly sent a vessel of such size that it extinguished all the life forms on the planet. It took many millennia for the planet to be restored to the level where it could support any life-form.  Emissaries have initially reported success in finding a way round the shield, but have then vanished in circumstances which are still shrouded in mystery. On the other hand, whereas at one time we were able to access information about the planet only visually, we now have access to electronic communications emanating from the planet. These have increased our knowledge of the planet, but have only served to increase our incomprehension of the way of life of its principal life-forms.

The physical characteristics of the planet The subject planet has a circumference of 49 million miles, and a surface area of 197 million square miles. 29% of the planet is land; the remainder is water.   The climate is humid and clearly capable of supporting life, and the flora and fauna, all of which over the years have appeared in abundance. Lately, however, there has been a most regrettable deterioration in the conditions for supporting life, brought about almost entirely by the behaviour of the Custodians (see below), who alone have the ability to control the planet in a constructive way, but frequently behave as a de structive force. The life-forms There are no less than eleven life-forms on this planet. We propose to concentrate on the three most visibly numerous groups.

1.    The Custodians These life-forms appear to play a disproportionately large part in the actions and preservation of the planet. The name we have given them derives from the key role they have taken upon themselves, although we do not consider that they fulfil that role with any degree of success. They have four protuberances from an oval body topped by a spherical object which appears to contain the sensory centre of the species. They typically stand on two of these protuberances save for the purposes of feeding, resting and procreating. They cannot live on or in water for an indefinite period of time, and have to remain at a steady temperature. Because of their activity, the temperature of the planet is rising each year, thus reducing the area of land on which they can live. Two of the protuberances appear to be for the purposes of self-propulsion, and two for other forms of activity, many of which appear directed to the destruction of other life-forms. Their population is currently 804 million, growing at a rate of 65 million each year.

2.    Quadrupeds These life-forms are limited to living on land. In their natural environment, they dwell in areas different to the Custodians. They have four protuberances, and generally use all four both for self-propulsion, feeding and procreation, thus differing themselves from the Custodians. They and the Custodians appear not to be able to communicate effectively with each other. In those cases where communication appears to be possible, the Custodians appear to be surprised by this, and find it a cause for humour or entertainment. Some of the Quadrupeds are so small that it is impossible, from our limited observation platform, to detect the numbers, but we estimate that they number about 5.5 million. However, their population is decreasing by 68% each year, mainly because of the destructive tendencies of the Custodians, who kill them not only for food but for their own pleasure.

3.    Aquatics

These life-forms inhabit the water. They typically do not have any protuberances but are propelled by movements of their bodies, which assume a horizontal posture. Feeding is achieved by simply opening the aperture at one end of their bodies and allowing an inflow of water which apparently contains the nutrients that they need. Again, there appears to be no obvious means of communication between the Aquatics and the Custodians, who clearly believe that it is their right to use other life-forms for their own entertainment and for food, although not necessarily at the same time. Because of the depth of the water on the subject planet, we have been limited in our research, but believe that there are over 2 million Aquatics; however, their population is also decreasing by 68% each year, due to the destructive tendencies of the Custodians and the rise in the temperature of the planet which endangers not only their body structures but their natural habitats. Mineral Resources There are mineral resources on the planet which are capable of supporting all the life-forms that the planet contains. However, those resources are being consumed by the Custodians at a rate which, if maintained at its present level, will lead to the destruction of all life-systems. The prime instance is Carbon, an element which is capable of producing the heat that is needed in certain areas of the planet in order for Custodians to sustain the temperature that is required for their existence, for transportation, and, paradoxically, for maintaining the temperature of the planet as a whole. According to our investigators, if current rates of Carbon consumption are maintained, in eight years the temperature of the planet will start to increase to such an extent that the amount of the planet which is uninhabitable will start to increase beyond sustainable limits. The Custodians appear to be aware of what is happening, but seem incapable of any sort of agreement to resolve it. The Quadrupeds and Aquatics must clearly be conscious of the problem, because it is their way of life which is being most affected, but they cannot effectively communicate this to the Custodians, and are dependent on the Custodians to act on their behalf. All too frequently, this simply does not happen.

The conduct of the life-forms 1.

The Custodians The Custodians usually live in small groups, often led by an individual who is called the “King” or “President” and who usually appears to be an older member of the group. Different groups appear to have no consistent method of communication with each other. They emit noises which, in places only short distances from each other, are different and have different meanings, so that true communication is impossible. They are of different colours and markings, which result in the deepest possible suspicion of each other. Even Custodians in the same group find it impossible to co-exist peaceably.  They claim to be in general agreement that the unjustified killing or harming of another Custodian is incorrect, but all too often find that “justification” in ways which defy understanding. It seems to make no difference whether they come from the same or different parts of the planet. Millions of Custodians are destroyed every year simply because they have different colours or Belief-Systems (see below). Unimaginable cruelty has been inflicted on each other by Custodians who live in close proximity to each other but harbour an irrational hatred for each other. Worse still, every year they devise more and more horrifying and violent methods to kill or harm each other. Times when one of a Custodian’s upper protuberances is banged against the other can signal a wide degree of accord, although equally, such is the nature of Custodians throughout the planet, it can be a prelude to violence. There appears to be no way of predicting which way they will choose to go. Even where large numbers of Custodians are gathered together in apparent peace, they can start to emit strange sounds and behave in incomprehensible ways in a way which we believe is supposed to be a pleasurable reaction to what is going on in front of them, but which rapidly turns to aggression. We have done our best to ascertain the basis for this behaviour, but have concluded that it defies all logic. 2.    The Quadrupeds and Aquatics      Quadrupeds have sophisticated hierarchies in which recognised leaders have precedence. Their position is often achieved by violence. Little is known of the society structures of the Aquatics.  What is clear is that each life-form appears incapable of living in peace and harmony with other members of the same group. The Quadrupeds and Aquatics use each other for food, but that appears to be accepted by them as part of what they call the Food Chain, whereas the Custodians destroy Quadrupeds and Aquatics not simply for food but for pleasure.

Belief-Systems Many Custodians across the planet have different Belief-Systems. Some revere invisible beings. Some revere objects. Some have no reverence for any being or object other than themselves.  Each group within a Belief-System characteristically exhibits the greatest possible hatred towards Custodians who have a different Belief-System. There appears to be no logical basis for this, as every Belief-System claims to support the concept of peaceful co-existence with all Custodians. Where there is disagreement, this can result in extreme violence in which one group appears to be determined to force its own Belief-System on another. This results in no degree of contentment for either group, but simply an increase in that violence. Those who speak out against that conduct are villified or all too often subjected themselves to extreme violence. Each Belief-System has rules which its proponents are required to obey, but all too frequently, the leaders of each group are guilty of the most extreme disobedience to the rules they espouse, and are rarely held to account for this. The Custodians apparently see no obstacle in their Belief-Systems to the destruction of the Quadrupeds and Aquatics. So far as we are able to ascertain, there is no structured Belief-System among the Quadrupeds and Aquatics There is one unifying feature of all the conduct of the Custodians. Their motive of each is the acquisition of objects which denote a position of superiority to other Custodians. However, the more they have, the less pleasure they seem to exact from it, causing them to seek yet more pleasure and more wealth, in an ever-decreasing circle. In doing so, they pay no care or attention to the needs of other Custodians or, indeed, any other life-forms on the planet, and those who do are often derided as being of limited intelligence. Mitigating Factors We would not want you, Honoured Sir, to consider that this planet has no redeeming features whatever. Many of the life-forms are of great outward beauty. To their credit, the Custodians treasure them and gather them together either for their own protection or for the purposes of a mutual affection which is heartening to see. Custodians are also capable of some degree of concord, and demonstrate this in different ways. “Music” appears to be a unifying factor, although we have found that appreciation of this differs among Custodians across a wide spectrum. Only in one or two isolated instances has opinion been unified; one particular King (see above) has clearly been revered for his leadership. “Laughter” appears to be another sound of unity which crosses all boundaries, although the conception as to what causes that laughter differs in different parts of the planet. However, it is generally agreed that, where there is laughter, there cannot be hatred. Sadly, the effects of this behaviour are short-lasting, and in no way detract from the general feeling of ill-will that pervades this planet.

The outcome of this investigation It is regrettable, Honoured Sir, that this investigation was not instigated many years ago. This planet had great beauty, and the life-forms could have been trained to co-exist peaceably. However the increasingly unpleasant and aggressive impulses of the Custodians make this now an impossible task, and counter-indicate any peaceful attempt at social interaction with any emissary from our planet. We have come to the conclusion that our resources should be expended in areas where success is more likely to be achieved. Your humble servant, Zob Oglic II” The Commander pulled in his tentacles to their fullest extent. He shut his eye. His elongated frame vibrated in frustration. Yet another failed attempt to find a planet outside their own which was worthy of his attention and that of the millions of Urkunastations over whom he ruled. He sighed at yet another disappointment. Some day, some day, perhaps, but not today.  But as he put his body into sleep mode, he was at least comforted by the thought: “We are not alone”.