           Desperate to provide for his teenage son, Jarvis pulls the black ski mask over his wrinkled brow, looks up-and-down the roadway, then swings the door open to Uncle Frankie’s One-Stop Shop, a local convenience store.            Jarvis scans the store for shoppers or other staff members, then nervously approaches the counter. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out the handle of a pistol, showing the man behind the counter. He then pushed the barrel of the gun against the inside lining of his pocket and demanded all the cash in the register.            The middle-aged man seemed calm and unfazed by the armed thief yet complied with his wishes. Opening the till, the employee began to pull out cash then paused and said,

“You want I should put this in a bag for ya?” His strong Italian accent was difficult to understand.            Unprepared for the question, Jarvis just nodded at the man. The burly Italian reached below the cash register, but when he stood back up, it wasn’t a bag in his hand, it was a double-barreled shotgun which he had aimed directly at the chest of Jarvis.            Unable to move from shock, the only thing Jarvis remembered was an explosion followed by a flash and a searing heat in his chest. He fell backward toward the ceramic floor, and everything went black.            When he woke, Jarvis was encompassed by a blinding light reflecting against pure white walls, floor, and ceiling. He thought for a moment that he was in a hospital but saw no staff. There wasn’t even a sound. Even his footsteps were silent.            He searched unsuccessfully around the room for a doorway or window. Leaning back against the bed where he found himself earlier, he pondered every explanation. Jarvis considered that the man behind the counter may have kidnapped him and was keeping him stashed away in a back room somewhere.            Remembering the blast from the shotgun, Jarvis looked down at his chest to see how badly he was injured, but there were no signs of damage to his skin or his shirt. “But, how?” he wondered.            The room began to vibrate slightly, like the tremor of a distant earthquake. A high-pitched pulse began to resonate within his eardrums, and he pressed the palms of his hands tightly against the sides of his head. The pain increased, and he clenched his eyes closed.            As the pulsing subsided, Jarvis removed his hands from his ears and opened his eyes. The room had changed. The ceiling was now a pale blue sky with wispy clouds that floated by like boats on the water. As he looked down, however, he saw tongues of fire shooting up from the darkened depths below. Instinctively, Jarvis ran for safety and hopped onto a spiral staircase that now circled upward into emptiness.            A voice emanated from below. It was a quiet hissing noise, like that of a snake. It tried to coax Jarvis into joining them, promising everything that he could ever ask for in life. Jarvis searched for the location of the voice, and through the darkness, he spotted two piercing yellow eyes staring back at him. Jarvis backed away, climbing higher up the staircase.            A breeze blew across his forehead, causing him to close his eyes once again. When he reopened them, a beautiful woman hovered above him. Her eyes were as green as clovers, and her long red hair cascaded over her shoulders. A bright glow shone from her long white gown as a peaceful smile gave Jarvis a sense of calm.

“Who are you?” he asked this mystic being.

“I am known as Christiana. I have been asked to speak with you, Jarvis.”            “How do you know my name?” he asked.

“We know all there is to know about you. There are no secrets here.”            “No secrets? Well then, maybe you can tell me where I am?”            “This place is called, The In-Between. It is a moment both in time and without time. It is a place of light and darkness, good and evil, and a place of choices.”            “Why did you bring me here?”            “It was not I who brought you here. It was Mister Gray.”            “Who is Mister Gray?”            “He decides which souls deserve an opportunity to correct their mistakes and choose their destinies.”            “So, where is Mister Gray now?”            “Mister Gray does not stay in this place. There are thousands of displaced souls being brought before him every minute of every day. He must have felt that you had more to offer, or else you would not be here.”

Jarvis gazed around this strange place he was at. He considered the words that Christiana had spoke, and he asked her what he had to do next.

“With every positive, there is a negative. This goes for every aspect of human existence. One does not live a full life without facing opposing sides. How you react to these opposites, is what will help create your destiny and guide you down one path or another. If you find an attraction to one side more than the other, then you will be drawn down that path, even if there is a resistance trying to pull you back.”

Jarvis sat down upon the step and tried to make sense of this added information. He could now only assume that he died in that convenience store and is now stuck in some sort of limbo.            The room began to vibrate once again. Christiana told Jarvis that she had to leave, and like a hummingbird, she went from motionless to a quick escape, darting out into the clouds above. Once again, Jarvis grabbed hold of his ears as the pulsing began once again.            As before, when he opened his eyes back up, the room had changed. He found himself surrounded by beautiful women, tables filled with bottles of expensive alcohol, and succulent platters of food. A band played loudly as the dancefloor filled with partygoers. They were bumping and grinding, groping one another to the beat of the music. It was an erotic scene that was beyond the imagination of Jarvis.            A man dressed in an expensive black satin suit walked up on stage and the room fell into silence. Jarvis looked toward the stage along with everyone else. The man slinked his way toward the center with his head held low. A black fedora rested upon his head. A spotlight lit up and was directed at this dark stranger. He raised his head toward the light, and two familiar yellow eyes reflected. Jarvis was taken aback yet intrigued by this man’s style and popularity. He wondered who he was. The man raised his hands above his head, then lowered one arm, and with his right index finger, he pointed at Jarvis. He then turned his wrist, so his palm faced upwards, and he signalled for Jarvis to approach. Jarvis felt all eyes in the room suddenly on him.            Feeling obligated, Jarvis inched his way across the dancefloor. The wall of people separated as he neared, opening a clear path toward the man with the yellow eyes. When he finally stood at the foot of the stage, Jarvis looked up at the stranger. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was standing on a stage, but the man seemed to tower above everyone in the room.            His eyes seemed to be looking into Jarvis’s soul. He suddenly felt vulnerable. The man just stared and smiled a sinister grin. Jarvis wasn’t sure if it was the lighting in the room but swore that he could see tiny faces and hands pushing out from inside the man’s face, trying to escape. Jarvis broke the gaze of his yellow eyes and was able to think more clearly.            Jarvis spoke up and asked, “Who are you, sir?”            “I am but a humble servant of one that is eternal. One that can make all your fantasies become reality. I am called, Azazel.”            “What do you want from me?” Jarvis asked.

“I am here to offer you salvation. You can live eternity in luxury, feeding your heart’s desire. All you need to do is ask.”

Seductive women caressed his chest, pulling Jarvis down toward to floor. He felt himself weak against their touch. Suddenly, his mind filled with visions of his son. The teenage boy who struggled with his own demons. He knew that he needed to find a way to get back to his son. Jarvis pulled from the grip of the seductresses and stood back up, facing Azazel once more.

“I wish to leave this place,” he demanded. The pulsating began again. This time, Jarvis looked forward to what was to come.            As he opened his eyes, he found himself in a dimly lit room. Shadows moved slowly across the walls surrounding him. He felt unsure of this place. One of the shadows approached him slowly and began to take human form.            As the shadow man came into the light, his features appeared more clearly. He was elderly, in his early eighties, and had pale gray eyes that showed a sense of understanding and kindness.            With an outstretched hand, he introduced himself. “Welcome, Jarvis. I am Mister Gray.”            “Mister Gray?” Jarvis repeated, surprised to see the man who is too busy to personally see anyone.

“Yes, my boy. I have been watching you for a long time. I want to ask you something…What is the most important thing of all to you?”

Without hesitation, Jarvis answered, “My son, Jake. I would do anything for him, which is what brought me here in the first place.”            “Please, lie down on the couch,” mister Gray suggested as he pointed toward a leather sofa. Jarvis did so.            Mister Gray stood over Jarvis and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. As he turned it on, Jarvis was temporarily blinded, and shaded his eyes from the light. Then he heard a familiar voice.

“Dad! Dad, can you hear me?” As he removed his hand from in front of his eyes, Jarvis saw the face of Jake smiling back at him. He was in a hospital room, and to his right, stood a doctor holding a flashlight.

“Welcome back, Mister Marks. I’m Doctor Gray. You are at St. Gabriel Memorial Hospital. You have been in a coma for three days. Do you remember what happened, sir?”

Still groggy, Jarvis tried to recall the events of what happened prior to his coma. “I remember going into a convenience store. My son’s birthday was coming up, and I didn’t want to disappoint him by not giving him a present that he wanted, so I decided to rob a store for the cash. I remember the store clerk shooting me. How can I still be alive?”

The doctor replied, “The man in the store wanted to scare you off, so he shot you with rock salt, but you fell backwards and hit your head on the concrete floor. You went into a coma and when the police found out who you were, they went to retrieve your son. He has been by your side ever since.”

Jarvis looked at Jake and squeezed his hand tightly. “I’m so sorry, son. I tried to do what was best for you, but I guess I screwed up this time. Wait, it’s been three days? That means I didn’t miss your birthday! I have one more day to make it right.”            “Dad don’t worry about it. I don’t need some video game. I got the best present right here. I’ve got you, dad. I love you.”

It had been a few years since Jarvis heard his son say those words willingly. He thought Jake was outgrowing his father’s love. It warmed his heart to see that he did something right. It wasn’t easy for them ever since Jake’s mom left them when Jake was just two years old. Neither of them had heard from her since then, and Jarvis never found another woman to be with, so the two men grew a tight bond over the years.            Doctor Gray interrupted. “I’m sorry, but the police would like to speak with you.”

Two officers entered the room. Jarvis filled them in on the events of that night at the convenience store and was ready to face justice, but then the senior officer spoke up and said, “The store owner decided not to press charges. When he found out you were a single dad and you were in a coma, he had pity on you and dropped the charges. Besides that, he knew you couldn’t do much to him with the toy gun you had in your pocket.”            Jake leaned over and gave his dad a strong embrace. Jarvis didn’t want that moment to end. As the officers were leaving, a nurse entered the room. She had flowing red hair and green eyes.

“How are we feeling today, Mister Marks?” she asked. “My name is Chrissy. If you need anything, you just hit that buzzer beside you, and I will do what I can to help.” She gave Jarvis a wink as she turned and walked away.

“I think she likes you,” Jake blurted out before the nurse was out of ear shot.            Nurse Chrissy looked back over her shoulder once more and gave him a pleasant smile. Jarvis had a feeling that he knew both her and the doctor but could not remember from where. He was simply happy to have a second chance at life.


Yes, We Can! “Any questions? If there are no questions, we shall begin. Do I have a nomination for Chairperson… no? If not, I will assume the position... I will preside over the meeting. Now…” He rambled on for a good half hour. It was difficult to hear, so I got only part of what he was saying. We were seated on bar stools around a pool table, that doubled as a meeting table.  The plywood top, usually used to keep the hurricane winds outside where they belong, was placed over the felt to keep any accidents from ruining it. One of Bill’s rules. Our meeting space shares a wall with the dispensary next door, and the people that work there play their music very loud. Loud enough so that when you’re playing pool, sometimes the balls start moving on their own. It a lot of fun on Halloween, but other times it’s really annoying. Crispin, we call him that cause he eats very few things, chicken nuggets being one of the things, and cookies, the other. How he remains alive is beyond any of us, but then that’s his problem, I guess. It don’t matter which kind of cookie either, like it does with the chicken. He’s partial to organic free range. I’ve spent a lot of time telling him that labels mean nothing. I saw a program about just that. They keep the chickens locked up until the last couple of days before they get made into whatever they make out of chickens. The chickens are so frightened by the daylight, they refuse to go outside. But it doesn’t seem to matter to Crispin where the cookies come from, or what they look like. He likes Oreos, and peanut butter cookies with real peanut butter, not those chips they use, the ones that look like baby’s tears. He says they taste like they are made of plastic. He says those little chips is like most things they claim tastes like chicken, if you don’t know what really good chicken tastes like. I could see his point, but those baby chips he’s talking about, aren’t made of peanut butter, they are butterscotch.  When I pointed that out to him, he said it don’t matter, cause they all taste like he wants them to taste. I was going to ask but decided against it. I bring Martin along when we go to Bobby Joe’s. No one calls it that anymore since the fire. We all call it The Greasy Spoon; Bill don’t seem to mind. He’s just happy we all still come down, as it does take some time, getting used to that Smokey smell.  It kind of lingers on your clothes for a few days, even after you wash um. It was Bill’s idea that we should enter the contest. Bill runs the place. He said he saw the contest advertised on the baking channel. I didn’t even know there was a baking channel, but Bill says its got quite a following, specially in England, which seemed counterproductive, as they have a more regimented sense of propriety. But then to each their own, I suppose.

Bill said we should check out the channel, so Crispin did. None of the rest of us were all that enthusiastic, as we don’t really care much for cookies. Chicken and beer is fine, more than fine actually, no matter whether the chicken is freed or not. But cookies and beer?  Most of us draw the line at. Especially the cookies with the fake chocolate chips. The chips keep falling off into the glass when you dunk them, and you get a real rush when you get down to the bottom, especially if you forgot they were there. And they are dangerous.  If a whole lug of those chips lets go, and gets in your throat all at once, you could choke. Too much of a good thing turns out not to be such a good thing. Unless it’s chicken, Crispin says. Also, Marty, our softball catcher and manager, who washes dishes for Bill, now that his tab has reached the quarter of century mark. I don’t know how much that is, but it sounds like a lot. Bill said Marty would either have to stop commin in or start washing dishes. Mainly glasses since the fire, but then that’s where I was headin.

The chocolate chips on the bottom, if not all drank after a time, under the bright lights, tend to stick, and he says getting the glasses clean is time consuming as hell, and his debt gets reduced, by the glass. I saw his point, and like I told him, I don’t much care for cookies, I’m more of a S’mores guy. Anyway, Crispin calls this meeting to discuss this contest. I’d talked with Bill to get the scoop, what with him having watched the baking channel and all. He says it is legit. The team that can make the largest cookie, edible of course, wins a trip for as many as six bakers to the Betty Crocker Bake Off in Minneapolis, the home of all kinds of flour and baking stuff, and beer. I think it was the beer that got everyone so enthusiastic about this baking stuff, everyone I think but Bill. They got these silos filled with grains they use for making beer, painted like cans of beer. A huge six pack the brochure says. I’d like to see that. Bill says it is a logistical nightmare though. The last several bake offs ended in everyone being disqualified for using materials not OK’d by the committee. He says they are real strict about stuff like that. He thinks they are afraid of stuff happening, like nuclear ovens and alien yeasts. He also says he’s given it some thought, and Crispin agrees, that the inflatable pool he has, would be just the thing. He says Crispin agreed to let us use his canoe paddles, and Marty said he’s got a line on some real powerful baking soda. Not the junk they got in stores he says, but the stuff from his stash that he used in the bathtub submarine races back in grade school, and up till now, couldn’t find a use for. He’s also donatin, a five-gallon ice cream tin of baking powder. He says his grandma is a hoarder, and she can’t pass up a deal. He says you couldn’t believe what’s down in the basement of her house. “She’s got ten years of cat litter, and don’t have a cat.” And he says she can’t park in the garage cause it’s full of toilet paper. Not the cheap see through stuff they got now, but the old stuff, that’s tough as a mechanics overalls.

The real debating however didn’t begin until we was wondering about how to bake something that big. Apparently, according to Bill, the present champions, some girl scout troop from the Peninsula of Michigan, made a cookie five feet three and a quarter inches in diameter. And it was measured while the chocolate chips were still melty. Bill says it probably shrunk about an inch after it cooled, but still…

Marty said he’d given it considerable thought as he has lots of time to think when he’s washing glasses, and came up with the way we can bake it. His brother Ronny has a hot air balloon. We wait until the Fourth of July. The contest isn’t till the seventh, or right around then, and the temperature is usually over a hundred, and the parking lot at the bowling alley is empty cause everyone is down at the parade. I don’t know how he knows this, but he says if we wait until about three in the afternoon, assuming the sun is shinin, the temperature he says on the asphalt will be somewhere around 175 degrees, which should take our dough about four hours to bake. Assuming he says, that Ronny can hit the parking lot. If he misses, he implied it could cause some real liability issues. Can’t blame him for being concerned about a thing like that. Marty thought it was a good idea, but then Ronny is his brother. I really didn’t care much; except I would like to see Ronny drop that thing from a hundred feet and hit anything he was aiming at. Got to get that high to miss the power lines. Suppose he could let some air out, but then if the wind picks up, he’s on the highway. Crispin said, that being he was nominated Chairperson by majority, it was up to him to decide if our plan had merit. I thought the whole Chairperson thing had kind of gone to his head, but then no one else wanted the job, so you go with what you got.

We would need six of our ball team to work the cookie dough, and the remaining three will man the lines of the balloon, until Ronny gives them the signal. He’s the captain and knows about wind velocity and stuff like that, so no one objected.

Overall I thought the plan was doable, and I really wanted to go to Minneapolis; anywhere really. We were to meet on July third at the Greasy Spoon to finalize everything. Make sure we had qualified ingredients; cause Bill says they do some kind of test to make sure we wasn’t cheatin. Being the Fourth was a Sunday, Herman our short stop said he and his brothers could man the ropes. We all hoped silently they’d be somewhat more capable than they were at playing outfield. It looked like things were comin together. The swimmin pool, we would set up where the pool table was, as we wouldn’t need a meeting table at that point. Bill said he thought the fire hose would reach that far, and if it didn’t, he had lots of pitchers that no one would use until after the parade anyway. It looked like even Crispin, who said because he was Chairperson, should get first taste, was ready and willing to go. No one objected about him havin first taste, but no one seconded his motion either. The time flew.  The morning of the Fourth was somewhat colder than normal, but then the sun hadn’t really had a chance to make its self felt. We got everything to the Greasy Spoon, set up the pool, which surprisingly didn’t leak. Bill hauled the hose over, and Crispin started showin us how to use the paddles correctly. He said the J stroke would probably be the best, being the dough startin out might be a bit thin, but that as it thickened, the J would allow us to get the paddles out without damaging the pool or getting sucked into the goop. We figured him being Chairperson, he knew as much about paddling dough as anyone should, so we all nodded our heads like we understood. Ronny and the boys were out back firin up the balloon. Ronny said the winds might be a problem, so we’d better, “get a move on it.” Bill reminded everyone that we shouldn’t rush, as baking is an art that depends on quality ingredients and patience, especially when it comes to letting the dough get to its correct consistency and reach its fermentation potential. We were glad we had asked Bill to be our advisor. Not as prestigious as being Chairperson, but more meaningful by Greasy Spoon standards. We paddled like crazy, wrestled the concoction into a plastic fifty-five-gallon garbage can and loaded it onto the balloon as the first black clouds rolled in. The heat generated by the burners heating the air was supposed to help the rising process, Bill interjected. Ronny, although somewhat discouraged, was intent on seeing if he could hit the parking lot while missing the high-powered electric wires and the highway, no matter the wind. The boys dropped the ropes unexpectedly as the first thunderclap was preceded by a Zorro slash in the purply green western sky. Ronny despite everything seemed to be having the time of his life, even though  the wind blew him away from the bowling alley parking lot towards Speedy-Mart. The rest of the team decided we’d almost completed more work that day, than we’d done in the past two weeks, so we went into the Spoon to celebrate. Bill said the first pitcher was on him if everyone agreed to not eat cookies, as Marty hadn’t showed up. He had to go to his grandma’s and help her unload her new finds.

The rain sounded nice hitting the old tin roof. First time we’d been able to hear ourselves talk, or think for that matter, in some time. It being Sunday, the dispensary was closed, and the music men were at the parade. Crispin yelled, “Thanks be to God,” for a reason we weren’t quite sure of, but then we were never definitely sure of most things.

We all agreed after complaining about the weather, and not being able to find Ronny, to give it a shot next year.  Kind of make it a ritual of sorts, possibly a festival, maybe even an event. Bill liked the idea. He said maybe by next year the smell would have leveled off and everything wouldn’t taste like chicken. He’s a lot smarter than he looks.


The storm crept closer. I felt another impact to my side sending me to the dirt of my town's little training arena. I let out a short ride as I collapsed dropping my wooden training sword. GET UP! A deep thunderous voice echoed throughout the baron arena. No spectators were allowed during my lessons unlike others, I looked up to the one who had dealt the painful blow to my ribs. Tall and muscular. Looked the part of a warrior, unlike me. He wore leather armor all over his body and hide pants with leather boots. Across his face going over his nose was a massive scar that he says was given to him by my father. He was my father's master and know he's mine. Aren't I lucky. Swordman master Thand You left yourself too wide open again. You're over-extending on your swing and too slow when you pull back to block...Hell, you're just sloppy in general." I know . I replied slowly and painfully climbing to my feet. It's the same thing every time. He could tell I was slightly agitated, and I directed that annoyance directly at him. For a little over a year now we've been at this and every time he wins the spar. You turn 17 next month. This village needs you. With you're father gone you're the next in line. I know. Larger Kingdoms are slowly growing closer, and bandits and raiders are fleeing from them. If we are attacked to any degree that rivals last time. I know. Listen boy! Thand suddenly shouted. He reached out and grabbed the color of my cotton undershirt and pulled me in only inches away from his face. His yellow eyes burned brightly as his skin wrinkled. I know! I shouted back at him. I already knew exactly what he was going to say... A crack of thunder shook my small village as the wind suddenly picked up. You're father entrusted me with your training. You are the next leader of this village. We have no king. Just you. I know that... It was a shame you're father died so young leaving it all to you...but right now. You're all this village has to believe in for safety. How could I lead this village? I can barely hold a sword yet am expected to protect us against bandits or hell another kingdom! My father was a great swordsman yet no matter how much I practice I can't come close! They all want me to reach his level but it doesn't seem physically possible for me! Thand released my color and stepped back turning his back to me. He then began to speak but softly, like under his breath...I wasn't supposed to hear what he was about to say. He's nothing like you, Paul. I don't know if he ever will be. A storm surged within me after I mistakenly heard those words. I don't know what caused it, what triggered my anger. I tossed my training sword hard to the ground causing Thand to turn around quickly. I'm not good enough! The words came out of my lips before I could even think of them. They were spoken out of pure emotion. I couldn't live up to my father's skills no matter how hard I worked...It's just not something that's possible for me. I'm not my father... I turned my back to Thand as the first drops of rain hit the hard dirt slowly turning it soft. H heard Thad call out but a crack of thunder deafened his voice. I pushed through the swinging gates that marked the entrance of the arena and strud somberly into town. The orange afternoon sky had turned dark. Darker than even the night itself. I walked through the town I was supposed to protect, and as I walked I passed multiple buildings still recovering from our previous attack. The owners of those home's eyes were drawn to me. The one who was now in charge was me, yet I didn't bat them an eye nor offer any sort of help. I'm sure the look on my face told them everything they needed to know. Lighting struck creating a bright blue flash....An image of my father coincided with that flash. I-I'm sorry to all--all of you. I muttered under my breath. Not that I needed to as a violent wind would have blocked out my voice either way.  Not that anyone would accept my pathetic attempt at an apology. I passed the horse stables. One particular horse was going mad in their braking through the sounds of the stampeding thunder...Eyes tracked me from within the stable. I could feel their judgment. I left those ruined houses to my back as the storm grew more violent. I marched up to my home...my father's home. It was the biggest in the small village. Out the back was a long-winded river that he and I often fished out off. I rushed through the front door and passed my mother's room without saying a word She was sick, and had been since father perished. I would usually stop in to see her as soon as I get home...but I can't right now. If I did I would end up speaking my emotions to her...she has no need to hear those. My room was up a set of stairs, the third door on the right, with a perfect view of the river and the open valley past it. However, currently, that open valley is not visible. The storm had covered it in pitch-black darkness. The hay inside my atriss crunched as I fell onto it letting the day's exhaustion go. It did not help, however.... it remained. My mind spun and I couldn't think straight. My throat began to close as my breathing picked up matching the sound of each individual raindrop hitting the wood and hay roof. It felt as if my heart was going to stop right then. Each lighting bolt and the thunder that followed it reminded me of my new responsibilities. I had been trying to run from them, hell I just did leaving Thand and his training...I wasn't capable of doing it. A crack of thunder and the fire that covered the village that night reappeared, and my father was there grabbing his blade and rushing out the door without even saying goodbye. That was how quick he acted. I'm sure he wanted to as something, but he knew every second that his people were getting murdered in cold blood. He acted fast and was cunning...he saved lots of people's lives that day. BUT!-He left us alone! He left me in charge and made Mother sick. He left me with no explanation. He-HE!....Could have... What could he have done?--just then a glint caught my eye. I looked to the doorway and found a sheathed sword slightly sticking up allowing some of the metal to shine. It reflected the candlelight so brightly...It was an incredibly shiny sword. I stood and walked over to it feeling my heart slow down and my thoughts became slightly clearer. I bent over and picked it up slowly and gently. Like handling a child. The leather sheet slid off smoothly revealing the shiny sword within. Then my breath caught in my lungs...It was--fathers. How did it get in here? It had been in mothers room last I saw- So you found it... I jumped at the sickly voice coming from my doorway. I turned and partially raised my sword in defense when...I saw mother. Standing in her beautiful blue cotton fresh like she used to. Her long slick black hair brushed over her shoulder covering her ears....I rushed to her side as she stepped forward and staggered as she let go of the doorframe she was using for balance. I grabbed her by the waist and placed her right arm on my shoulder as I helped her to my bed. As soon as she hit the mattress I began to spring my questions. What are you doing up here!? Why are you out of bed! ?-did you really climb up the steps by you're self? You should off said something. She chuckled quietly under her breath. Lie she was trying to stop herself from laughing at me. Then her soft delicate skin bent into a caring smile as she spoke. I made it up here just fine without you're help didn't I, and without you noticing at that. She had me there. Her hazel eyes drifted to the exposed sword I held in my left hand. Again she smiled and stared into its reflection. It was like she was looking into the past by staring at the blade. I miss him... She squinted her eyes as tears began to bubble at the surface. I turned my gaze to the blade as well but before I could meet my own reflection she reached down and grabbed my chin pulling my gaze to meet hers. Y ou look a lot like him you know. She gave a gentle smile. I smiled back, but a moment later I remembered what I had just been thinking inside my head. I pulled away from her slowly escaping her weak grasp on my chin. She leaned forward slightly as she looked up at me. Her hazel eyes shined from the tears being swallowed...She never liked to cry in front of me. What's wrong? She asked. I looked away from her. I knew I could possibly hurt her if I said what I was thinking...but as I glanced back, her gaze was too sharp...She was stabbing her way into the truth. I-I'm not like him at all. I let the truth slip. I expected the silence that followed, but as I forced myself to look at her I was surprised to find her chuckling silently to herself once again. Why are you laughing? I asked. Because...I find it funny that you think that. You and you're father couldn't be more alike- Your wrong! An impulsive scream coincided with a crack of thunder as the rain continued to pelt the wood and hay roof. My mother looked up at me with a confused look. I'm nothing like him. We may share similar looks but we are nothing alike. He was courageous and skilled. He would jump in to help people out of pure impulse. I felt tears beginning to fall down my cheek. These emotions were something I had kept checked...with my mother sick I didn't want her to worry more about me, but I couldn't hold them back this time. The disgust I held towards myself. The anger and the disappointment...it all came out in the form of tears. He was skilled with a blade, and had tough skin. I can't remember a single time he got injured during his time training. He was trusted by the people of the village...they knew he could protect them. Tears streamed dow nmy face like a waterfall. I had turned away from mother, but I couldn't bring my self to look at her. I'm nothing like him. The people don't trust me, I hear their whispers I feel their gaze peiricng through hmy soul testing me. Every time I fail...Every time I feel their gaze I break. Your wrong, again...Ciceal. My teras reflected the candle liehg. The elting rain suddenly slowed down trign tinot a more calm drizzle and the stamped of thunder had drifted off into the distance...She said my name!? Of course she says my name al the time but...her tone. Usally she sounds as sick s she is. Weak and like a whisper. This time, she sounded like her young self. Memories of my child hood flasehd before my eyes. My father teaching me the basics of swinging a sword as I held a tiny stick that slightly resembled one. My mothers laugh off into the distance. We all trust you...You're father was great that's true. I know hat better tan anone, but so are you. I turned around my tears slowyln dripping from my eyelids curling around my cheek. My mother looked up to me with the most plesen sile. A beam of light then poured throg the window righting the entire world surrounding the village. Stop chasing you're father. You don't have to be him you're your own person. Just keep going and be yourself and eventually you'll find yourself at his leel. You and him are the same, She said it again. You're both so increadablly kind You care about this village more than you're self. Thats why you beat you'rself so much over you're training, and you never realized it was actually hurting you koore...The night during the storm. Whe the raiders came...he left in a hurry right ? I remembered. I had just walked down the stories when I saw him putting his sword over his back. he shot me a quick smile and kissed my mother. HE the =n quickly booked it out the door. I remember the screams outside that night. The clasihin of swords could be heard throughout the entire village...and after it was all done we still stood tall, bt my father never came back. After they returned his sword. I remember my mother holding me in teras, at the time I didn't exactly understand what was happening, but soon after my mother became sick, and I had to begin my training to lead this village. I ridiculed him before you came downstairs, about not saying by to your...and you wanna know what he said...." He doesn't need a goodbye, because me and him are one in the same." I thought that was increadabbly corny, and apparently my mother ac=greed as she let out a healyy laugh for the first time in a while...but what my father said...Was he saying he doesn't need to say by to me, because.... If you ever wanna see you're father again just look at and into your'eslf alright honey. The rain had ceased along with my tears. I looked won to my mother who still held that pleseant smile. I looked out the window and saw the orange afternoons sky still their,  the storm had passed quickly...I could still- I had one of the maids take his sword up hear. I wanted you to see it, because that's the sword you'll be using to fulfill you're fathers duty...You and him both ill continue to protect u. A long pause followed where I simply starred out the window. Thiking about all that had just happened. Then a spike of courage was summoned from within me. I reached down and picked up the word and swung over my back and tucked it down in between my leather best and cotton shirt. Yea. I walked down the stares to the front door. Commanded one of our many maids to help my mother down to her room and opened the door into the orange snlcihgt. I looked dwo the slight hill our house sat on and into the small but vast village. I don't have to chase my father because we are already one. Sounds corny but it helped...I can just focus on what  Ineed to do to serve the people of the small village. A confidence  Ididn't know I had suddenly surged. I grabe my swod hand from my back and unclicked it slowly sliding it out of it's sheeck and holding it out in front of my fae. Tiney drops of water fell onoit it brighting the refleciotg even more as the sunlight bounced off of them.


Death was not involved in this, though you will blame her anyway. You will stare up at the reddened sky. You will look down at the cracks beneath your feet. You will scream and swear and sweat and blame, blame, blame.         The cars and the factories were not Death’s invention. She is older than invention itself, as old as the first particles of the universe that crashed together and created annihilation. She did not create your downfall. You managed that all on your own.         It began, as it ended, with greed. Humans are terrible at planning for the long-term. Even after all these decades, you have not realized that. Your greed grabs you by your throats and you forget about your children, and your children’s children, and their children after that. You forget that what you do to your world persists long after Death comes to greet you.         So it began with greed. In was innocent enough, at first. The first of your civilizations tore up the land to plant crops, urging your earth to bear more fruitful bounties. You cannot be blamed for that. Your crops flourished and so did your people, and thus the innocent expansion began.         I have spent many nights arguing with the others about when that innocence was lost. Some say it was the first time one human being enslaved another. Others say it was when currency overtook barter and greed became the only universal language. They see your corruption as a single, defining moment.         I disagree. I think the fall of man was gradual. Some part of you was lost every time someone said, “That could be damaging,” and someone else said, “Yes, but at least we’ll turn a profit.”         Irrigation used to be trenches of water in family fields. Heat used to be a few logs in winter. Travel used to be a well-brushed horse, warm in its knitted stable blanket.         No longer.         Your riverbeds are dry, drained for your consumption. Your homes are warm, but the liquid power of your ancestors’ bones no longer fills the stomach of the world. You pumped them out and set them alight. Your old horses are beaten and bruised. Your new ones are made of soulless metal.         Death did not choose these things. Hers is a kingdom of joy, and joy is rooted in memory. Fireworks are not joyful in and of themselves, it is their partnership with holidays that brings smiles to your faces. She knows this. She knows that her kingdom cannot be happy if your time on earth does not have enough good memories to sustain you, after.         She came to my door when the storms began.         “Thousands,” was all she said, and I understood. Wind and water and greed brought more sadness to her kingdom than she ever could have asked for.         I held her hand when the lakes dried up.         I heard her shouts as the temperature slowly rose.         I held her back as your companies dropped waste into your world and your children sickened.         When the fires started, Death wept.         You wept too, I know. It was only a few houses at first, far away from the cities. A tough drought season, nothing more. You turned off the news and made dinner for your family.         It crept closer in the night. Parched fields beneath a stoic sky are ripe for the burning. The crops crumpled and curled to ash, and when the fires reached your doorstep, you loaded into the car and drove away.         What you always seem to forget is that nature does not tire as humans do. Fire does not rest after a day of work, nor does pestilence, or cold. These are not evil things. They are theories made flesh, concepts plucked from the universe and given physical form. The fire does not hate you, but it was made to burn, and you are in its path.         There was nowhere for you to go. Not forever. The fire caught up to your hotel in the country, and it chased you to your cousin’s house in the city. Once, there may have been enough fire to douse it. There is not now. Your reservoirs are empty, and still the fire advances.         Death does not like to see your children coughing on the smoke. She knows that when they arrive in her kingdom, there will not be enough memories within them. They cannot have an afterlife if they never truly lived.         You think that perhaps you can escape across the sea. The news proves you wrong. For where is untouched by the destruction your ancestors have wrought? Where there is not fire, there is flood. Where nature does not revolt there are too few resources to sustain life of any kind. You are stuck on your final piece of land, with the disasters your people created.         A moment will come when you know it is the end. You will stand on an empty plain, on dirt that may once have been mud. Now it is split between your feet like deep veins. The cracks spiral off into the distance farther than you can see. Behind you, the fires do not rage. They aren’t angry, merely bright. Their light throws your silhouette into relief against the barren horizon.         The skies above you are the bright red of your blood. Weeks ago they were black with soot, and you thought it was the most terrifying thing you had ever seen. “Like eternal night,” you told a friend. “I’d take anything over this darkness.”         Looking now at the fiery sky, you realize you were wrong. At least night comes with sleep. This color does not promise cool dew in the morning or sweet dreams under the stars. You cannot see the stars. You think this is the color of Death.         It isn’t. Death’s favorite color is green.         You lost your shoes somewhere a few miles back. It should have been a sign to stop, to sit and let the inevitable overtake you. But even now, even when hell itself has risen up to meet you, complacency is impossible. You would rather walk miles on bleeding feet than lie down and give up.         I admire you for this. Even when the water burned away, there were still humans who made the trek to their nearest lake or river. Always they would look at the dusty earth as if it were a surprise. Always they would turn to each other and say, “Perhaps it will rain tomorrow.”         So here you stand. I do not know what will finally bring your end. Maybe it will be the fires behind you. Maybe it will be the thirst within you. Maybe one of the infections in your cracked skin will hit your bloodstream and eat you from the inside out. No matter what kills you, it will be painful. No matter what you wish, it will be slow.         Death did not choose this. She would rather you thrive before you join her, so you can bring new songs and stories to those who have been with her for eons. She wants you smiling when you see your parents once again, and their parents before them. They will find joy in the life you lived.         Or, they would have. But your story will be cut short by fire and floods and disease and hunger and thirst and generations of selfishness. You will die on that plain, beneath that red sky, alone. You will die.         And Death will weep.


Hugh’s thoughts trickled cold and slow, like the thin, melting sheet of ice that had formed on his windshield in the time he spent inside the store. His gaze wandered over the rear-view, showing piles of bags and boxes in the back of the sedan, and down to the passenger seat. Peeking out of another pile of bags was a carving of a squirrel. “What an ugly piece of work,” he thought. On his way into the store he had noticed Chuck, a homeless man. Hugh didn’t personally know the man, but he used to see him around town before the quarantine had started. Four weeks ago, the last time Hugh had left the house for supplies, he had seen Chuck sitting under a streetlight just whittling away. Chuck always had an old red wagon he pulled around, chock full of wooden carvings he made and tried to sell. He also looked cold and miserable this time of year. That day, Hugh happened to park near where Chuck had set up. On his way out of the store, Hugh paused and had a brief exchange with the man. He handed Chuck twenty dollars and in return grabbed the wooden squirrel out of the wagon, then made his way back to the car. Hugh hoped that Chuck might be able to afford new shoes, or at least some whiskey to Knock the Edge Off . So there Hugh sat, staring at the squirrel and waiting for the car to warm back up. It was carved out of a single piece of pale yellow wood, and had the same basic shape of a squirrel. Kind of chubby, huge tail, big buck teeth and perched on something resembling a nut of some kind. Hugh couldn’t tell if it was an acorn, chestnut or just some random shape Chuck made so the thing would stand upright. I should roll down the window and eighty-six this thing , Hugh thought. He had felt bad for Chuck, but had no obligation to take the squirrel thing. He just wanted to help out, Chuck had insisted he take something in return. Hugh pulled out of the parking lot and drove home. After rolling into the driveway, he went and unlocked the door to the house, then propped open the swinging door between the foyer and kitchen. Hugh figured his parents were in the depths of the house, so he started unloading all of the groceries and supplies by himself. Hugh hated that he had been forced to move back in with his mom and Ted. He got along with Ted now that they had gotten used to each other over the years, but that was like being used to smelling a corpse because you worked in a morgue. Hugh didn’t have to like Ted, just tolerate him. He was sure Ted felt the same way. Normally, Hugh wouldn’t interact with Ted at all, but nothing had been normal this year. It had been downright miserable. First the panic, then the quarantine. The bar Hugh had worked at was forced to close down, so he lost his job. Then he got evicted from his apartment building. He had no idea that it was zoned as commercial property, and it never occurred to him before. The city had purged half the residents to try to comply with the fifty percent occupancy mandates that had come down on them. Shit always rolls downhill , Hugh had viewed the situation. Now he was a thirty five year old man living at home with mom and Ted again. Even the woman he had been seeing ghosted him after the quarantine started. Hugh had just set the last of the groceries down and was starting to unpack them when he heard a gasp behind him. “Good morning, mom,” Hugh turned and said. “What are you doing!” She screeched. “Unpacking,” Hugh said, his voice dropping to a dead monotone. “Get your ass back to the foyer,” she made shooing gestures and pulled her nightgown up over her nose. “You’re going to kill Ted with that damn virus, coming into the house after being out there . You know how weak he is!” She stamped one of her little feet and yelled the last few words. “I’m just trying to help,” Hugh started saying. “What all did you touch?” She asked him, scrambling through the bags until she found disinfectant. Lickety-split, she removed the packaging and started dousing everything. Hugh removed himself from the kitchen, and back to the foyer where he lived. He spent most of his time lounging in a gaudy old love-seat he had dragged from the depths of the house. Hugh also drug in a chest of drawers and propped an old flat screen television on it. His days were full of reading, gaming and streaming services. The foyer had a swinging door to the kitchen, a glass paned door to the depths of the house and the door outside. Hugh left a baseball bat next to the door outside, which he thought of as a just in case measure. A spiral staircase led up to a lofty bridge hanging over the foyer. One side of the bridge extended over the house, creating a small room as a second floor. It was a bed-bath combination he used to only use when visiting for the holidays. This year, he had lived here until the holidays. It wasn’t all bad, Hugh supposed. He had been growing tired of the bar lifestyle, after all. Sure, Hugh had become a decent bartender, after working his way up from serving tables. He had built up a laundry list of regulars who would invite him out to events while stuffing money in his tip jar. But, the hours sucked and he was always picking up his coworkers’ slack. Hugh wasn’t great handling money either, so he’d often be broke on slow weeks. At least now, the unemployment office gave him enough spending money to keep a stash of Knock the Edge Off in his room. Plus, his mom wasn’t making him pay rent, as long as he went out and got supplies for her and Ted. When Hugh got lonely, which was at about ten every morning, he would fire up a video game and chat with the people in his clan. Hugh had been getting to know them better and had actually played with them instead of the usual lurking, drunk, at three in the morning. They made him feel old though. Even though he was halfway through his thirties, he still felt like a kid when he played games. He only got reminded of his age when his references would fly over his clanmates’ heads. Hugh would confine himself to the foyer for the next two weeks, in order to keep his mom happy. She had been Ted’s sole caretaker since the dementia had started eating away at him. Ted’s health had been in decline before everything happened, and the pandemic had his mom wound up even tighter than usual. So, as per her motherly mandate, Hugh would be on double secret quarantine . She’d leave food on the kitchen counter, wrapped up to-go with paper plates and plastic utensils. Every other day a bag of garbage would appear in the foyer, which Hugh would take out during his daily ten minutes of sunshine. If they needed to have a conversation they talked over the phone. If she noticed him gone for any extended period of time, it was back to day one of her double secret quarantine ; and Lord forbid if he got caught in the house before those two weeks were up. * Three days into the double secret quarantine , Hugh caught himself flopped over the love seat with the television blaring at him. It was late at night and he was staring at a can of warm pop in his hand, thinking about the daily rationing of Knock the Edge Off he had put in it. Surely, another little dose wouldn’t hurt would it? What else was he going to do? Watch more crappy comedies and not drink? That’s how he always ran out early, and he knew it. Hugh looked up and through the glass paned door that led to the rest of the house, and started. On the entryway table sat the carved squirrel, right between his high school graduation picture and a picture of his mom and Ted. Hugh had forgotten about it. He figured his mom must have placed it there as a joke. He had the urge to throw it away again. Hugh blinked and shook his head a little to be rid of the stupor creeping on him. The longer he looked at the squirrel, the uglier it looked to him. The face was squashed almost flat, and the buck teeth were too pointed. The wooden eyes seemed to bulge out of the head, and there were pits where the pupils would have been. Was it carved like that before? The squirrel thing looked bigger and darker in the poor light pouring out of the foyer. It creeped him out. Hugh flopped the other direction so he didn’t have to look at it anymore, then fell asleep before he could get another dose of Knock the Edge Off . * The next day Hugh’s mom called him just before lunch. “Hugh, how’re you feeling honey, are you okay?” She asked, worried. “I’m alright mom, what’s up?” “How was the chicken last night? What did it taste like?” Of course , Hugh thought, she’s testing me . “It tasted mostly like cumin. Pretty good curry flavor, Spanish rice was an odd choice though.” “It was Mexican food, not Indian.” She said, sounding a little relieved and irritated. “So, you’re not feeling bad?” “No, I’m fine,” he replied, “is everything alright in there?” “Well,” she gathered herself, “Ted’s been running a little fever, and I’ve been feeling a little weak myself.” “Don’t work yourself up too much,” Hugh tried to sound reassuring, “take an extra long, hot bath if you can. I’ll make lunch today-” “No! No, you just stay on that side. I can handle it.” Silence hung out for a while. “You sure?” Hugh asked. “Yeah... Yes, I’m sure. In case we don’t have the virus, I don’t want to risk it if we’re both feeling extra weak.” “Alright,” Hugh replied, “But as soon as you need help, let me know. I’ll be right here, as always.” * Four more days of the double secret quarantine had passed before he got another worried phone call. This time it was early in the morning, waking Hugh up. “Morning, mom,” Hugh said, answering the phone. There was labored breathing on the other end of the line. “Mom?” Hugh said. “Hello?” He asked again, as a sinking feeling started dropping towards a knot forming in his stomach. “Hugh,” she replied at length. Oh my god, he thought, Ted’s Dead. “Ted’s not doing very well.” The anchor plummeted in Hugh’s stomach, then held fast on something and settled. “Ted says he can’t taste breakfast,” she blurted out. “Oh,” Hugh said. Shit he thought. “Is he okay? Other than the taste thing, I mean?” “Well, he could barely tell me anything this morning. He’s been having trouble talking the last few days, and it only got worse this morning. He doesn’t look good either. I mean, my eyes have been acting up lately, but even I can tell he looks worse. He’s been dehydrated and his nose has bled a few times.” She sounded a little hoarse like she had been crying. “How are you feeling mom?” Hugh asked. His mind was tumbling over the thought that he brought the virus down on his parents. His stomach somersaulted the other direction and made him nauseous. “I’m okay,” she sniffled. “I feel weak and tired, but I can still smell and taste everything. I lit one of those apple cinnamon candles earlier just to check-” “You’re sure you’re okay?” He interrupted. “I’ll call the hospital and try to get Ted in.” “No.” “No?” “Maybe... I don’t know Hugh,” she said. “I don’t know if he really has the virus, and I don’t think I do. Whatever you brought in with you, I’m hoping was just a cold or something.” “Well I don’t feel any different, and I didn’t bring anything else in with me,” I hope , he thought. “I was thinking about everything you could have touched when you brought the groceries in,” she said, “so I could make sure I disinfected everything. And, I remembered that ugly little squirrel thing.” Hugh felt like he was under a ton of bricks that just kept pushing down. “I didn’t see a price tag or anything on it, where did you get it?” Hugh was silent for a long time, he knew what was coming. “A homeless man.” She exploded into suppressed fury. Eventually the words became recognizable “I. Can’t. Believe. You. Do you realize the lengths I’ve been trying to go to, to prevent this exact thing from happening? And you bring some ugly wooden thing in here? That you got from some homeless man? I can’t even begin to imagine the numbers and kinds of germs that could have been on that thing. What is wrong with you ?” She hung up on him. Hugh stared at his phone for a while, then got out of bed to appease nature. Afterwards, Hugh spent a while pacing and worrying. He hadn’t gotten any more phone calls from his mom. If I accidentally wind her any tighter she’s liable to have a stroke, he thought while scratching at his scruff and chin. She hadn’t had any symptoms though, he reassured himself. Mom only said she was feeling weak and tired, which was par for the course. When Ted’s health declined, so did hers. It only made sense , he told himself. I’ll give it another day, maybe two. If Ted isn’t getting better, I’m calling a doctor . The rest of the day passed by without incident. Hugh spent a large portion of the day gaming to keep his mind off of things. He made sure to keep his phone within reach and eyesight, just in case. Once it grew dark outside and Hugh was sure his parents were in bed, he gave himself a double dose of Knock the Edge Off . He was lounging in the loveseat when his thoughts turned again to the phone call that morning. He looked over at the entryway table where the carving loomed. Somehow it looked fatter, squatter and meaner. Hugh rubbed an eye and blinked. Before, it had been a pale yellow color, but now it looked dark, almost maroon; and it glistened like it was wet. He got up and walked over the the glass paned door, watching the carving. It looked much more bulbous, shiny and super-hydrated as if it had been soaked in oil. Now that he was closer he realized the face looked eerily human, though malformed and with giant fang-like incisors. Hugh’s heart stopped. A viscous substance oozed out from the pits in its bulging eyes, then he saw it take a breath . The squirrel thing made a hissing noise that sounded like a branch creaking on the other side of the glass. It hopped off its grotesque wooden perch and bounded into the depths of the house. Hugh grabbed the baseball bat by the door, then hurried off after the carving. He was out of shape and out of breath by the time he sprinted down the hall and turned a corner into the living room. The light was on where it shouldn’t have been. A breath caught in his lungs at the sight of Ted, emaciated and withered. Ted was sitting upright, his head leaning all the way back against the couch’s top, which ended at his shoulders. As Hugh drew near, he got a good look at Ted’s face. Ted’s mouth was opened wide, and his tongue looked like it had been chewed down to a nub. His nose was gone, replaced by two scabby openings in his lined, aged face. His eyes too, looked to have been eaten out of his skull. A couple places around his neck had pairs of what looked like small puncture wounds, but no blood was visible around them. A ringing in Hugh’s ears brought him back to his senses. His face was going numb and his heart was pounding. “Mom,” he whispered before whipping around and sprinting off. He went room to room until he reached her bedroom. A light was still on, beyond the door. “Mom?” He called out, pushing the door open. His mother was sprawled on her back on the bed, as if she had been sitting down and then slumped backwards. She was immobile, her face turned away from him. Hugh teared up as he walked toward her body. Her head moved, and he locked eyes on it. It moved again, and the squirrel thing appeared, freshly smeared blood on its face soaking into the wood. It’s eating her was his only thought as he raised the bat up and gripped it with both hands. Hugh yelled as another creaking scream came from the squirrelstrocity. It darted towards the edge of the bed. Hugh swung the bat, hit the thing square, and heard a soft thud as he followed through. The squirrelstrocity exploded on impact, flinging blood and splinters of wood all over the room. Hugh stood there aghast, as he watched the splinters twitch and move all around him. They all seemed to rattle towards other nearby pieces of wood; floorboards, dressers, bed frames, night stands, lamp posts and cabinets. Then the splinters just melted into the other wooden surfaces and disappeared. Hugh slumped down to his knees, still in shock. All around him he could hear the sounds of branches creaking in the wind.


Botany was a hobby that my mother had always pursued. In the spring, she’d spend her weekends tending to her vegetable garden for hours on end. My father would have to pry her from the soil just so that she would come and have dinner with us. In the winter, she would bring home armfuls of books from the local library devoted to flowers and trees. She’d read every last word before returning them the next week and checking out another stack. I guess she’s the reason I bought a hibiscus plant last year. I saw it on the windowsill of an almost unnoticeable flower shop which was squished between a Starbucks and a Barnes and Noble and I bought it without thinking. I told myself that I was buying the plant for me and not her but I was most definitely lying.

Hibiscus had always been her favorite. As I was lugging the hefty pot of soil through the darkening streets of New York City and back to my studio apartment, I got a phone call.

I set the plant down to my right, stretching my aching back, before answering, “Hello?” “Is this Magnolia Armstrong?” the woman's voice rang through the phone. “Yes,” I said hesitantly, “Who is this?” “Miss Armstrong,” the woman began softly, “I'm calling about your father. I’m so sorry, he–” I dropped the phone before I could hear another word. I knew what she wanted to tell me but I would not allow her to.

I collected myself and picked the phone back up to listen to my new reality. My father was dead and I hadn't visited him once in the ten years I had been gone. I sprinted home as fast as I could with a twenty pound plant weighing me down. Frantically, I began to pack the things I needed without a concrete thought in my brain. The hibiscus somehow made it to the passenger seat of my car and I started driving. At first, I feared that I would have forgotten the way. Then I realized that I knew exactly where I was going. I pulled into the narrow driveway and noticed the things that were the same. The weeping willow still stood tall in the front yard and the house was still big and made from bricks. I had yet to shed a tear for the loss of my father with the unexpectedness of it all but my childhood home pushed me over the edge. I sobbed for what felt like hours before entering the house. Once inside, I noticed that the front door had been painted yellow. I put the hibiscus on the kitchen table as I breathed in the dead air that surrounded me. I knew that the life within this house died long before my father did. My thoughts were a mess when I first arrived. I had to think about my fathers funeral for a few days until it was over. Then I thought about the things left in the house for a few weeks until they were gone. Finally, I thought about the house itself, and why I was still in it. Maybe I was drawn to the familiar welcome carpet outside of the yellow front door. Maybe the weeping willow that we planted decades ago was holding me hostage. Maybe I was enjoying the constant memories of my adolescence flowing to my brain. I spent my days remembering my parents' laughter floating from the kitchen to my room as they made me pancakes. They would put together a special breakfast every Sunday up until I was nine. I guess I didn't notice when they stopped.

I remembered my mother planting the great weeping willow as a young sapling in our front yard. I had asked her why it was so small and she told me that it would grow, “You’ll just have to wait.” I wished she could see how the mighty branches now stood taller than I did and how the emerald green leaves danced in the wind. Maybe she would still be here if she knew. I moved my stuff into my old bedroom. It looked nothing like it did years ago when I was obsessed with My Little Pony or when I went through my “I hate everything” phase. The walls were painted a hot pink when I was seven and a dark green when I was twelve. When I left, my dad painted my, and all of the walls in the house, white. He covered the years of height marks on the side of my door and the mural of water lilies that we’d spent hours painting together.

At first, I was angry that he just erased the memories of my bedroom like they meant nothing. Then I realized how long I had been gone. I guess there’s no need for a daughter's room if there’s no daughter to live in it. I spent my nights staring at the ceiling. It held the only proof that a teenage girl had once lived in the room: a brown stain from who knows where. I racked my brain and tried to remember how I had made that stain, or if I had at all. I was unsuccessful. My days were consumed with exploring every square inch of the place I used to call home. I so desperately wanted to remember when it stopped feeling like a sanctuary and more so like a lion's den. The only conclusion I could come to was that it happened gradually.

First, they stopped laughing and started yelling. I never understood how two people who loved each other so much could fall apart so fast. It was as if I blinked and they suddenly resented one another. Instead of “Special breakfast Sundays,” we had “Make your own food Fridays.” Perhaps it was the day she left that broke my bond with my house. I was positive that she would come back, she loved the house more than any of us. She couldnt possibly abandon the weeping willow and her stupid vegetable garden and her house and her plants and me. I was wrong. I was bitter for a long time after she drove away in her green honda and never returned. I blamed her for everything bad that had ever happened in my life. Though my dad conveyed the same emotions, he did it in a different way. First, he dug up the flower beds and the vegetable garden. Then he threw out the numerous house plants that crowded every room of the house. Any sign of my mother was destroyed or thrown away by my father. I guess that was his method of forgetting the bad memories. My idea of erasing a part of my life that I felt I could do without was much different. I decided that the one thing I hated my mother the most for was my best option. When I turned eighteen, I left the weeping willow and I left the blank walls. I left the painful memories and I left everything I had ever loved. I left my life behind and I left my father to get sicker and sicker until the end of his. Now I was back in the place I wished to never return to and I could not leave. I was trapped like a mouse between the colorless walls of my house and the hibiscus on my kitchen table. I decided that I would stay in that house until I had a daughter of my own to make pancakes on Sundays for and plant a vegetable garden with. I would never think of chopping down the weeping willow, we would plant another on the other side of the yard. We would laugh and cherish the time we did have with each other because everybody leaves, whether they mean to or not. We all find a reason to start a new life when it gets too difficult to live our own.

I will not resent her when she leaves me to go to college or find a job. This is because I will always be in the big and beautiful house with a magnificent vegetable garden when she chooses to visit. I will live here and I will die here and be nothing like my mother. I will be better.


The dribblets of rain raced down the glass. I shifted to look at the ceiling. The ridges flowed into different shapes contorting into faces and images. I watched it turn and contort, going into a peaceful gaze, where it was just me and no one else. Then the back door slammed. Parker came to the couch, propping herself up into the corner, her glasses falling halfway down her nose, blue eyes lacing her vacant expression as she typed into her phone. I love to watch her like this, her hair messy around her face, no wedged shoes, so she barely comes to my chest, and a tablet or a phone in her hands. She's perfect. Always knowing what she wants to be done, knowing how to get it, she enchants me with her mere presence. Everything about her is different and foreign, but after just a few days became familiar and warm. People call her challenged, I think they just don't understand what she's about. "Starr, stop staring, if you want cuddles you gotta come here." her voice rang out into the empty room. Her voice fills your heart, making you feel safe and surrounded, I put my head in her lap, just to get her hand on my forehead. She is nowhere near average, from her height, and personality, to her voice and the feelings she brings you. Me on the other hand, I'm more average than anyone you've ever seen, from the color of my eyes to my height and voice, even my clothing options are average. The only thing that makes me different, it's something I do, I bend things to my will, I make air, and water move, along with the trees and flames, it's a curse. it's hard to control and it will just get me locked away. I hate it. I hate the way my voice tries to stay flat, I hate the way I blank out every other minute, I hate the way my eyes look placated, I hate the way I can't tell anyone anything without guilt. She's beautifully perfect, and I refuse to see a change. I don't understand how someone so extraordinary, can love someone like me. So boring it's threatening. ****** The rain is pouring out here. My yellow rainboots caked with mud, I kick them against the garage, my jacket wasn't keeping me dry. I should have asked for help, Starr would have helped, I need to stop being so proud. Pride has gotten me nowhere, yet I refuse to let it go. The sky doesn't let me see an ounce of sun, I let out a roar of frustration, I wanted to get the dog pen up for when Penn has her puppies. I wasn't getting it done today. I marched up the low stairs, I let out a breath before opening the back door. I slipped my rain boot's onto the mat, my height diminishing, I grumbled as I pulled off my jacket. I snatched my phone from the kitchen counter, almost sliding on the hardwood floors. Starr was lying stretched across the couch. I piled myself up in the corner and began writing into my journal. Starr's eyes diverted themselves to me, I glanced away, her serene eyes always get the best of me, they're always calm. She is almost always quiet at home, my glasses slipped down the crooked path of my nose. I took the time to examine her sundress, it was a light blue with petals falling around her. Her cheery, positive demeanor, was a play up. If you take more than fifteen minutes to talk to her, you see her sarcastic, dark, and sometimes sad manor. She doesn't like to communicate. If her eyes could, they'd hold the stars. She's been staring at me too long now, so I break the silence. "Starr, stop staring, if you want cuddles you gotta come here." She puts her head into my lap, I place my hand on her head in acknowledgment. She sighs. I continue typing with my left hand. I try to pull my sleeves down as little as possible, my arms are fine. I am not going to be a prideless bother to those around me just because I feel sad sometimes. My hair falls into my eyes, I should cut it off, it's a bother, and I refuse to let my hair get beyond my shoulders. My stupid blue eyes, too weak to do anything without help. I need a pair of glasses. Starr sighs again. I look at her, her eyes are closed, her pretty blonde hair falls into her face. I leave it. Her face is so, so, ugh, I cannot describe it, the peacefulness she constantly puts up makes me feel as if nothing bad could happen in our little lives like the worst has already come. I saw her use her powers once, it was such a deafening noise, to hear the pulsing of the earth, to feel the mist before you felt the rain, to watch the trees dance in unison, to see the waves battle their mighty battle. To see the flames build themselves up and up until they are a roar. It was beautiful. I don't understand how someone so extraordinary, can love someone like me. So average it's threatening. ********** I hate how my people treat themselves, I love all of you, you're my people, from the little ones who run and push and shove, to the big ones who pet, and yell and play, I love you all yet, you treat yourselves like a squirrel, nasty and terrible, don't be like a squirrel, I love you and always will, even after I'm long gone. You will dance on in my memories until there are no others. Until I don't remember what a good girl and a bad girl is, or until I have no bladder control and I stop eating. I will love you both no reason to worry, you are my people, and since I tore up the couch this is my apology too. I am very very sorry I was a bad girl and ate a pillow, I should not have done that, the couch is nasty, and I will not do that again.


The terrors that inhabit the night maybe even more awful in deceitful broad daylight.

According to Helen, it all started with a dead cat and a green monster in the garbage chute. And that, according to her, was all due to the neighborhood in which she lived. The neighborhood wasn't exactly known as the best part of town. An unsavory neighborhood to be honest. But apartments were hard to get. She would have loved to live in a beautiful complex, but that wasn't an option right now. When she came home after work in the evening, she always walked very fast, without looking to the left or right, while her heart was beating like a subway train. Especially when one of those dirty men whistled after her. The sidewalks were overrun with soldiers and sailors, gamblers and peroxide blondes, haunting dark backrooms. She was always relieved when she arrived in the lobby of her apartment building. Then she relaxed. She rarely saw anyone in the lobby, and the hallways were as quiet as the hallways of a fancy apartment complex. She only knew two of her neighbors. The short stocky man who lived in 240 and Mrs. Goldleaf who lived in 204. The latter was the essence of lavender and old lace. The man looked OK, one couldn't really say he looked particularly shady, still, there was something about his personality that didn´t feel right to Helen, she avoided him. One Saturday morning, when Helen went to pick up the paper, the man from 240 was hanging around in the hallway. She wore a robe over her nightgown and a scarf around her head to cover the curlers.

Helen thought she looked as striking as a nun, but the look with which that man looked at her made her feel as if she were naked. Helen stepped back inside and quickly shut her door. She listened carefully with her ear to the door for footsteps in the hallway before she opened the door again and went to get her newspaper. That paperboy always threw her paper in front of Mrs. Goldleaf's door at 204. When Mrs. Goldleaf heard Helen's footsteps in the hallway, she always came out. The older woman was always very interested in her neighbors and their lives. No wonder, she had very little to do, and she was a widow. This Saturday morning, she peered into the hallway again, her thin white hair pinned up in tight curlers. Mrs. Goldleaf was always so curious. -"Good morning." Helen said kindly. -"Good morning to you too dear." the old lady replied, "Today is Saturday, why are you up so early?" -"I want to clean my house today. Did you hear that noise in the hallway last night, Mrs. Goldleaf ?" The old lady looked at Helen with a disappointed look: "No, I didn't hear anything. I went to bed very late, though." -"That's strange." Helen said, "It looked like someone was dragging a rake across the floor. Thumping and scratching. I couldn't sleep." Gold Leaf clicked her tongue: "It must have been someone who came home drunk. I wonder who it could have been." There was a strange smell coming from Mrs. Goldleaf's apartment. A musty smell of antiques. Helen had been in there once when Mrs. Goldleaf had invited her for a cup of coffee. Her two rooms were filled like a museum, full of trinkets and souvenirs from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. -"And how is your bird?" Helen asked. Mrs. Goldleaf collected all kinds of things, but she was also an animal lover. She had two cats. a pair of goldfish and two turtledoves. The day before she had told Helen that one of the birds was sick. The old woman began to glow: -"Much better today! The doctor said to give him some brandy with a dripper. It's worked miracles." -"I'm so glad to hear that." Helen smiled, picked up her newspaper, and walked back to her apartment.

Helen took the hairpins out of her hair while the coffee trickled into the pot. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt an inexplicable depression set in. "What's the matter with me?" she asked her mirror image, "Why does nothing ever happen in my life?" She combed her hair and put on a little lipstick. Outside, the sun began to shine through the mist. On the fire escape below her kitchen window, Helen saw a dead cat. It was a gray cat. His eyes seemed to be watching her. His head was turned all the way back. Helen felt sick and quickly pulled the curtain down. -"It's just a dead cat." she said to herself as she lit a cigarette, "Maybe he fell off the roof. He probably ran out of nine lives." -"What am I to do now?" Helen thought, "I can hardly sit here drinking coffee with a dead cat under my window." She shuddered at the thought of getting the animal out of there herself. She decided to call the manager. She got up and went to the telephone in the hall. Her hand trembled as the dialed the number. -"Hello, this is Helen from 214. There is a dead cat on the fire escape in front of my window. You must do something about this." The concierge sounded half asleep. "A dead cat? What do you mean? Are you sure he's not sleeping?" "Of course, I'm sure he's dead. Can't you come up and take him away? It's terrible to have a dead cat under my window." Helen replied. -"I have to clean the lobby first. I'll be there as soon as I'm done." Helen hung up, feeling stupid: "Who can blame me for this?" she muttered to herself. She walked back to her apartment and sat in the kitchen. She tried extremely hard not to look through the window. She lit another cigarette and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. To pass the time, she started leafing through the newspaper absently. In the back of the newspaper, her eyes were drawn to an article with a strange headline: Customer turns green. The article said a bartender fired several shots at a customer who had become aggressive after he had refused to serve him. The customer's hand was a claw and he had eaten a living mouse. -"Nothing but drunks these days." Helen thought to herself. She thought back to the restlessness of the previous night. She heard a noise on the fire escape. Helen reached over and opened the shade. The janitor stood there with a large brown paper bag in his hand. Helen opened the window: "How do you think the animal got there?" she asked. -"I don't know. Probably fought and fell from the roof." The janitor replied. -"What makes you say that?" Helen insisted. -"The neck is torn. Maybe it was a dog." the man continued dryly. -"Up here?" Helen asked in surprise. The janitor scratched his head, "Don't worry, I'm taking it away now." Helen closed the window and poured herself another cup of coffee. She grabbed another cigarette from the pack on the table. It was almost ten o'clock. She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and emptied it, then walked out with the garbage bag. The garbage chute was in the back of the hall, next to the service staircase. The door was open, and Helen hesitated to enter. She was afraid the man from 240 might be there. The door moved a little, but no one came out. She waited a moment longer, thinking that the last person who had been there might have forgotten to close the door. She walked in, luckily there was no one there. She opened the top of the chute and threw the trash bag down, but there was something in the chute blocking the passage. She could see what it was: it looked like a chicken leg but was the size of a human foot - and green! Helen reached into the tube and pulled to free it. Her stomach turned at the cold feeling of the thing. She pulled at it with all her strength until it was free. She gaped in horror at the thing she was holding. She felt dizzy and began to gag. She let go of that thing immediately and could hear it rattling in the chute. After a few seconds, the horror really set in, and she started running down the hall back to her flat. She was dimly aware of the face of Mrs. Goldleaf who came to look at the door. -"Is something wrong, dear?" she asked. Helen gasped, "No, all is well." and ran on. She burst into her apartment and slammed the door shut. She went to the bathroom and dropped to her knees. She was unable to think. She stood up, washed her face, and walked to her bedroom. She lay trembling on her bed. -"What was that ghastly thing?" She thought back to the story in the newspaper. Maybe that was what that bartender had seen? What a horrible neighborhood this is, Helen thought, first a dead cat under my window and then a monster in the garbage chute. Maybe that cat had something to do with it? Her stomach started churning again. She had never heard of monsters living in the apartment building. And then she remembered something else in that newspaper article: the bartender had said the customer had looked normal at first, then turned green. That meant those monsters could look like ordinary people. Panic set in. What if someone finds out she saw it? What would they do with her then? White with fear she jumped off her bed. She grabbed her purse and put on a coat. When she got to the door, she hesitated for a moment: she was anxious to go out but far too afraid to stay inside. Helen started running up the hall, into the lobby, and onto the street. There were very few people in the street. The people in this neighborhood always slept late. She entered the restaurant, next to her apartment building, and sat down at the counter. She was the only customer. A sleepy-eyed waitress waited with a pad in her hand. -"Coffee." Helen muttered.

Everything looked so normal here. I must be stupid to sit here and believe in monsters, Helen thought. Maybe it's just neurosis and I'm delusional. Yes, that made a lot more sense. That story she'd been reading had probably entered her subconscious. I'll go back to my apartment and call the doctor, Helen thought. After all, a doctor can cure anything. Even green monsters that are in your head. She finished her coffee and fished out some change from her wallet. The sloppy waitress came over to take the money. Helen looked through the glass front to the street and got a cold fright. The man from 240 stood there. His gaze met hers. He was smoking a cigarette. He turned abruptly and started walking toward the apartment. Helen felt that fear again she’d felt earlier. She took out her key ring and walked quickly to the apartment next to the restaurant. The man from 240 was in the lobby just ahead of her. He held the door open for her. Helen kept her head down and did not look at him. In the hallway, she felt a sense of panic. She was here alone with "him" and cut off from help should the need arise. Her heart began to throb wildly. For a moment she thought that the man was going to say something. He moved with his hand as if to grab her arm. Helen backed away, but he stepped aside and let her pass. Helen started running down the hall. Panting, she arrived at her door and stiffened—she heard a scratching sound in her apartment. She backed away, ready to start running again. She looked at the man from 240 who was now standing at his own door. The way he looked at her did not sit well with her. It is him, she thought to herself. He is one of those green monsters. She was sure his skin could turn green, and that there were very long claws on his feet. What now? She was trapped in the hallway. Caught, next to that "thing". She sprinted the short distance to Mrs. Goldleaf's apartment. Like a madwoman, she threw herself against the door. -"Mrs. Goldleaf, please, open the door." Hellen screamed. The door opened immediately. Mrs. Goldleaf's round, wrinkled face beamed at Helen: -"Come in honey, come in!" Helen nearly fell over the landing. She heard the door close behind her and dropped herself onto the couch, panting. A cat came purring next to Helen's legs. A cat? -"Where is the other cat?" she heard herself ask. She understood! The old woman's face trembled. It changed. It seemed to melt... into something green. Outside in the hallway, the man from 240 stepped into his apartment. "I'll never have the guts to ask her out." he thought to himself, "What would a girl like her want to do with a lousy cop like me?"


Hi everyone my name is Ella McCarthy I was born and raised at United Kingdom. I’m 15 years old. My dad decided to moved at Los Angeles California with us for his new business. We arrived at the said country. Our new neighborhoods shown their skills in cooking. They loves my British accent. My mom enrolled me at the school.

First day of school my brother Douglas fell in love to his new classmate. He is one year older than me. Her classmate’s name is Lily Watson.

Lily Watson is so gorgeous and sexy. No wonder she is a campus crush. Douglas is an introvert. He has no courage to tell his feelings for Lily.

Douglas is certified no girl friend since birth. At the campus I sat the bench waiting for my brother. While waiting there was a group of mean girls trying to annoys me. Unfortunately they had no idea how bully I am.

The guidance councilor caught us having a sarcastic conversations. Until Mildred pushed me. Because she lose to our debate. Her friends teasing me. So I kicked her tummy.

After the incidents we received one week suspension. We are required to attend to community service. My parents scolded me. We arrived at the forest. I saw Lily she has an advocacy. She loves to protect our mother nature. Lily introduced her favorite tree to me. I asked her why she loves it and why she worshiped mother nature. According to her we need to taking care our nature. Because our nature never stop loving our land. I fell in love to that place. After our community service. I went back at our home. I went on my room and I heard Douglas he sang his original composition. I went on his room. I asked him if he is in love to someone. He admitted he fell in love so quickly to Lily. I taught him how to express his feelings for Lily. Unfortunately he can’t do that.

So I volunteer to helps him how to win her heart. At the school I talked to Lily. I shared everything to her about Douglas. It seems Lily is interested to listen to my story. Lily and I became best friend. Every weekends she spent her days at the house or sometimes we went to our rendezvous at the forest. Douglas is so over the moon he is getting closer to Lily.

Our school announced our JS Prom. Douglas had no courage to ask her to be his date. Well I’m willing to help him. On the following day. I makes surprises for Lily inside the campus.

I sing and dance in front of her. Just to get her sweetest “Yes” for my brother. I asked her if she want to be my brother’s date on our upcoming prom. She said Yes. Douglas became happy. At the prom I saw Lily wearing her expensive gown. She is the most beautiful maiden I ever seen in my whole life. I witnessed my brother’s reaction when he saw Lily. It’s obviously he is in love to her.

The former Prom queen and king announced the newly prom king and queen. Douglas and Lily won the crown. While Douglas and Lily dancing on the center stage. I felt a little bit of jealousness. I told to myself. That should be me. While watching them I reminisced how we started to became best friend. I went inside the C.R I looked at the mirror and I saw myself with teardrops.

I realized I fell in love with my best friend and now my brother’s imaginary girl friend. I went alone at the gazebo. I wrote a poem on the piece of a paper.

I was surprised when she called me. Inside the gazebo. Lily asked me for a dance. I granted her request. While dancing she admitted her feelings regarding to me. She loves the way I makes her happy everyday. She cherish our moments together. She enjoyed the days I court her for Douglas. Lily admitted she is slowly falling in love with me since the day we met.

I gave my poem to her. I wrote what’s truly inside my heart.

I love the way you looks at me I love the scent of your body My soul is melting every time I see you I felt I’m a prisoner inside your heart Can I kiss you even just for now Or can you tell me you loves me Even it’s a lie Say that you love me Even Just for now.

The birds, The Trees,

The river and The Wind These are our witnessed Without prejudice I will cross the ocean I can be a Mother Nature for you Just say that you love me Even just for now

The Trees that binds us It seems they’re rooting for us We had roots that connects to our hearts. I wrote this for her. She is teary eyed while reading my poem for her. She couldn't believed she fell in love with me. She believes mother nature is one of the reason why we fell in love to each other. Lily kissed my lips and she said she loves me. Even she is not sure if she want to continue her feelings for me. Since we’re both too young for love.

Lily say good bye to me. Because her journey in high school is almost over. She will migrate on New York City with her parents after her graduation day. Lily rejected Douglas.

Lily and I had connections because of her favorite tree. I joined to her group. I learned to love our nature. I became an ambassador for the said group. I encourage the community to love and protect Mother Nature. I also met different people at the community. Every summer Lily went back at Los Angeles to check her favorite tree. We swims at the river and we slept at the grass. Everytime she visited our rendezvous At least I know to myself she loves me and that's enough for me.


The Hat It was just a hat. A bowler or derby hat actually. I saw it hanging on a hat stand in Magikat Books and Magic Emporium. I passed by it daily on my way to work. The shop itself was hardly what might be imagined as an emporium. It seemed small and unobtrusive, but the hat fascinated me. But the hat fascinated me so much so much I ventured inside. The shelves of books had no interest, but the hat held my attention. I saw myself wearing it but thought it would bring a smile or even a few derisive comments from my work mates. I tried to put it out of my mind and left the shop and went to work. But there it was still there, every day. I made up my mind to have it if it was for sale. This morning, I decided to start out a little earlier and drop by the shop and check it out. But when I got there, the hat stand was empty. It had disappeared! I was so disappointed and even a little angry with myself for putting it off for so long. Now it was gone. I had dreamed about the silly thing and realised how much I wanted it. I spent a few minutes pretending to peruse the books on magic stuff before going to work feeling like I’ve forgotten something. The next morning when I passed the shop on my way to work, there it was, back on that stand, almost brazenly daring me to go in! The door rang a bell as I entered. A little, wizened fellow stood behind a counter with a knowing smile of his face. He wore a patched grey jacket and a once-white shirt and blue bow tie. His hands were clasped in front of his chest. His knowing smile broke into sound, “You’ve come for the hat, haven’t you!” It wasn’t a question. I nodded, “How did you know?” “You pass by every morning and look at it. The hat told me you would like it.” “But it wasn’t there yesterday. I thought someone else had bought it.” “A man did, but it came back the same day.” “Oh,” I said. “May I try it on?” “No need. It will fit you perfectly.” I took the hat down from the stand and placed it carefully on my head. I’m sure I felt it settle and it fitted perfectly. “How much,” I asked? “Oh, you can have it for as long as you need it.” I was overwhelmed and thanked him profusely. “See you again, eh?” The knowing smile reappeared. I tipped my new hat at him and left the shop feeling I had scored a bargain! I wore it into my office and was surprised there was little or no reaction. I went to take it off, but it was stuck. It simply wouldn’t budge. I had quite a lot of work to do, so I left it on and started going through my clients’ accounts. It was tax time and an accountant’s life was a busy one. Today the work seemed easy, and I flew through at least twice as many accounts as normal. The hat stayed on. I was happy wearing it. I ate my lunch at my desk and continued working through the afternoon. By five o’clock I had finished what was a week’s work. I couldn’t really understand why. I walked home, with what I’m sure was a jaunty gait. Once at home and in the front door I went to take my hat off and it came off easily. I placed it carefully on the hat hook on the wall. My phone rang and it was a young lady from my office I had fancied for some time but was too shy to ask her out. She asked me out! She said she was very taken with my hat and couldn’t resist getting to know me outside of work. Of course, I agreed, and we had a wonderful evening that turned out quite romantic. She was perfect for me, and we seemed to get on so well together. She asked could we see each other again. You bet I said. I went home elated. As I opened the front door, I noticed my hat was missing from its place on the wall. I thought I’d been broken into, but nothing else was missing. But I was in such a state of joy, I decided not to worry about it and enjoy a happy sleep, dreaming of my new friend. The next morning, I skipped out of the door, stopped and went back inside. There on the wall was my hat. I looked at it and thought I had somehow just missed it somehow the night before. I gleefully put it on and went happily to work. As I passed the bookshop I tipped the brim to the hat stand, thinking that the old fellow was probably standing behind the counter with that smile on his face, watching me walk past. He would surely notice the spring in my step. I arrived at the office and my new friend smiled at me and said quietly that the boss, the senior partner, wanted to see me. She squeezed my hand discretely and I smiled at her. The senior manager told me that his phone hadn’t stopped ringing with calls from my clients expressing their joy at what I had been able to do for them. I was obviously really pleased. Then he said that I was to be his new partner! What a day! I whizzed through the day and on my way out I asked my new friend to celebrate with me. She smiled and said she couldn’t think of a better idea. At home I took off my hat and gave it a kiss before putting it on its hook. Again, the evening was superb, and I realised I was totally hooked on my lovely friend. The next morning, I was about to leave and noticed my hat was missing, I searched for it, but it was nowhere to be found. I was mystified and quite upset. But I had to be at work on time, on my first day as a partner. As I passed the shop, I couldn’t help but look in. There was my hat on the old hat stand! But how? I went in and asked the old gentleman how my hat was back. He smiled that knowing sort of smile, “You don’t need it anymore.” I looked at the hat and I swear it tilted its brim at me …