THE TRAIN Garry Marek sighed as he turned his head to watch raindrops chase each other in frantic loops around the window before being whisked away into the night. Peace reigned at last after a noisy crowd of boarding school boys on their way back to Cornham College had piled off at the last stop. As the train picked up speed on the way down to Riversham, the carriage swayed slightly to the rhythmic sound of the wheels on the rails, and clouds of smoke and steam from the old locomotive billowed past as it was caught by the wind swirling through the cut. Sleet and rain streaked by like tracer bullets, and darkness obscured most of the countryside apart from a few spots of pale yellow from the windows of isolated farmhouses and the occasional flicker of car headlights somewhere in the distance. He could see by the reflection in the glass that there were only three other people in the carriage, an elderly lady who was absorbed in her knitting, and a laughing teenage couple who were beginning to pack up their things, presumably in preparation for leaving at Kington Brideway, the next stop down the line. So it should be quiet for the next part of the journey until the usual crowd of commuters piled on at his destination, Castle Junction, and he just hoped his mind would stay away from the dark places it had been pulling him recently. Once he was in ‘The Royal George’ with the Friday night team things should be better, at least he hoped so. On the lower part of the gradient the driver applied the brakes and to the uncomfortable squeal of metal on metal they pulled in to the old country station of Kington Brideway with its overhang of glass roof and a waiting area that hadn’t changed much in twenty years. The engine hissed and expelled clouds of steam as the young couple exited the carriage to a blast of cold air and the sooty odour of coal smoke. When they closed the door behind them Garry and the old lady with the knitting were left to listen to the ticking of hot metal, the sounds of receding voices and the almost life-like huffing of the huge engine. In the weak yellow of the platform lights the hands on the station clock with its Roman numerals announced that it was four fifty five, and a glance at his watch confirmed that for once they were actually on time, a miraculous occurrence for British rail. With a flurry of door slamming and a few shouts, the guard finally blew his whistle, and with a jolt and a series of huffs and clanks they were off once more. Once clear of the station the window once more resembled a steamy mirror, and Garry rubbed a section clear to find himself looking at his own reflection. The beard made him look a little older than his twenty seven years, and the deepening shadows under his eyes didn’t help. He inwardly cursed. It was lack of sleep due to the nightmares that had been wakening him in the small hours of the morning, leaving him in a pool of sweat with his heart thumping, and the damn things had been so vivid recently it made getting back to sleep again nearly impossible. The most disturbing aspect of each incident was a sense of impending doom, of being dragged ever closer to some dreadful encounter. That and being aware that he was dreaming but not being able to escape, like being caught in a spider’s web, knowing it was just biding its time until he was too weak to struggle. And now weird images had started to intrude into his daytime thoughts and he was seriously worried he was loosing his mind. He shook his head and returned to watching the blur of dark countryside whizzing by outside and tried to think of normal things, but it wasn’t to be. A few weeks ago, just before she'd gone back to Australia, his ex flatmate Laura Kyle had talked him into something he now wished he’d never agreed to, convinced that it was somehow connected to the recent spate of terrifying nightmares that were wearing him down. Staring out into the blackness he began to ponder over it all as he’d done a hundred times before. She’d sprung it on him one evening when they were in the middle of their second bottle of wine. She’d met a medium who said she may be able to help her contact Jenny, a friend who died when she was sixteen years old. She missed Jenny and wanted to give it a try. The woman, who called herself madam Cassandra, had given her a card with a phone number, should she give her a buzz and ask if they could arrange a session? Mellowed by the alcohol he’d agreed, after all, it was just a bit of harmless  fun. He was naturally skeptical but curious at the same time, so why not. Not only was the good lady at home, but if they could get to her place before nine o’clock she would be happy to accommodate them, for a modest fee of course. As the woman lived only a mile or so outside the village, they hopped into Garry’s car and drove on up there. It was just as he’d imagined. Madam Cassandra had prepared a table in a small room of her bungalow that was illuminated only by candle light, the windows covered by heavy drapes. A small uninspiring looking woman, she wore a long dress with a black pearl necklace, and even had the obligatory black cat that purred and rubbed itself around their legs before settling in an armchair, its wide green eyes watching every move. Instructing them to simply address her as Cassandra, she proceeded to ask a few personal questions, advised them to please remain silent when she started to invite spirit guests into the room, and stressed that she not be interrupted once contact had been made. Garry had determined not to let his skepticism show, and just went along with things as Cassandra asked that they all hold hands and close their eyes. She then began incantations inviting any nearby souls to come and join them. She made no reference to Jenny, but after a short while she said, “I know you’re there. Kachina you say, that’s an interesting name. Laura is looking for a friend who has passed, will you stay a while and talk with us, maybe you know her. Who? Speak a little louder.” Cassandra’s grip suddenly tightened, her voice changed, and sounding nervous she said, “who are you?” Then four things happened once. The temperature dropped dramatically, a draft bent the flames of the candles, they all opened their eyes and the cat started spitting furiously as it stared at the ceiling. Cassandra let go of their hands, yelled “no”, and switched on a light. To Garry and Laura’s amazement she then stood up and said, “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave. I really don’t feel very well.” Laura tried to ask what happened, but the madam was having none of it. Pale faced she’d apologized again as she handed back the money, and then ushered them as quickly as possible to the door and out into the night without saying another word. He and Laura had tried to make light of it but it had been disturbing and they both new it. They that night Garry’s dreams had taken him somewhere far back in time where a wolf pack howled in the forest and the cries of tormented beings flooded his senses. Giving himself a mental shake he glanced at his watch, and wasn’t surprised to see that barely ten minutes had passed since they’d left Kington Brideway, because that was the subjective nature of time when the mind is under pressure. As he was frantically trying to conjure up more pleasant thoughts the train entered the first of the long tunnels that carved their way through Dunford gap, and the sudden rush of noise made him jump. Then the lights went out and he felt himself spinning like a leaf in a whirlpool, tumbling deeper and deeper into the vortex until the sensations became too much and he blacked out. As consciousness returned he found himself on a raised piece of ground at the edge of a forest where veils of sodden mist flirted with the trees in a cold embrace. The sensation was dreamlike, as though he was observing from another dimension, and certainly the people closest to him ignored his presence completely even though he was within touching distance. Hot talon like hands or claws gripped his wrists tightly, and an inner sense told him not to turn around because whatever held him should never be seen by mortal eyes. A ghastly cracked voice hissed into his ear. “You will watch everything that unfolds before us, the better to understand the punishment that awaits you.” The whole scene was ghostly, like looking through a gossamer thin veil. Dressed in the fashion of the sixteenth century, a crowd of men women and children stood around in a hollow where a man in black robes was reading aloud to a crowd of poor peasants. Garry couldn’t understand the language, but he guessed it to be eastern European, possibly Hungarian or Romanian. At the side of the man who was reading stood another, a wealthy type judging by his fancy attire, and beside him, a solemn looking priest was clutching a bible to his chest. The gaunt face of an elderly woman in ragged clothes stared out through the bars of a cage on the back of a nearby cart, her grey hair a tangled matted mess and the cruel stripes of a whipping visible on her bony arms. Even from where he stood Garry could see terror and loathing in equal measure in her eyes which had turned in his direction and bored right into him in a sign of recognition. The grip on his wrists tightened. “That is you in the black robes Garry Marek. Petrov Bunda Nicolescu was your name at that time. That is you, the bringer of death, reading from the scroll of lies you concocted in alliance with that other vile being, Count Ackerley Rousseau, the monstrosity by your right side, who is now the man you know as Michael Lamont.” Garry could smell something rotten on the rank wheezing breath, the sound not much more than a rasping whisper. “Strange don’t you think that the two of you should live again at the same time after almost four centuries. But it means the search is finally over, my work is nearly done. I found Rousseau first so his punishment is in the final phase, just as yours will surely follow in the coming days. The die is cast, the wheel of fate is turning.” Some in the crowd jeered and shouted abuse in the direction of the poor wretch in the cage, but most stood in sombre silence as the reading continued. The words ‘Constitutio Criminalis’ and ‘Malleus Maleficarum’ were now uttered louder than the rest to audible murmurs and gasps from the crowd. When the speech was over, two burly looking men went to the accused, opened the cage and dragged the woman across the clearing to where stacks of faggots had been piled against a wooden stake. They manhandled her through a narrow gap in the wood pile, fastened her frail body to the post with chain and looped a small casket on a rope over her head to hang in the middle of her chest. The voice hissed, crackling with venom as the talons dug deeper into his flesh. “How kind of you to show some mercy with the keg of gunpowder around her neck. How easy it was to enrich yourselves simply by seizing a widow's land and holdings. Why wait for her to die when you can just accuse her of witchcraft and take what you want for yourselves.” Feeling the power of the grip on his wrists Garry knew that struggling would be futile, and at each pitiful attempt at protestation of his innocence the words froze in his throat. All he could do was watch in horror while more wood was placed against the tragic figure, and as the priest began further incantations while holding aloft a cross, a torch of burning pitch was inserted into the stack. He tried to avert his gaze from the unfolding horror but he was forced to watch as the flames rose higher. The screams pierced his brain and the sound lifted rooks off their nests in the high trees, scattering them like blackened fragments into the sky. At the same time wolves began to howl in the surrounding woods. Not the usual lupine sounds of communication, but something primeval, more soulful and deeply disturbing, which continued until a muffled explosion and a shower of sparks ended the torment of the poor soul in the fire. Garry felt himself falling and spinning once more as the whispers continued in his head. “Her name was Aurelia. I am her sister. I know who you are and I will find you again each time you sleep. You will know the agonies that you, Petrov Bunda Nicolescu and your like inflicted on others, each visitation more unbearable than the last until your debt is paid. A screeching of metal brought him back to his physical self as the train slowed to a shaky stop. A whistle blew and as the commuters at Castle Junction began to surge towards the carriage he looked up to see the old knitting lady staring at him from the corridor by the door. She smiled and it chilled him to the bone. The eyes were pure malevolence, boring right into him. No spoken words were necessary as the message had already been delivered. She was coming for him. He jumped up and tried to follow, he would beg and plead if necessary, it was all a terrible mistake, he knew nothing of these things. The door opened and Garry had to squeeze past a bustling crowd to step down onto the platform. The old lady was nowhere to be seen. He was shaking as he handed his ticket at the exit barrier, and stepping outside he didn’t even bother to do up his coat against the biting wind and snow flurries that swept around the street lights like moths to a flame. He made the walk from the station down to the High Street entirely on auto-pilot, his mind in turmoil. Trying to take in what had happened on the train was almost impossible. Had it happened at all or was it just another extreme form of nightmare. The sounds of the burning woman’s screams were too fresh in his mind and he knew the answer. He stopped in a doorway opposite the pub to try and gather his thoughts. On the evening buses on the high street the passengers faces looked abstract behind the steamed up windows. Cars honked their horns, and the burger bar at the corner was busy as usual. How could everything be so bloody normal. There was something he urgently had to find out, one person in particular he desperately needed to talk to. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry as he reached the bar, and he had to force himself to push open the door. As he walked in he spotted his friends at a table near the back, but as he approached he immediately noticed a lack of the usual joviality. Everyone seemed oddly subdued, even the normally boisterous Roy Kennedy, the joker in the pack was pensively stroking his chin. Roy was the first to notice him and waved as he approached. Garry managed a smile as he pulled up a stool, and tried to be cheerful in response to the muttered greetings. “We’re all very quiet tonight. What’s up?” Roy’s girlfriend Nancy looked at him and said, “my god Garry, you look terrible, what have you been up to?” He couldn’t hold back any longer. “Has anybody seen Mike, Mike Lamont, he isn’t here is he?” Roy immediately chipped in. “Oh dear, you obviously haven’t heard.” Garry’s heart nearly missed a beat. “Heard what?” “I’m afraid Mike’s gone completely off his rocker. Rambling on and on about demons and witches and the like.” Sheila interrupted. “Apparently It all started a couple of weeks ago. He kept it to himself, but as it got worse Hilda insisted he see a specialist, and the results of the tests when Mike was hooked up to some kind of machine showed brain activity they’d never seen before. That evening he started hallucinating and began screaming so much they had to sedate him. He’s still sedated but the crazy brain activity seems to be getting worse. It doesn’t look good I’m afraid.” Nancy reached out and touched Garry lightly on the arm. “What on earth have you done to yourself, is that a burn on your wrist? Are you OK, you’re really pale and you look exhausted. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep, we don’t want you ending up in the hospital too.” Garry twisted away, trembling with fear as he made for the door. He wrenched it open and stepped out into the night, walking quickly, desperately wanting to get off the hamster wheel of horror that was spinning beneath his feet. Something made him look back. The old lady was standing under a street lamp, and as a faint smell of wood smoke assailed his nostrils a voice in his head echoed Nancy’s words. “Yes Garry, you should go home and get some sleep.” © John-Archie Lynn 2021


In the dew-drenched radiance of an early spring morning, a sylph touched down gingerly on a flower bud. She reached in a tiny, translucent finger and tickled the bud, giggling in a chime-like timbre as her touch coaxed out a wave of infinitesimal seeds. With a wave of her free hand, she conjured a slight breeze, scattering the seeds across the floral field, hoping to fill in any gaps hungry birds and tiny mammals had made. Spring was the season of renewal, after all, after winter where old and weak things were discarded to be replaced or returned anew once the frosts thawed. The eternal dance of the spirits made sure that this cycle continued. The sylph was just one tiny part of that. And even now, she could tell that other parts were moving. She could sense traces of obscure magic known only to the Cenairot, or time spirits, at work in this meadow. The sylph cocked her head, wondering what it could all mean. Every being in Estrevaire had noticed the new darkness infiltrating the world, a slow rot grown from a corrupted seed planted a millennia ago. But whenever Cenairot were involved...well, if the stories were anything to go by, things were about to get real interesting.

Curious as could be, the typically flighty sylph decided to stick around. Perhaps she could catch a glimpse of what the time spirits had in store. Come to think of it, she had heard the memories inside flowers as she went about her duties here. Hadn't there been something about a girl imprisoned here? No, not imprisoned; it hadn't been anything so dark as that. What had the flowers called it? A hibernation, that was it! If that didn't have the stink of the Cenairot all over it, nothing did.

Wysteria Morningsong stepped from the tiny log hut, taking a deep breath to bring the scents of spring back to her nostrils. It had been so long since she'd last experienced such a heavenly aroma; two hundred and some odd years, in fact. But she didn't have any way of knowing that. After all, she'd been asleep that whole time. Now, it seemed the world needed her again. It had called and would, of course, be answered. But first...you couldn't fault a girl for stopping to smell the roses, could you? Wysteria bent down, not caring about the dew soaking into her the plain linen robe she'd woken in. She set down the empty teacup, which she'd found full and steaming, and sweetened with just a hint of honey, the way she liked it, by her bedside. She wanted both hands to caress the soft blossoms that bedecked this gorgeous field. As she knelt, absorbing the sweet sensations of the living world, unwittingly being observed by a whole host of spirits, the sylph included, she began to hum a soft tune. It was one taught to her years and years before, and across the way, she could see the flower associated with it. Streiaciia, or Star-Glove, it was called. It was a white puffball flower that shone faintly white in the new moon, as if in defiance of the darkness. That was always your favorite, wasn't it, Fennali? I remember the bouquet you gave me on our wedding day, all those years ago. You told me that a million of them could never shine half as bright as my eyes. Wysteria fiddled with the groove in her finger, worn in by many years of love, deeper and more robust than the most potent whiskey, and twice as fiery. Tears ran down Wysteria's face as she recalled her wife, now buried in a cairn like her Rhino clan ancestors, surrounded and covered in a vast blanket of Streiaciia. Some day, Wysteria would dance with Fennali again along the arms of constellations. Today was not that day, however. She had a duty to complete. Fennali had always been a patient woman; she could wait a few more millennia.

Wysteria rose to her feet and scooped up the empty cup, banishing tears with a seraphic smile. Spring was the time of rebirth, which meant Wysteria could start fresh. She followed a path through the meadow that she knew well, being extra careful with her step to avoid crushing any flowers. Before long, she could hear the laughing stream that filled the pool around the sacred tree, and with it, the deific song that only one so deeply attuned to nature could listen in on. It was deep and resonant, speaking to a time long before the world as it was known when Quellaphae the Heart Tree had first been planted. It had been a time of entropy when its pink-tinged bark and pointed purple leaves had stood as a symbol of rightness and order in the world. To this day, it stood as a guardian of these same principles. Its song is still healthy and vibrant. I wonder who's tending to it now? She didn't have to wait long to find out. Dwarfed by the massive roots of Quellaphae—the thinnest of which was a meter across—was a singular lithe figure, which seemed to be plucking weeds from the loamy earth around the trunk. It immediately stiffened and stilled at the sound of her approach. Wysteria's smile broadened; very impressive! As always, she'd been reverently silent on her arrival to the great tree, but still, the woman had noticed her presence. "No need to halt your work on my behalf, good caretaker. I'm merely pleased to see Quellaphae in such good hands. It's only just past Tea Hour, and you're already hard at work!" There was a noticeable smile in the woman's voice as she stood and brushed dirt from her pants. "And good morning to you, Lady Oracle. I trust you slept well?" "Very well. There is nothing like a two-century-long nap to make a woman feel lively as the birds and the bees!" The woman turned, and immediately, Wysteria was hit with a wave of sweet nostalgia. Her long hair pulled into two tight braids, looked as soft as silk and vibrant like cloth-of-gold, and her eyes, filled with deep care for all living beings, were a familiar emerald shade that sent her heart beating fast all over again. "That's good to hear, lady Oracle. You'll have your work cut out for you, I believe. Oh, and I believe my great grandsire would smack my soul if I dared forget to relay this.” She scrunched up her brow, as if trying to remember what she had been told to say. ‘Welcome back to the world, dear Wysteria. I'm afraid we've left it a bit worse for wear. But, as I learned from years of working at your side, you're quite adept at cleaning up primordial messes. It shouldn't be an issue for you. Best of luck and love eternal, Brynhildr!"

"She looks and sounds so much like you, my dearest friend, but I'm sure you know that," Wysteria whispered into the empty air. "You live inside the tree now, don't you?" On the breeze came a sound that could have been a bug or a leaf caught just the right way, but Wysteria chose to believe it was him, observing the interaction in his elemental state, which he'd achieved shortly before she went into stasis. "Knowing you, you told your children to pass that down to theirs so that whenever one of them met me again, they could say that." No answer was forthcoming, but Wysteria got the sense she was right. She smiled helplessly. Alright, let's see what you've left me with. With any luck, it will be enough to save the world yet again. Wysteria closed the distance between herself and the half-elven woman, extending a hand and pressing it into hers. "Please, after the first hundred years, I grew weary of the formality. Just Wysteria will do." The pretty young woman bobbed her head, a pale blush coming to the smooth white cheeks. In those cheeks, Wysteria could see signs that this woman smiled well and often. She must make others quite happy when she graces them with her presence. Anything else just wouldn't be fitting of Brynhildr's descendants. "Wysteria it is then." She bowed hastily. "I apologize if I seem nervous. There are many stories about you, and many were passed down through our family as if they were our own. Meeting you is such a huge honor. I'm sure the other druids will be equally excited. Um, is it true that you devoured a time god?" Wysteria couldn't help but give a very unladylike snort of laughter. "Is that what they're saying now? I mean, it's not strictly untrue. I don't know how to answer that, to be honest. Give me some time to think, and I'll get back to you." "Well, if the stories are true, then you'll have plenty of it!"

Wysteria blinked and then let out a healthy chortle. "We'll get along swimmingly, I can tell already. Now, what was your name? I don't believe you've said it." The half-elf woman clapped her hands over her mouth. "Look at me. You've been asleep for more than four times as long as I've been alive, and I'm the one forgetting my manners! Please, call me Lyfallah or Leafah for short. If you'd woken in time for morning tea, you could have met my wife, Allegra. She's out reporting to the druids as we speak.” Leafah gestured vaguely out of the sanctuary "As you may have guessed by the fact that you're awake right now, things have been pretty hectic. Everyone will be glad to see you back. Not having our spiritual leader around hasn't been easy on morale." Wysteria put a comforting hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "I've always been averse to being the gloating crow upon the parapet, so I'll only reassure you. Whatever is going on here, fear not. Our order has withstood far worse, and we'll do so again. I believe in our strength...What’s the matter?" Leafah was staring at the Tan'yuivar Oracle with open-mouthed admiration. "I see why Great Ancestor Brynhildr held you in such high esteem." "If a few words were enough to win your respect, I'm a mite worried about the state of my precious order," Wysteria joked lightly. "But, in all seriousness, Lyfallah, I'm excited to work with you, your wife, and all the other wonderful men and women. Quellaphae has brought us together, just as it brought together your great grandfather and his wife. We’ll band together to protect Quellaphae and Estrevaire as a whole, and we won't fail." "We don't have a choice," Lyfallah said gravely. "Because it's us, or the world." "Precisely." Wysteria graced the woman with another smile. "And if you fight as well as you brew tea, I'm not worried at all."


Samhain ( sow-in ); a Gaelic festival marking the end of the harvest season, the origin of the holiday known as All Hallows' Eve. It is cold, tonight. The wind sweeps raindrops and flame-coloured leaves over the street, the air is filled with the brightness of lanterns and chatter. Trick-or-treaters dart joyously from door to door. I can see them well from my perch. My, it is a sight, all of those costumes. A little red fire fighter splashes through a puddle beneath me, calling to his mother with excited impatience. I love kids. I might have had some of my own, once. But no time to ponder. I slide off the tree branch I'd been lounging on and flit through the street, weaving above the people. I pause a couple times to watch, listen. It doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for. I slow and rise to float quietly over the heads of two middle schoolers. A witch and a vampire. Classic. They hurry through the streets like everyone else, knocking on strangers' doors in their disguises to demand sweets, but something on them has piqued my interest. It rolls off them in waves, and as I follow them, I see the signs. Calling mean things to others, knocking pumpkins from porches, the like. Cruel brats. They’ll meet their reckoning tonight, I know. I can’t wait to watch the chaos unfold. Perhaps I’ll have my own fun with them before someone else does. I dive out ahead of them, enjoying the feeling of the air, and slip into an alley. It’s a little filthy, but I don’t mind. It’s not as if I’m not used to it. I follow the winding little street until I find a good, dark nook to settle in. I’ve left those two delinquents far behind, but I know they’ll come to me.

I shimmer into physical being and lean back, rolling out my shoulders and relaxing against cool brick. It feels good to be tangible sometimes. I run my hands over me to remind myself of my corporeal body. I like my hair, I remember. It’s thick and long, falling in a tie down my back and over my shoulders. I also remember the one thing I’ve never been able to figure out on my form. Gender.

I, as a non-being, have none. I don’t remember what it was originally either. Eh, I suppose it doesn’t matter too much. If anything, appearing as the genderless, ageless being I am will only cause the mortals that see me more distress and confusion.

Voices bring me back to the present. The brats come clattering down the alley. They’re loud, but I can sense their nervousness. They’re not sure of themselves, or what they’re doing here. All the better. People who are unsure are easier to convince.

They come stumbling into view a moment later. It takes a moment for them to spot me, but they freeze one after the other once they do. I wait as they do the usual nudging and whispering before one of them pipes up.

“Who are you?” Confrontational, as I guessed. I gaze on them silently for a moment for effect. “It does not make a difference, who I am. All that matters is that I exist. Sit down, children, let me tell you a story.” They are hesitant, but their will cannot stand under my effect. They approach to sit cross-legged at my feet, and I begin my tale. “Somewhere in the world, in a space between moving spaces, there exists the little village of Samhain. Now, Samhain itself isn’t all that interesting, long abandoned and mossy, the cobbles so covered in grime that the streets become like ice when it rains, that you’d slip and fall as soon as set foot on them.

Most of the year, Samhain lies dormant, nothing more than a ghost town, hidden deep in marshy woods.” I drop my voice to a secretive hush. “The excitement, really, is on the flipside. You see, in Samhain there is a well. An empty, narrow, bottomless well, and this well acts as the one and only passage between this world and the next. A gateway, of sorts, that only opens for a short time, falling on the day some of you mortals now call “All Hallows’ Eve”. Or, rather, Harlen tells me it's "Halloween" now? These things move too fast, I swear.” I break off with a laugh. “On this day it floods with the bustle of all kinds of evil weaving their way through the annual shift flip.

Spooks take a shift of one year, spent out in the world doing their assigned duty, haunting houses, hiding under beds, in closets, under bridges, in dark woods, the like. When the portal opens, they go back to their realm, and the next set of spooks take their place.” The two are captivated, and I smile down at them, eyes glowing. “All Hallows’ Eve is the way it is because it’s when the haunts are up and moving, transitioning from one year to the next.

Departing haunts like to mess around, feeling light with their impending free time, so they have some fun before they go home, frightening trick or treaters or stupid teens in haunted buildings. Arriving spooks are fresh and energetic, excited puppies darting around and scaring the life out of anyone they come across. It all sounds rather chaotic, doesn’t it? That’s the fun of it. Spooks thrive off of chaos. However, there does need to be some method to the madness. Here’s where the four other commandments of human justice (or human punishment), Karma, Pain, Guilt, and Death, come in. They regulate the gateway, the shifts, and keep the worst of the chaos under muzzle (while of course, taking care of their own jobs as well). Fear, the fifth form of justice, is represented by the spooks, for obvious reasons.” I pause once more to watch their faces. Open, hanging off my words. I can’t tell if it’s because of my spirit’s influence or my storytelling.

“Now, you may be wondering why all of this happens.” I wait for them to nod. “Simple, really. It's because humans have the power to be terrible to the earth and the beings they share it with. Unfortunately, not all humans recognize the responsibilities that come with that, so someone else has to. Hence the commandments. The spooks' job just happens to carry out a little less subtly than the others.” I shrug, shift my weight on the ledge and tilt my head. “Maybe, you're asking why you've never heard of this before. ( It's because you're human. ) Maybe you’re even chuckling to yourself, wondering how anyone came up with something like this.” I wrinkle my nose. “Do you doubt me, mortals? I have bestowed you, of all pitiful beings, with this knowledge and you doubt me? That’s alright, most do. No one really believes the narrator. It’s all just a story, right?” I grin toothily at them, gleaming in the low light. “All I’ll say is, next time something unexplainable happens, or you are struck by one of the five commandments, think of this story, and doubt yourself just a little. Perhaps your reality really is more than what you can see, and maybe, you’ll think, that crazy writer was telling the truth.” A dark hand reaches from the shadows and wraps around a scrawny ankle. La Fine ~ The rhyme (by me) that started it all- Once upon a nightmare, there sat the little village of Samhain. And in this village, through the street, through the square, over the bridge and past the fair, stood a little well. But this well was no well, as it held not a drop of water, just a long narrow cell, all but on the night of Hallows’ Eve. On this night it came filled with the spookiest of spooks, flooding the village and climbing the stoops, for this town it had a secret, and a truth I now will tell, the village of Samhain was not a village but a well. - Mirabella S.


I’m almost glad Jim’s running late, because I’m about to break his world, and damn it, he’s my bro. He’s my guy. We go way back. But if there’s bad news he’s gotta hear it, and it’s my duty to tell him. That’s what friends are for. I’m not really good at this touchy-feely stuff, so I hope this cake place is all right. They got a decent coffee here, and a bitching key lime pie. Man, that shit is bananas. If pies were women then this one would be– Oh, there he is! “Hey Jim!” Yeah, he sees me. Ooh, is that a new jersey? Looks pretty dope. Looks legit too. I wish I had legit jersey money, but honestly? Those fakes from Monty are pretty good. I mean, not like take-a-close-look-when-you’re-sober good, but you know. "What’s up, Big J? Yeah, I like this place, figured we’d, uh, get a brew for a change. Uh, coffee brew, I mean. Good pie here. Oh man, and the waitresses. Psst. Look at the one behind the counter. Yeah, her. Glenda . Look at the size of– “–heh, nah, I actually don’t think your wife would mind you looking.” Uh, whoops. He’s frowning at me. Too soon, he hasn’t got his pie yet. Ease him into it. Geez, delivering bad news is harder than I thought. Feels like I got shrimp-and-scotch indigestion. I hope this goes better than when I had to tell Peter. I can’t believe the same thing keeps happening to my married friends. Anyway, I gotta distract him. “You see the game?” Heh, I love when Jim recaps stuff. He’s got a great voice for it, and he does the hand motions too, really keeps my attention. I think he could be a pro announcer, and I’m not surprised Janice fell for him. Look at him go! Oh yeah, I remember that play, lol. Wait, did I just think “lol”? Did I actually laugh out loud? I don’t remember. I better laugh now because that was a funny moment, and I don’t want to be rude. “Oh my god, that was friggin’ hilarious!” That’s better. Geez, maybe I do spend too much time on the phone. Well whatever, waitress is here. “Hey Glenda, we’d like–Brenda? Oh, sorry, Brenda then. We’d like two things of key lime and some coffee. Yeah, thanks.” I pull out my manila envelope, filled with the horrible, heart-breaking, life-ruining evidence. Damn damn damn, this is going to be tough. I don’t want to hurt my best bud, but I feel like I’m about to kick him in the balls. Least I can do is buy him a pie. “Pies are on me, Big J. What? Why? Uh… it’s a surprise. The envelope?” Damn it, stop asking poignant questions. I gotta get you in a real good mood before I kick you in the junk. I know how much Janice means to you. “You’ll see. Hey, you remember that trip to Vegas?” Ha, there we go. Yeah, it was an awesome trip, Jim. I can’t believe all the places we were kicked out of. Man, what an epic time, back when it was just us bros. No wives, no kids, no real jobs, no real worries. Ah, she’s back with the pies. Mm-mm, can’t wait to eat that pie, girl. Heh, noice . “Thanks, Glenda. Brenda? Really?” Whatever. “Good pie, eh? What do you mean, it’s okay ? It’s key lime, it’s the best. You prefer cherry? What the hell is wrong with you.” Geez, you think you know a guy. Oh well, it’s now or never I guess. This was always going to be shitty news, and you can sugar coat shit, but it’ll still just be cherry pie. "So, listen, man. I got some bad news. Ha, nah, I’m okay. It’s not bad for me, right? Like, bad for you. Yeah. Okay, so, you know your wife? Janice? It’s the big C. “No, not cancer. She’s cheating on you.” Oh my god, there it is. He’s gone all pale and trembling, like that time we were in Little League and Jim was at third base and Ricky Santiago just plowed into him and Jim wasn’t wearing a cup and he fell and we all laughed, but then we felt bad about it later. Only this time, I feel bad right away. “Yeah, sorry man. Yeah, I got proof. You know I wouldn’t make something like this up, bro.” I tap the manila envelope. “Are you, like, sure you want to see this? Okay.” I hope he can take it better than Peter did. I slide the envelope over to him. Oh boy, this is bad. Geez, he’s even crying. I can’t believe Janice would do this to him. He opens the envelope, slides out the photos, and takes a look. His face changes. First it’s soggy and he’s doing that romcom thing where his lip shakes and his breath is all weird, like he’s tired from running or whatever, like his girl’s on a train or whatever and he doesn’t know if he’ll catch her. Then he frowns, looking closer at the photos, sliding from one to the next. Then he’s scowling and he’s bared his teeth, and he’s all red in the face. Yeah, that’s good! Be angry , Jim. Nobody likes a crier. He slams the photos onto the table, and I nod, knowingly. “Yeah, told you bro, it’s pretty bad–” Wait, why the hell is he yelling at me now? That’s not fair. “Dude–” Stop interrupting me, man. “Bro–” Man, I knew delivering bad news would be hard, but I’m kinda regretting it. There’s really no call for shouting at me. It’s kinda rude. “Dude! Why are you shouting at me? She’s the one that cheated on you.” Oh my god, I cannot believe he just said that. In public. I hope nobody’s recording this, for Jim’s sake. Christ, he’s actually mad at me now. Real nice, Jim. After I try to do you a solid. This is Peter all over again. “Yes, I know I’m the guy in the photos, Jim! That’s how I know she’s cheating on you! Hey, don’t scream at me, bro. I’m a victim here too. This married woman, who should have known better , just swooped in on my poor, lonesome, vulnerable heart. She took advantage of me, Jim. She made me feel so dirty.” Actually, fair, I liked the dirt. Janice is filthy . I can see why he married her. “Nah, she didn’t take the photos. They’re stills from my video. Yeah, I recorded it–what do you mean? I always record it. I mean, look at me! I look great in these shots! No, I did not secretly tape your wife! I caught her screwing around on you. I did you a solid, man, don’t turn this around on me.” Oof. He just slammed his key lime pie in my face. Real mature, Jim. Real nice. Not only does that hurt my feelings, it’s a waste of a perfectly good pie. Let’s see, maybe I can scrape it onto my plate… there. Mm that’s good pie. Yeah, fine Jim, just leave. Just scream at me and leave. Make a scene. Whatever , bro. I know you just need time to cool off. It’s gotta suck learning your wife betrayed you. Just know I got your back. That’s what friends are for.


Heroin: No Postcards From Portugal “You may like reading, The Freaky Fungal Family Tree, ” I told one of the two waitresses attending my table who’d noticed I was reading, and then had asked for book recommendations on that sun-splashed afternoon. That’s the explanation any of us three shared when strangers encountered us thereafter and inquired how we’d first met. After all, and because of our age differences, we were a curiosity. The two, who at first, became muses for my literary work. Eventually, well, what can I say? Legally, we were all adults… My former cell phone number was 201-484-9631. As of today, I closed my Verizon account which provided mobile access for that number. The $600 smartphone, also provided by Verizon, I’ll donate to the local homeless shelter to do with as they may, once someone else gets suckered into signing up again for G5 mobile service. I only got the freaking thing because I needed to go back and forth for a series of eye surgery operations at a hospital several cities away from where I live. The final of those cut and paste procedures took place last Thursday. Health insurance and cell phones suck, but they’re necessary evils you need every now and then to survive in today’s world. Today’s world: What a joke. It ain’t any better than the world of yesterday – today’s world simply and endlessly drills that little lie into your brain that it is. I’m done! I got a call on the cell from my girls now out in Los Angeles last night. Other than a business colleague and a guitar-playing friend who helped me set up my now disconnected phone, I’ve never given anyone the number I just shared with everyone reading this. Needing the device to only book Uber car rides for the hospital appointments, no one else besides my girls ever phoned me on my mobile number. They even helped me pick it out on the Verizon online store site so they could call me as soon as I got out of surgery to check on how I was doing. The joke’s on all of us I guess, what I knew about surgical procedures was equal to what I knew about smartphones. Because before the operation it was required I leave all personal effects, including the phone, in a locker until I was released from the facility’s care. Today’s world! So, during the call from my muses the other evening, they dropped the big one. They’d met someone. Not sure if it was a man or woman, and that doesn’t matter to me. Full disclosure: I’ve been in a throuple with my girls for nearly a year now – and monogamy was never a concern. In fact, it was an exhilarating sense of freedom not having to be concerned about it. What I am concerned with concerning the person they just met is that person’s profession: dealing heroin. You see, their new acquaintance just introduced the two of them to the product pushers pushed. And according to my girls, it was GREAT! Great – I’ve heard that before. I’ve even had a few personal experiences with junkies during my tenure in yesterday’s world, and they all think the first hit is great. I’ve watched from the sidelines how it just always goes south and downhill thereafter. There goes your better judgment. There goes your health, dreams, career, family, goals, plans, ambitions, reputation, integrity, and practically everything else. And for an unlucky number of heroin addicts, oops, there goes your life! This is the point where I’ll choose to digress and tell you about an experience I had with one junkie in yesterday’s world – so read on if you will... I’d been in a relationship with that addict from my former life for nearly as long as I’ve been in this throuple I just told you about. I knew she was using. She even tried to turn me on to it a few times, but I was never interested. Heroin scared me shitless. I accepted that smack would get the best of me. I was weak – but I wasn’t stupid. For a relatively uneducated person I acknowledged my own limitations rather well, and that I lacked the strength and fortitude to master the evil opiate. Yet, I was absent of intelligence, or perhaps the experience, in how to handle life with an addict. Instead, I told her to not only get out of the apartment we shared on the Lower Eastside of Manhattan but to leave my world as well. And she did, albeit with having not revealed she was pregnant with a child. Our child. My child; at the time of her exile. Damn, I’d not known I even had a son until the call from the NYPD to identify their bodies. Apparently, according to the cops, she thought it was a good idea to nurse the child as she lay in bed after shooting up. If you’d known my former girlfriend then you’d surely conclude, especially if you’d ever sampled her attempts at baking, she lacked a talent for measuring the proportions of ingredients required in a recipe. So, can you take a wild guess at what happened? BINGO! She not only ODed but fell unconscious atop the baby she was nursing, our son, and the boy suffocated. A police officer shared the kid’s name with me: Alan. That was the seldom-used middle name my parent had hung on me. Alan – I had a dead son named Alan. Now the jokes on me, and it’s a joke I’m rarely willing to retell to others. I so vividly can recall what led to my ex’s exile. The deeper she got into heroin the more I felt like I was standing on a seashore as I watched her being dragged further out into the ocean by a riptide. An undertow that was stronger than she realized, and was something never to be mastered. While I stood helplessly as it pulled her down I’d silently think to myself, “Drop me a postcard when you get to Portugal.” But junkies seldom live to see the Portuguese coastline. Nor, do some of their children. It’s just a fact of life. And anyway, I’m done. Now, let’s return to the last tale I’ll ever share with you about my girls in California. So, they told me all about their newly acquired dope connection. This dealer had turned them on for free. That’s something pushers usually do because they know you’ll be back to pay for the next one, then another hit, and another, and all the future fixes after that. Fixes - well, ain’t that the cutest little moniker! What once was fun becomes a fix to maintain the brief and temporary respite of not succumbing to the dreaded dope sickness when you can’t find a fix. When a junkie is “jonesing” they’ll do anything for a fix. You just name it and call the shots, for a fix; they’ll do whatever someone wants. I remembered; I lived through it a few times in yesterday’s world, and the sickly experience I sadly shared with a user. Take it from me, withdrawal’s sick. I know, I watched that woman I used to love sweat, shake, puke, piss, and even crap herself silly when she couldn’t find a fix. Now, I’m done. My girls also said when I come to stay with them in LA this summer, as we’d tentatively planned, they’ll turn me on to their newly discovered acquaintance with that amazing product they’re sure I’d love. I said nothing. I only listened in muted silence to their delusions of an inner ability to beat heroin at its own game and not get hooked by the devious and deadly drug. They’d accomplish what those who were destroyed and died from diamorphine addiction failed to do. They’d break, tame, and ride the wild white horse, unlike all the others who’d attempted to bust that bucking bronco before them. They’d be the exception to the rule. Me? I realized quite a while ago I’d live longer by playing by the rules when it came to addictions. I’m weak. I said nothing as they prattled and rattled on about this new pipedream. Instead, I watched two more people whom I loved being dragged out to a deadly diacetylmorphine sea as I stood upon an imaginary shore. Calling out from the now shifting sands upon which I stood; I did not. For I accepted words were useless when speaking to dopeheads. Attempting to rescue them from their own dead-end device; I did not. For I knew entering the sea that had grasped them they’d only pull me down with them as they slowly sank beneath the waves. So helplessly, wordlessly, I watched. I watched as the undertow pulled them gradually from view. Watching, as they became ever smaller until only tiny specks far off in the distance; bobbing atop those ever-hungry hydrochloric salty waters. I saw them disappear somewhere near the horizon, a horizon where rainbows never tread, drifting away from me and toward the shores of Portugal’s coastline. I’ll no longer waste what precious moments still remain for me in this world waiting for postcards; postcards from Portugal. Postcards that would never arrive, since somewhere between Portugal and the deep blue sea, those who erroneously believed they could pull free from that soulless riptide I call heroin, have perished. For you see, finally, this time, I’m truly done!


I come from a town of 6 high towers which scour the skies and protect the honest to good people who live inside. They like to jump from the high rooms, near the tops, and soar down, down, down, like lovely butterflies dancing on a summer's breeze. Their wings are beautiful, clear and shimmering, but most importantly, light. The people that I come from, are born with wings like slivers of silk, but strong enough to carry a fae and her child. Then, there are the exceptions like me. We, too, have our own set, but they are not the same. These are the wings we call, Mirae, because, like the looking glass, they are only meant to be admired and shatter just the same if one does not care for them properly. I can’t fly like the others do, so I run. If I run with the speed of foxes on their hunts back home, I can feel the bending air I rush past. But to fly, they say, is like the weightlessness in a swimming pool, only the water isn’t there so you can feel the air in a plane which others couldn’t. I’d always wanted wings like that, so I finally got them the way I do everything: I stole them. Not that I could actually use them, but I’ve earned the bragging rights at the very least. Glasses doesn’t take from just anybody; we only take from the very best. So if we steal from you, take it as the compliment that it is. “Angel, open the bag,” I do so immediately, loosening the strings of the velvet bag that rests in my gloved hands. I smile at the faint light that glows within and pour the contents onto my palms. The collar may look plain but if you turned it over you would notice the strange incredibly thin needles which are shielded by a thin protective membrane. Once the membrane is removed and the harness is secured on the chest plate and shoulder blades of any human, the needles would pierce through the skin and insert enough structure to lighten the mass of the bones and create a protein film that would feed into the growth of wings like that of my people. “Preciosa,” Glasses is still the honest man who can’t cage a thought from leaving his lips, “They would make a whole world of fae,” he said softly; I smiled at that. “And break the vows of the vestal sisters who sought to protect the secrets of our sacred tower,” he finished slowly. I think I choked on my disbelief. My blood ran cold and my wings clinked together beneath my loose clothes. “What?!” A hysterical laugh began to climb its way up my throat, I flew into a flustered rage, “I did all this to-- to- to- what?! Destroy the only thing that could possibly lead to a cure for my wings? That could give me a chance to fly like I’ve always dreamed of?” Glasses reached for my hand. I snatched it away to run along the crisscross patterns of said wings. I could just barely feel the blood which ran through the veins set in crystal. He said soothingly, “Angel, angel please . It’s okay to feel so distraught about this change in events however, there is no other choice we have but to protect the legacy of our people at all costs. I can NOT-” he stifled a small cough, “ WILL not let the scientologists take what belongs to us alone!” his passionate outburst rang throughout the small empty room along with the great heaves of breath he struggled to inhale. An eerie silence descended on the room and I remembered exactly to whom I was talking to. He wasn’t a man to be trifled with and I wasn’t so keen on getting a few holes blasted into me. That’s the thing about Glasses, it’s too effortless to forget the real danger he poses when he’s always cracking jokes like a friend and taking care of us like a Pop. “It is not easy,” I sucked in another calming breath to steady my shaking voice, “Not always easy to do the right thing,” My fluttering wrath quieted to mimic the glassy surface of still waters. “That’s right, Angel. So while the right thing is the hard thing to do, you must endure for the good of our people and our gift,” Glasses tried to comfort me with his words of assurance, but I knew better than the old man did. His wings might’ve worn away with time, but he’s never had to live a flightless lifetime like mine. Virtue is sparse and rare in a world that rewards the greed that chews away at the good. People are not given the same chance at life despite what others may want to believe so one must make the most of what they are given. Even children are reduced to pawns in this game of life, up in the tops we keep the young exceptions trapped to the only floor where they may serve the higher ones. Or they are lost to the lower level streets and serve the lower lords like I do. In the towers, where fae are blinded by their desire to be perceived as perfect, that they desperately hide at the injustices which sneak through the cracks of order. Like me, and a little like Glasses, we can’t always keep our hands clean to get what we want. And what I want are those wings. “Gente, gente! We got a lot to do here today, prepare the incinerator, if fire does not manage to burn this devilish mechanism, then we try the crusher, the broiler, the casket, the slicer, and- well, you guys get the idea,” he smirked as Jet and Chal rushed to prepare the kindlings. I moved to check the gauges in the other room, and in one motion slipped the necklace into my pocket from within its pouch lying on the table. I quickly turned to exit the room and heard Glasses grunting at the boys to hurry them along while inspecting the incinerator. Adrenaline pulled me to leave quickly, I pulled a bar down over the door’s entrance for a headstart; the motions did not feel like they were coming from me but someone daring enough to shed Glass’s control. Here’s the thing about running away with precious cargo, it’s nothing like in the movies where the spy looks hecka hot while happening to find the perfect tools or hiding spot before delivering the goods. Escaping with stolen goods is like running with your hands tied, sure, it’s not like you can’t keep going, but then why do I feel like at any moment I might just trip up and get caught. I’m not going to lie, it stung when I saw myself listed under the Wanted, I didn’t think you’d turn to them for help, Glasses. But then, I’ve never been wanted so I’ll take what I can get. Today is the day I meet with Marciel about the collar, he wants it for 30 mil but I’m not going any lower than 1 billion and he knows it. I know the funds they have and I know what value I have. Maybe up til now you might’ve figured out the way I like to play the game, but when it comes to the money you better cash up or we got problems. The type of problems that get scumbags who waste my time kicked off a tower and ending with a nighttime nap with the fishies. I’m dressed in a casual gray, tight flexible pants to run if things go north, light formal blouse for business, and loafers that are really more for a fast escape but are cutting it as formalwear. For the scary look I’ve selected a thick ribbon of red tied around my throat, just enough to be menacing but easy to take off should I choose to become less noticeable. I wait in a tidy office space on ground floor, the entrance to the small facility. Marciel strides into the lobby with a steady pace and head held strong; he looks like he’s nearing his 40s, but I’d bet he's only in his late 20s. Guilt and harsh work can take off decades from a man’s life. “Senora Giselle?” he addresses me from his stand near the entrance and I can’t help but grin a happy little grin. Marciel’s got another thing coming for him if he thinks I’m that type of business woman. He’s scared; he stands too close to the door for easy access to me, and his steps were too light for a man prepared for a tousle. Of the two, he’s the kind to pick flight over fight. “Marciel, drop the formalities, I’m here for a quick ordeal so let’s make it quick,” the sooner I get my money, the less I have to worry about keeping the collar safe. He frowns a little before sitting down at the coffee table across from me. I doubt he will recognize me as a Wanted since the picture was simply much too long ago and dark enough to be almost any girl off the streets. I’ve taken care not to let people take advantage of my face with a camera that can spill too many secrets told in a photo of a thousand words. Neither of us move from the spot, I may have chosen the place, but I felt safest near the outdoors and I’m certain Marciel’s partners had not anticipated we would not continue farther into the building. He clears his throat, “Do you have the collar?” “I do.” Absolute silence and if I were not so stressed out a giggle might’ve ensued. He truly expects me to pull it out now when I have not even seen the payment? “Senora Giselle, I am not here for the collar,” he shifts and I quickly slip my knife in hand, “We have heard you are one of the... Exceptions ,” “In practically everything,” I grumbled and regretted putting myself at risk for this stumbling fool. I pull my knife and he stumbles over a syllable after a glance at my blade. “The wings, senora, your wings are...” he searches my body for a glimmer of my glass catastrophe, and I hold myself back from slicing his throat right that moment in order to teach him a hard learned lesson, “perfection,” His eyes alight and I fear the greed in them that runs its course in all men. But I am also frozen in wonder at what he has just said about my disablement, “Pardon?” I am going to do it; I am not afraid. Wings or no wings, I will make whichever choice or sacrifice to soar the skies. I feel my place there unlike any other. Marciel is unlike any streetrat I’ve ever encountered. He knows the dark and dirty corners hidden at the tops of the towers and he pulls the strings like Glasses does with his thugs. Even if I am one of those strings, it doesn’t matter if I can have what I’ve dreamed of. My back sores are still bleeding, even though the cuts are clean and bandages are holding my flesh together. Regrets are beyond my conviction to get the wings I’ve always wanted, be it the price to let them take my wings. Marciel plays nice when he is about to get what he wants; I got the ‘best’ care and by that I mean the rich lunatic put me in the hands of his skilled spare parts collector. “Why do you even want them? Any Exception in the towers would work,” I growled from under the straps that held my glass wings in place. It was getting a little difficult to talk, but I had made sure the anesthetic wasn’t enough to stop me from ripping the holdings. “They don’t grow as old as you,” he sighed, “the wings never reach the right maturity,” Anger and grief dripped into my puddle of desperation; I didn’t like to think of how ‘lucky’ I was compared to the youngers despite my harsh upbringing. When my glass came off, I sensed a deep loss within me. They had been a large part of my life and stuck with me through thick and thin. That sense of loss however did not fully register with my physicality, my burden was lighter, but I did not actually feel cutting pain since the nerves nearest to the glass were weakest. Marciel must’ve been paying the man very well since he did not eye anything else on me and finished every laceration with expert precision. I ran from the facility after a last glance at my past and before the parts collector changed his mind to take something else. I doubt that Marciel would’ve stopped his lackey if he tried, however, he feared my reputation in the criminal world. He may have been the leading crook at the top of the towers, but those almighty towers rested on the black market of lethal delinquents like me. I am not afraid. My mind is set on my sole purpose after sacrifice and running for years and years in ragtag hoards, I have finally found my way here. I close my fists around the collar and wrap it around my throat. As the needles set into place, I close my eyes and a strange feeling of clarity in shrouded hazes enters my system. I did not realize the collar had automatic painkillers installed in its injections however, it manages to calm my nerves. It’s in that clarity that I find memories I wanted to forget. Being an Exception is like accepting a death sentence. All my life, I’ve had to work 10x harder than any fae to keep on surviving. I am at the age where most Exceptions would have been worked to death already, whether it be serving the higher ones or homeless. I hate the fae who pretend their ignorance is any excuse to how we are treated. We are just as deserving of futures and lives, granted our wings don’t work but our minds do! And now that Marciel has his hands on my glass pair, they will be making a collar that actually works. Wings will be worthless when anyone can have them!

“Are you certain you want it?” he eyed it nervously, “We tried it on others and it did not work the way we expected. If anything, they could come out worse than before... ” he shivered. I held in retches, testing on others would mean they had to have cut off other fae’s wings; the collar does not work on those with wings already. Only those from other realms would ever be able to use the next collar, but that will not be for a few decades. Marciel has assured me that though my wings will greatly speed up the creation of the new collar, there is much time before it will be safe to use. But I don’t care anymore for what’s safe.

When I wake up from my induced sleep, I feel the weight on my back has returned but slightly heavier than before. I reach back and spread my hand over a leathery flap, I inhale sharply. I rise to look in the mirror, and am surprised to see batlike wings the span of my entire body on both sides of me. My muscles are well connected to the control over these new wings and for the first time, I feel soreness at my shoulder blades, it is the strain of keeping these wings straight. The blood flows strong within veins that are barely perceptible under my skin, it is the complete opposite of the glass there before, like a dam broken and rivers of life flowing. There is a new labor to breathing and I raise my gaze to the ceiling of my keeping to try to keep down the chaos of emotions. But the tears come anyway because I have real wings. They may not look like what one might expect but they are everything and more to me. I mourn my lost wings, I howl, but I cry out of exhaustion because I did it! But I am the only one. I remember the clarity I had in the induced state of the collar which still rests on my chest. I am the only one of many exceptions who will never be given this chance for a gift of flight. Far away from this place and these towers which loom over anything that threatens its delusionally fictional haven. I will persevere, I will not waste my dark blessing. I feel the need of those little ones which feel as delicate as the glass which is encased on their backs, and I refuse to ignore it. My wings are stronger than any faes’ and my will is stronger.


Benny’s City That’s the thing about this city, Dixon Creek runs thru the poorest neighborhoods. The city owns the land on both sides of the creek, about a hundred yards on each side, until the creek empties its filth into the Pearl River. Old growth trees and thickets surround the creek which twists and turns as it slithers toward the fast-running river. Bike trails, human trails, secret places abound among the thickets and trees. Murders are committed, rapes perpetrated, deals made, and crimes planned along its banks and among the trees. That’s the thing about this city…Dixon Creek. Dylan looked out his second-floor bedroom window with a scope from an old twenty-two rifle, the rifle long since pawned. The corner, where Tunk’s crew conducted business was quiet. It wasn’t yet sundown. That’s when the music would start. With cell phones flashing bright in dark hands and anger and greed on minds without pity, the commerce would begin and last until daylight approached. Dylan’s phone was on speaker on the desk before him as he scoped the neighborhood. “Yeah, it looks cool. I’ll have Benny walk toward the Sonic.” “Okay, tell him I’ll be with Cherry. You know how he is.” “Known him all his life,” Dylan said, and laid the scope on the desk. “What I’m saying is, he liable to just keep walking if I got someone in the car D, feel me?” Dylan chuckled, “Why he ain’t never been caught, most like.” “That fuckin Tunk ain’t out is he?” “Nah, it’s good. Ain’t dark enough yet.” “That nigga’s crazy, his whole crew. I hate driving by that corner.” “Yeah, ever since he killed Chokoh and took it over, he been giving me the eye.” “Think he know’s D? That nigga’ll kill ya he even thinks it.” “He never knew me and Chokoh’s deal. He means mugs me every time I ride by, but that could be we one of the last few whites in the neighborhood.” “And you got the only two-story house on that block D. He know that too and wants it.” “Most likely, look, I’ll send Benny on his way. But let him get to Rose street before you meet up. Too many eyes around here.” “It compressed?” “Oh yeah, and have the cash rolled tight. Rubber band it.” “As always my brother. I’ll wait five then start that way.” Dylan ended the call and looked toward his little brother’s bedroom door. He could hear music being played, gospel music, the old kind, bluegrass. Not loud, Benny Jo was always respectful. Rare for a fifteen-year-old. Dylan hadn’t been that nice. He’d leaned toward hell raising, fist fighting, and sleeping with any girl that let him. Dylan picked up his phone and called Benny. “Yo, we got business,” and hung up. Benny logged off his computer and killed the stereo, put on his hoodie and running shoes, and tucked a .380 behind his waist band as he checked himself in the mirror. Saying “Let’s do this” to his reflection, he grabbed his backpack and headed to his brother’s room. The door was open. Dylan liked to be able to listen to the house, though no one had ever broken in. The neighborhood knew Dylan had served in the army and a bronze star had been pinned on his chest in Iraq. He’d been in the local papers and news. He’d refused all interviews and dropped out of sight into his old neighborhood. Dylan delt in weight. When Benny entered the room, Dylan tossed him a compressed pound of Mother’s Milk from California. A potent sativa and expensive in Mississippi. Premium weed brought premium dollars was Dylan’s philosophy, and he had serious connections in several states, compliments of the United States Army. Tunk’s weed wasn’t even in the same ballpark. Tunk hated that he couldn’t find that kind of weed. Tunk smoked Dylan’s weed when he could get it; he just didn’t know where it came from or who was bringing it into the city. He scored his good weed, as he called it, from a city cop he had on the payroll. Officer Billingsly claimed he didn’t know who was bringing it in either. Tunk thought a lot about shooting Officer Billingsly in his lying peckerwood face. He would too, but he needed the protection Billingsly provided. You can have all the lookouts you want, but a text was better. Benny stuffed the shrink-wrapped block into his backpack and said, “Who is it?” “Joe Van. Look he’s got his girl with him, said to let you know it’ll be just the two of them, Sonic route.” “Cherry?” “Yeah.” “That girl is fine.” “Smoking hot son,” Dylan grinned. “The money’s rolled, leave it that way.” “Sure, I’ll put it next to my balls.” “Dick.” “Just don’t be sniffin it when I get back.” “Fuck you Benny, you little shit.” Benny laughed and headed for the stairs. When Benny got outside and started walking to the Sonic, Tunk got a text from Squirrel, “B on tha move.” Tunk tapped his phone absently as he wondered once more about them Carrol boys, Dylan and Benny. How come nobody seemed to know nothing about them two? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right. He didn’t like not knowing about shit in his hood, and them two were at the top of the list. Been in that big house all their lives and nobody knows nothing. They mom’s and dad dead in that car crash, and nobody seems to work. How they eat? Tunk thought on it some more and hollered for Rashan. Rashan poked his head in the door, “What up?” “That white boy, Benny? You know him?” Rashan stepped in and closed the door. “Yeah, why?” “I wanna know some things, maybe you could step in his face, find out.” Rashan looked down at his shoes. “What?” Rashan looked Tunk in the eye. “That brother of his?” “Dylan.” “Yeah. He work out with Benny almost every night in they garage. Got weights, mats, punching bags, all that shit.” “So?” Rashan frowned, “So Dylan be a black belt, army boy, war killer. He work Benny hard. Been doing it since he got back.” “You scared?” Rashan swallowed, waited a beat, then said, “Damn straight. Benny don’t play. Them fights I seen him in? They be over fast. Other boy hurt. Teeth on the ground.” “He raise that hell like his brother, huh?” Rashan smiled and looked down, shaking his head. “What boy? What funny?” Rashan looked up. “Benny a nerd. He get the highest grades in the class. I be in some of his classes. He don’t even pay attention to them teachers, then make a hundred, every time. He a quiet whiteboy. Stick to hisself. Them fights? He didn’t start ‘em. That why he never got in no trouble. Tunk looked out his window and waived his hand. Rashan left the room quick. Rashan was one of Tunks best fighters. He couldn’t believe that nigga scared of that white boy. Rashan wasn’t scared of nobody. He ain’t never said no to me Tunk thought. Something ain’t right. He fired up a blut and thought about how nice it would be to shoot that fucking Billingsly. Shoot him right in his face. After a moment he text his best lookout, Squirrel. He told him his new job. Watch every move from that Carrol house and follow that whiteboy Benny. Tunk leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling. Squirrel saw Benny turn the corner. Squirrel got on his bike. Two blocks later he saw Benny get in a green Tahoe. A text went out with a description. Tunk looked at his screen. Brand new green Tahoe. Whiteboy walk out, then climb into a brand-new Tahoe? Why not just pick him up at the house? Shit ain’t adding up right. Brand new green Tahoe, sounded upper westside. He put the blunt out and rocked in his chair. Then he began texting some whiteboys he knew. White boys who knew that area of the city. Dirty whiteboys who always up to dirty shit. After an hour of texting, Tunk had a good idea about how those Carrol boys be eating. Nobody knew about those Carrol boys, or said they didn’t, but they knew about that Tahoe. He looked at his nine-millimeter. It took three day of looking at his security footage before Benny was sure. Edited and put into folders, he went over the footage again. He sat back and drummed his fingers on his desk. Squirrel was definitely watching them. All the time now. He refreshed his smaller laptop. Tunk’s backyard and most of the front popped into view. Last summer he’d been mowing the widow Jackson’s yard when he saw she had a perfect view of Tunk’s house from the corner of her husband’s old workshop. He was always helping Ms. Betty and she let him use the shop. He set up surveillance on Tunk and dedicated a laptop to the job. It cost him money, but he’d gone high end on the camera. He clicked on a folder. Numerous folders popped up with names like hand to hand deals, product delivery, fights, suspicious vehicles, and Chokoh’s murder. He got up, grabbed his backpack, and rode over to visit Ms. Betty. It was nightfall by the time he got back home with all the equipment. His hands had white paint on them. Gail Werner looked at the small brown bubble pack envelope, no return address. The newsroom of WKAY, Channel 5, hummed with activity. She opened the envelope and a memory stick dropped out. She pulled out the letter and read it. Then she looked at the stick. Two hours later she tapped on her editor’s door. Randy Spears looked up and waived her in. She closed the door saying, “You’re not going to believe this. Remember that drug dealer, Chokoh, that just disappeared? Randy squinted and waived her to sit, saying, “Who?” “His name was Bernard Grimmles, but everybody called him Chokoh. We put his family on the air, suspicious disappearance. He was never found.” “Not really, but what about it.” “I got video of his murder. I got the address and the shooter’s name. I got where he’s buried, all on video. Very good video. Clear video. The shooter is actually facing the camera when he shoots Chokoh. He also buries him where he fell. Then, get this, he turns the grave into a little flower garden with bird feeders and one of them stone bird baths. It’s unbelievable. And that’s not the half of it. I got video of that address going back months. You wouldn’t believe what goes on there, it’s unbelievable, and I haven’t even gone thru it all. I got an idea for the lead.” Gail grinned, her face reddening. “Yeah?” “The Den of Sin,” she said, making quotes with her fingers. After an hour of watching the Chokoh footage on his big screen, Randy said, “That neighborhood borders Dixon Creek.” Gail nodded, “Your right,” and showed him her phone. Google Maps showed the neighborhood bordered the creek. “We got to work that into the story.” “Maybe I can work it into the lead,” Gail said, frowning. “But the house isn’t on the creek, just close to it.” Randy shook his head, “Not the lead, just make sure to mention it. The notorious Dixon Creek, that kind of thing. I got to call Chief Pickett. We can’t run with this yet. Make some copies. Put the stick in the safe.” Randy picked up his phone and called the City Police. “Hey Fay, is the Chief in?” Gail leaned in and whispered, “I’ll start editing the Chokoh thing, then start on the rest.” Randy nodded and waived his pencil toward the door, “Doug? It’s Randy at 5 News. Can you come to the station?” Gail smiled and winked, closing his door. “Well, like now. You’re not going to believe what I got on video. You remember the Chokoh disappearance?” Randy couldn’t help but smile. “That’s the one. Well good news, he’s been found, and his murder and burial are all on video. All of it, everything. What? Oh, it was anonymous. Somebody mailed it to the station. It’s all on a memory stick.” Randy listened as he tapped his pencil. “The envelope? It’s right here.” Randy pushed it around a little with his pencil. “I’ll have coffee made. We’re gonna need it.” Three days later, Dylan watched as several police cars converged on the corner. The crime scene van pulled up. SWAT arrived and began checking their weapons and talking into headsets. “Yo Benny, check it out,” Dylan hollered out as he picked up his scope. Benny had been expecting and hurried to Dylan’s room. They watched as things escalated outside the window. Two dogs were on a leash behind the last patrol car. “Looks like they gonna search his house, bet there’s nothing there.” Benny held his tongue. It took a bit, but Tunk was placed in a patrol car. Then the dogs moved into the back yard. Cadaver dogs, Benny thought. “What the fuck is going on over there?” Dylan said out loud. Benny glanced over, stood straight and said, “Tunk fucked up.” Greg Pierce 2021


“Stand still, I can’t believe after all these years you haven’t learned how to tie a bow tie.” “I told you I should have bought a clip on tie.” ### Tim Westland was one of the growing bevy of young Canadian high tech multibillionaires. His small software company in Sidney BC developed one of those boring programs that nobody has ever heard of but one that secures international bank transfers. It was one of those ideas that are so blindingly obvious you can’t help thinking “Why didn’t I think of that.” In 2025 he sold his company to an Israeli security company for a cool five billion dollars. It was the largest sale of a private company in Canadian history. Part of the money from the sale was used to give every employee, from cleaning staff to programmers, a severance package equal to two years salary. When asked about severance packages he always replied “It isn’t about the money, it is always about the people.” After two years of living the ‘high life’ of a ridiculously rich bachelor, Westland had found out three things, it was very hard to spend that much money (Waste-yes :: Spent-No); he had more ‘friends’ than ever before; he didn’t like that lifestyle. In 2027 he purchased a small house that overlooked the ocean just west of Sidney. Trying to gain some anonymity, outside of volunteering for local charities, being chair of the University of Victoria Alumni Association and setting up a few scholarships he stayed out of the public eye. Which is why he was attending this UNICEF charity event in London, where he was virtually unknown, instead of ones in Canada or the United States. Even more than the anonymity, Tim just liked attending London events, they were much more lavish than those in Canada or even the US. There was a more ho-hum attitude towards money here. Here, he was just another billionaire.

Half way through the evening Tim found himself alone at a table just nursing his scotch and doing a little people watching. There was the usual assortment of rich men with their wives - trophy and otherwise; some wealthy women with their husbands or boy toys; and a few men and women, like him, ‘unattached’. The organisers had thoughtfully provided a number of hosts and hostesses to entertain the ‘unattached’. The hostesses were easily recognized by their tight dresses with plunging necklines. Tim had already waved off a few of them. ‘ Maybe later ’ he thought ‘ No sense in being alone all night. ’ The young woman approaching him now fit none of those categories. She looked like she was going to a university dinner rather than attending a gala event. If he had been prone to paranoia he might have thought she had been waiting all night for a chance to get him alone. He would have been right.

“Mr. Westland, my name is Jane Seymour” “You look much older in your movies.” He smiled, he didn’t usually have a quick quip. She smiled back thinking, ‘ As if I haven’t heard that before. ’ “Mr. Westland, I want you to give me five million dollars.” Tim just sat there looking puzzled, then half in jest - “Well Jane, the most I ever paid for an escort was two thousand dollars. And, quite frankly, she was much better looking.” That statement wasn’t true and he immediately regretted saying it. He had never seen a woman blush like that before. From her head to her chest was crimson. Jumping up and pulling out a chair “Sorry . . . . Please, sit. . . . Can I get you a drink?” He beckoned the waiter. “Wine?” She nodded. “White?” She nodded again. “A white wine and a scotch, please.” (He’s Canadian - he always said please.) By the time the waiter returned with the drinks Jane had gained some of her composure. “OK - let’s start again. Call me Tim and tell me why I should give you five million dollars” Jane stared at her wine glass. ‘ This was a mistake ’ she thought. She had never talked to anyone about her proposal before. She had gotten rejection letters long before she got an interview. She was just starting to realize how ridiculous she must have sounded. ‘ This is the last try. If I don’t get the money I will approach the university to fund the project ’ She knew that if she did that she wouldn’t get the credit she deserved.

“Mr. Westland” He shook his head “Tim . . . I am Dr. Jane Seymour. I am a professor at the Centre for Applied Cosmology at the University of Cambridge. I need money for a project outside the university. . . . . How much do you know about time travel?” ‘ What an odd question? ’ he thought. “Not much, except it only works on TV shows, like Dr. Who. He has a magical box called a TARDIS that flies through time and space. Other than that it is impossible. . . . I think there was an experiment at Berkeley that proved that.” She was impressed, not many people knew of the Berkeley experiment. “Do you know what TARDIS stands for?” Looking a bit bemused - ‘ OK a bit of a nutcase but I’ll play along ’. He replied

“Time and Relative Dimensions in Space”

She nodded her head, then changing the subject she said “Let me tell you about the Berkeley experiment. They were attempting to transfer an object back an hour in time. The whole experiment is on YouTube - it takes about an hour and a half to watch.” “At first they show an empty chamber with all the equipment turned off and a small clock just outside the chamber. That continues for about ten minutes. At this point the chamber could be empty because they didn’t do the experiment or the experiment failed, so they have to continue with the experiment” “They start turning on all the equipment and place a probe with an array of sensors into the chamber. And set the system to send the probe exactly one hour into the past.” “Exactly one hour after the start of the experiment they activate the chamber and the probe disappears.” She waited for Tim to ask the obvious question. “Well if the probe hadn’t appeared in the chamber earlier and disappeared at the start of the experiment, what happened to it?” Jane liked to let people discover answers on their own. ‘ Let’s see if he is as smart people say he is. ’ “You have an insightful mind. What if I told you what happened to the probe is blindingly obvious; that time travel doesn’t work; and, most importantly, that the probe didn’t move. Think of the TARDIS - not the Time part, the Relative Dimensions in Space.” Tim was puzzled. ‘ What has Relative Dimension in Space got to do with it? That was just so the script writers could move the TARDIS through space. She said the probe didn’t move and didn’t travel in time - it just disappeared. . . . Things don’t disappear, they just move from one place to another. . . . If the probe didn’t move, why wasn’t it still inside the chamber - it must have moved. ’ Tim could see he was stuck in a circular argument. ‘ The probe wasn’t in the chamber so it must have moved - but Jane said it didn’t move. Either she was wrong or I am missing something. What are the hidden assumptions? ’ Slowly he started to smile - ‘ Christ - it is blindingly obvious ’ Slamming his hand on the table he blurted out, a little too loud - “The earth moved.” People at the other tables were looking over to see what they were up to. Slumping in his chair thinking of what that could mean he finally asked “How far?” “Not too sure. There are too many unknown variables. I am guessing, but I would say half a million miles, give or take a few thousand.” (Twice as far as the moon.) “Can you prove it?” “No - that is what the money's for.” “What do I get out of it?” “Potential patents on moving items through space.” “And you get a Nobel Prize.” Glancing at his watch - his mind was working furiously. ‘ If she is right it would revolutionize space exploration. Most of the fuel used to launch a satellite is used to lift the fuel, not the payload. If you can put something in space without burning fuel - there is no limit in what you can do. I need to check this out. ’

“I have to make a few phone calls. Let’s meet for breakfast.

. . Is 9:00am OK?” They exchanged information and Tim headed back to his room. It was 10:00pm in London, 2:00pm in Victoria, when Tim got back to his room and placed a call to the University of Victoria (UVic) Physics and Astronomy Department. “Hello Miranda, I have a small favour.”

Miranda Gilbert was secretary to James (Jim) Foster, the Chair of the UVIC Physics and Astronomy Department. She had dated Tim off and on before she married Dan Gilbert. They were still close friends. “You never ask for a ‘small’ favour. What is it this time?”

“Would you put together a dossier on Dr. Jane Seymour, Cambridge University for me? Things that I am not going to find on Google.” “It'll cost you! . . . Dinner for two at the Green Elephant.” “OK - but don’t you think we should invite Dan along.” Miranda laughed - “You had your chance” Smiling, “OK - for you and Dan. . . I need the dossier in about eight hours.” “Hmmp . . . I should have asked for more. . . . So, is she after your money?” “Yes - I think she is. . . . Is Jim in?” “Yes” “Would you see if he can spare me a few minutes?” A few seconds later Jim Foster picked up his phone. “Hi Tim, Miranda says you are looking for information on Dr. Seymour.” “Yes, but that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. . . . What can you tell me about the Berkeley time travel experiments? Things that didn’t make it into the press.” “Met her at a symposium. She is a brilliant theoretical physicist and cosmologist. She should be head of the department but Cambridge is still an ‘old boys club’. . . . So, the time travel experiments. They didn’t work. There was a second experiment that wasn’t widely reported. They put a powerful radio transmitter in the probe - never got a signal from it. Also, they used a LOT more power than they expected.” “Thanks - that helps. . . . What would you say to a project to determine what happened to the probes?” “You paying for it?” “Maybe.” “Her idea or yours?” “Mine for now.” “I doubt that. . . . If someone else was paying for it and she headed the research we would probably be interested.” “Just to get her on the faculty?” “Yes! . . . What are you up to?”  Ignoring the question - “Thanks Jim - I’ll get back to you.” By the time Tim picked Jane up for breakfast he had read the personal information in the dossier Miranda had sent him. He had scanned the list of her published work, which, for the most part, he didn’t understand. There was one surprise in the dossier Miranda had prepared, she had completed the Engineering Undergraduate course at Cambridge specializing in Aerospace and Aerothermal Engineering.

Half way through breakfast Jane was getting worried. He was asking ‘getting to know you questions’ as if they were on a date. ‘ Why wasn’t he asking about her proposal? ’ Finally she had to ask - “Don’t you want to hear about what I want the money for?” “No. . . . probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. Except maybe two things - Why haven’t you published anything on why the Berkeley experiments failed and why hasn’t anyone else figured out that the earth moved?” Tim didn’t need a degree in physiology to read her face. “You want to get all the credit. . . .

Don’t be embarrassed. I didn’t take my company public because I wanted complete control.” “Do you know the problem with all the invisible man stories?” she asked. Slightly bewildered, Tim nodded. “Did you realize it or did someone tell you?” “Hmmp . . . I see your point.” - someone had told him, not everyone can see the obvious. [Gentle reader, if you are invisible, light passes right through your eyes - you can’t see.] He continued. “Yesterday you mentioned patents and moving things in space. Maybe there is money in it, maybe not - I don’t care.” This was a bit of a lie. He knew if her idea worked there was a huge potential market.

He continued - “I have more money than I can spend. Most of it will go to charity. . . . If I invest in your research it will be because I trust you and think you will work hard to finish what you start - even if the results are not what you expected.” The rest of the day went very much like a first date as they got to know each other and explored much of what London has to offer. By the end of the day Tim had decided he liked her and she was someone he could trust. He would have been surprised to know, in spite of the boorish way he acted when they first met, she found him quite charming. That evening, over drinks, he finally asked “What do you know about the University of Victoria?” Smiling “I hear they have an excellent astrophysics department.” “Are you sure five million will be enough?” ### “Stand still - don’t be ridiculous - in the whole history of the Nobel Awards nobody has ever worn a clip on tie.”

“Nobody will be looking at me - every eye will be on you. You do know you are only the sixth woman to win the Nobel Prize in Physics?” Laughing, “It may have been mentioned once or twice.” Finishing tying his tie she did a pirouette. “So worth five million dollars?” Going along with her and thinking back to when they first met he answered, “Well Jane, the most I ever paid for an escort was two thousand dollars.” She pretends to scowl,

“Choose your words carefully or you will be sleeping alone tonight.” He smiles “But you are much better looking. . . . Ready to go? Can’t keep the King of Sweden waiting.”


“Well, well, well,” “What?” “After fifteen years, you’re back? Just like that?” “Why are you so angry?” “Why am I angry? For fifteen years you left me forgotten in a folder with the rest of your feverish brain’s outpourings. And now all of a sudden you’re rereading me? And don’t think I don’t know why!” “Okay. I’ll bite. Why?” “Because you’re dry. The old creative juices aren’t flowing lately, are they? So you thought you’d come back here to me, sort of like stealing diamonds and gold from a wreck at the bottom of the sea, except in your case, it’s more like costume jewelry. But we’ll put that aside for now. Let’s catch up. You were all depressed back then,  mumbling about the end of the road, curves ahead, uncertainty of life…yet you’re still here aren’t you? Still here and now you’re poaching from me.” “Yes. I’m still here, and you’re me so I can’t poach from myself, can I? I just want to refresh my memory, is all. ” “I’m only you up to a point. But never mind the attempted logic. Did you realize that you are now considerably older than the people you wrote about, including me? “I know how old I am. You don’t have to remind me.” “Maybe not, but apparently I do have to remind you about your angst, since you’re the one who came looking here. Consider it a sort of trigger warning for you. You called the piece you wrote back then, Better Days. Remember?” “Of course I remember; it began with, ‘These aren’t the best days of my life.’” “I’m impressed. You’re a decade and a half older but the old brain neurons seem to be firing pretty well.” “So kind of you. You going to read or what? “Right! Sit back and listen to me…or yourself, whichever. But actually, a decade and a half on, there should be some changes in you. This old voice isn’t yourself now. Or it shouldn’t be, or what the heck have you been up to all this time? But I digress. Here we were, you and me, back in the day, as they say. And notice how with so few words I force you to confront your issues. I was quite proud of that. Ready? A deep breath and… “These aren’t exactly the best days of my life.” “Because?” “Because I’ve had better days. Happy days. Days that glittered and shimmered.” “And now?” “Now it’s T.S. Elliot’s smoke filled late afternoons… “And how’s that going for you?” “It can be lived with. Up to a point. No one was ever promised eternal happiness. When things were going good for me, I knew that somewhere, some other guy was down. So now it’s my turn. Fair enough. Only …” “Only?” “Only you need a little relief sometimes, you know. To catch your breath. To coast a bit before the next onslaught. When you don’t get that it gets really tough.” “What do you do? To get through?” “I used to focus beyond the present. Look down the road and ‘round the next bend. Try to see what might be up ahead. Something good maybe. Bit of reversal of fortune, maybe. A better relationship. Maybe a new one. Kids doing okay after all the growing up angst. You know what I mean? Just to catch a break or two. A warm breeze, a good sun. Blue lake, maybe. Something for the eyes, something for the heart.” “You used to? And now?” “Now? Funny thing. You listen to people talking. You hear about some guy, maybe 55,  Maybe younger, dies of cancer. Brain tumor. Massive heart attack. The guy next to you says he’s 73. Complains about his constant ache, that he seems to walk a little slower every day. Says his wife died last summer and now he’s a little lost…maybe a lot lost. Says he’s developed an allergy to his house. Kind of a funny line, but you don’t laugh. Maybe a knowing head nod. It can be sad getting old. ‘Thank God,’ you think, ‘that you have time on your side.’” “And then one day it hits you. Never mind hits - it gobsmacks you. You’re maybe sixty five. People call you sir and hold doors for you. You belong with the old crowd. That guy 55 died of cancer? It could’ve been you. You could be dead now, going on eight, ten years. And now you’re closing in on George’s 73. So then you finally come to realize the very worst thing about old age. It’s not the health issues, not losing your hair, not your teeth, not the always achy back...” “It’s…?” “ It’s that you’re running out of time. Patience is great, and maybe you’ve been patient your whole life: You used to say, if not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after that. But now you realize there’s a limited supply of days after that. You’re closing in on that bend in the road, and you still can’t tell if there’s anything good when you round it. You don’t know if the road even continues. Could be a dead end; rockslide; highway under construction; pay toll! Maybe before life resurrects you, you run out of road. In the meantime your brain kicks in and you start thinking about what you had that you might never have again. Or worse, what you never had, and maybe you never will. I’m not being greedy here. I’m not talking about a luxo cabin cruiser. I’m talking about small pleasures: knowing the kids are good and want to call you; having a few friends to share a beer with; picnic on a sunny day, a swim in the ocean... but when nothing like that happens…” “It can be tough; I get it. But there’s still hope, no?” “Is there? You see an attractive woman: you think maybe you’ll chat her up. She calls you sir. So maybe you won’t ever again experience the feeling of a woman wrapping you in her arms. Now that makes old age a tough sell. Even if you’re guaranteed another fifteen, twenty years, what if you can’t fill them up with something soft, something tender? What if you don’t have a little companionship? Someone close-by on a grey day, a cold, dark night? You used to say it’ll come. If not today, tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. But suddenly, you realize it’s been a long time since you knew that feeling. It’s been a long time and it didn’t come ’round. And now there’s that curve up ahead and you’re clocking 65. Then you get it: you suddenly, really understand that maybe it won’t ever come again. It doesn’t make for good days.” “I guess it doesn’t. So what now?” “Now? I don’t know, to be truthful. Just keep going I guess.” “Just keep going? That’s it? You know that time has passed don’t you? That you’re way past 55 or 65 or even George’s seventy three. And that’s it! Really?”

“I know how old I am, thanks. I hate that the number so I say, ‘I’m turning fourscore.’” “What? Like in Lincoln’s Gettysburg address: ‘Fourscore and seven years ago?’” “Exactly. Fourscore and trying to negotiate the additional seven.” “Well, the good part is that the road didn’t collapse under you and you navigated the bends so you had to have learned something. C’mon, think. What are you going to write?” “I don’t know. But anyway, you’re me, or part of me, so I don’t have to tell you. You’ll know.” “Actually, you’re wrong. Your thoughts are just a bunch of neurons and chemicals jangling together. They have no substance; they don’t exist until you write them down. Then I’ll know. And if you don’t write them down, you die and they’re gone forever. Woosh. Atomized. So you need to write. What were you looking for when you came snooping, my little, self- plagiarizer? Think! Feel! What were these past years for you? What do you need or want going into the home stretch – so to speak. Free associate: twenty five words max.” “A decade plus in twenty five words or less? Okay! Remember that Dickens wrote, ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times?’ Some of those years have been the worst of times; I’m not sure any of them would be the best of times, but there have been some good times too. ” “You learn anything from that?” “That instead of thinking of life being the roadblock, maybe sometimes life helps you to get around the roadblock? That as long as you’re traveling, try not to focus on the final destination. It’s coming at you anyway, so live the ride? Maybe to be kind to the people you meet along the way. They’re your fellow travelers. Make someone smile and the reward is the smile you get on your own face? How’m I doing? “Guess you’ve decided it’s time to be positive; that’s a new voice for you for sure. Just watch that you don’t start sounding like Chicken Soup for the Soul. Keep writing, and when you’re done, don’t just dump it back in the folder never again to see the light of day. Take it out from time to time. Read it, change it. Live it. Finally, send it out into the world.”