The sunlight shafted through a gap in his bedroom curtains; he was not pleased to see it. Darren pulled the duvet up and over his head and let out a groan. What a night! He lost count of the number of beers, shots and joints he had partaken of. The night had been winding down when that blonde arrived; she was stunning. Every schoolboy’s wet dream in one tidy package.  His hazy memory of the woman brought him closer to full consciousness. He felt gingerly across the bed under the duvet; he was alone, which came as a bit of a relief. She was gorgeous, but he hated post-coital conversations; so awkward, especially given that he couldn’t remember her name. He swung his legs round and sat up; his head spun and a stab of pain hit him right between the eyes. Standing up would not be a good idea, and lying down again wouldn’t help. Darren rested his elbows on his thighs and lowered his head into his hands. His mouth was dry and gummy, he ran his tongue over his teeth, they were furry. Must have been a wonderful night, he thought, he just wished he could remember more of it. He sat in the edge of the bed for a few more minutes, waiting for the spinning to slow down and the pain to recede before daring to stand up. He still hadn’t fully opened his eyes, the lids seemed almost glued shut. He rubbed the crust from his eyelids and, squinting, staggered through to the bathroom. He filled the basin with cold water and stuck his face in. “Hello there!” He snapped his head up, and it cracked into the open door of the bathroom cabinet. “Fuck!” He slammed the cabinet door shut, the noise and the added pain shot through his hangover. He gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head. “I said hello there.” A voice came from behind him. Darren spun around looking for the source of the words. His feet slid from under him, and he thumped down onto the wet floor, sending a shaft of pain from his coccyx to the back of his head where it joined the lump on his cranium in a crescendo of agony. It was just not his day. He was sat on the floor, naked with a monumental hangover and looking round he was sure he was alone. I’m still asleep, he thought, got to be. “And no, Darren, this is not a dream.” Darren hauled himself back to his feet and turned to face the mirrored cabinet, it was blank. Maybe I’ve been spiked, he thought. “Come to think of it that last drink did taste a bit funny.” He said this time out loud. “Again, no, you’re not tripping.” “Bullshit!” He’d had enough bad trips in the past and he thought he could recognise one when it arrived. Darren filled a glass with cold water and drank it down and refilled it. The icy water hit his stomach, which immediately cramped, sending a shiver through his body. The spasm ran through the muscles in his arm and he dropped the heavy glass on his foot. Darren yelled in pain and grabbed at his foot. He slipped over again and landed on the glass, more pain cut through his coccyx, but at least the glass didn’t break. He hauled it out from underneath his buttocks. Darren almost giggled, if it wasn’t for the aches throbbing throughout his body, this could have been a scene from a Buster Keaton movie. He lay there dazed, staring at the ceiling, determined not to move. He watched a spider crawl effortlessly across the ceiling and disappear into the light fitting. He tried to relax and closed his eyes, maybe he will wake up still in bed and this nightmare will be over. It is a nightmare, he told himself. It must be! Or a bad trip. Ignore the voice, it’ll soon get bored and leave. “You still don’t get it, Darren.” A deluge of freezing water cascaded from the sink over the prone Darren, he must be awake now. “You forgot to turn the tap off, idiot!” He struggled to his feet, shivering with cold, turned the tap off and pulled the plug. The water gurgled away, seemingly taking with it all comprehension from Darren. Leaning on the sink for support, he stared at the empty mirror. He could feel the cold water numbing his feet and he was shivering uncontrollably, not just from the cold but deep in the pit of his stomach an icy knot of fear was forming. What if this is not a nightmare or a bad trip? What if this was really happening? “Now you’re getting there.” “Shut UP! Just shut the fuck UP.” He wrapped himself in the bath towel and rubbed himself, trying to get some warmth into his pain wracked body. He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed. “Remember the poet, Darren? The one from Scotland, the one you hated at school? ‘O wad some Power the giftie gie us, Tae see oursels as ithers see us!’ Open your eyes, Darren, see yourself properly for the first time.” The voice ordered from just behind him. Darren didn’t have the will power to disobey, he opened his eyes. The blank mirror stared back at him, like a condemnation. The emptiness a witness to the desolation of his soul, the vacancy a reflection of his vacuous existence. He couldn’t bear to look into that void for long, he covered his face with his hands, tears were running down his face. Tears of pain or sadness, he couldn’t decide. He tried to turn and walk away, but his frozen feet wouldn’t obey him, and he only saved himself from another fall by grabbing the sink. Another sob escaped from between his chattering teeth The voice mocked at him, “Oh dear, poor Darren. Poor, poor little Darren, even his feet don’t work any more. Just like the rest of him.” The voice seemed to be coming from his left this time. He gripped the sink like it was his only anchor to reality and slowly turned his head. He felt the bones in his neck grind against each other, he winced as another jolt of pain speared through his head. “Painful, isn’t it?” said the face in the small shaving mirror, a sardonic smile on its lips. Darren stared at the image in disbelief, it was him, but not him. The shape and structure of the face before him was similar, like an idealised version of himself, completely symmetrical left and right, the eyes blue but a brighter blue than in reality, cheek bones sharper and better defined and the ears at the same height and smaller, the nose straighter and the hair was properly blonde. Despite these differences, it was still essentially him. The face in the mirror winked at him. His pain momentarily forgotten, Darren jumped back, just managing to save himself from another meeting with the floor. He leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the face in the mirror. He turned away and back again, but the image remained, the smile now rather more cruel than sardonic. He began to wonder if this was a prank. Darren pulled the mirror towards him, and glanced behind it, he searched around the bathroom for any tell-tale signs of a projector or speakers. Nothing, the image remained and still smiled. “Satisfied now?” it said, “No hidden camera’s or TV screens, no speakers in the walls. This is no joke. You are awake and this is real.” “Who the hell are you?” The apparition shook it’s head, the fine golden hair swirled in the ether as if alive. “Don’t you recognise me, fool? Can’t you see? I’m your Guardian Angel!” “Now you’re taking the piss!” He was getting angry now. “What about all the falling and soaking and freezing? Eh? As far as I can see, all the evidence suggests you’re a pretty crap Guardian” “No Darren, you don’t get it yet. I’m sick of you. I’ve helped you so often over the years, but still you manage to end up a complete asshole. Remember the fall from the tree around year five that only resulted in a minor concussion? It should have killed you. What about you missing that bus to college, remember, the one that crashed? Oh, and the final exam paper that you found the answers to in the teacher’s trash bin two days before the test. How you managed to fuck that one up is beyond even me. And there are many more.” A look of utter disdain passed over the Guardian’s face, “You’ve never finished anything, nothing. No job completed, no plan ever achieved, that is assuming that you ever made one. I have dropped so many chances into your lap and you’ve ignored every one. You’re a waste of space, so I’m done with you. I’m going to do the same thing as you do when you come across something difficult, leave!” The face in the mirror began to fade. “Darren Peter Finchley, from now on you are on your own. I am outta here.” The face disappeared. Darren shivered and pulled the towel tighter. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, all the world seemed back to normal. He still had a hangover, his foot was painful as was his back and the bathroom floor was sodden. He risked a glance in the mirror and saw only his own bleary face looking back at him. He checked behind the mirror and around the bathroom, nothing. He downed two Advil and staggered back to bed. Darren awoke the following morning, the hangover had cleared, he put yesterday’s episode down to over indulgence. Not unusual for him. He got ready for his shift at the burger bar. And, whistling a happy tune, walked towards his workplace. He didn’t see or hear the SUV that jumped the red light as he was crossing the street. He was DOA by the time the ambulance got through the morning traffic.


Where she and her lineage of wizened eyes, handsomely greyed heads, often gnarled hands, and beautifully scarred feet have their placentas buried and bones interred, it is said it takes a village to raise a child. Well, they had a village and it did raise its children. Mama Mutai would with lightning-quick speed smack you on the back of your head if you happened to be within her vicinity and answered the call of original sin to talk back to anyone of the same age as the first sibling in your home; let alone attempting to do so to one of an age similar to that of your parents. Mama Achieng would, when the burnt orange meets the darkening blue and all animals great and small knew to troop back to where they call home, start grabbing and scrubbing dusty heads and muddy feet all the while profusely complaining about the most horrible state the growing pile of dirtied clothes was in, as she flung them all next to the water tank for them to think about their lives before they were also beaten and scrubbed to within an inch of their threadbare lives by Achieng herself. Mama Njenga was the designated headquarters for all functions; courting couples were watched hawk-eyed because weddings are no matter to be trifled with, babies were born into the pomp and flare they deserved, were dedicated to the Lord pots and pans a’banging, men, women, and children were laid to rest and not a soul near or far could question the grief that shrouded our village or that the departed belonged. My mother was the one whom they did not talk of or even mention her name often enough. She was the one who as a child was the quiet one, did not play too well or often enough with other children, and grew to be a loner of a girl. Our matriarch, Mama Neserian had long given up on being a wife, though not for lack of trying, hoping, praying, being beaten into, counselled to submit to and often out rightly shamed to; she however gave herself to the call of being a mother with all the fierceness of a wounded bear. She had five including my mother and another five from our grandfather’s other mother-of-his-children to raise, dote on, love, feed, scrub, spank or beat depending on the crime, and encourage with gruff words for after all who out rightly tells children that they are loved or can and must succeed and all the while using actual words. To call both my grandmother and she wives would be to grant my grandfather the honour of being a husband. Too high an honour! My mother grew into a quiet girl, one who was easy to forget, hard to notice she was there, an observer of people and life’s events, she never truly or convincingly enough said no to anyone or anything and embraced the fascinating habit of never lifting her head too long from watching the ground when she walked and of getting genuinely shocked when one called her beautiful or kind or strong or gracious, all things she was and did effortlessly and with a pull that invited one to prepare that which their heart so desperately longed for in food or drink, choose a sunrise or set as befits their spirit, tuck feet under, blissfully sigh and adoringly behold. Even more, despite and in spite of it all, she evolved into a fascinating woman. More beautiful, kinder, more gracious and stronger than we would know or think and at every re-telling of this tale, she would grow stronger still. Yet, she carried this shadow with her. When spotted in her eyes it drew the most shaken of gasps followed in quick succession by inquiry, horror, resolve and only much later, defeat and despair! Mama Neserian cannot even under the threat of hot coals to the bottom of her feet tell you when or why my mother was so different from her other children, all ten of them, she just was. Was it possible for either one or even two or three of her children at a time to be off somewhere doing and being something she would often worry or frown upon? A most resounding yes. After all, in raising its children our village provided all manner of thrills and spills. From roaring down the river after coming tumbling and screaming down the muddy ravine during the rainy season, to trying to spot and see how close we could get to a gazelle before it bounded away or even an elephant if we strayed far enough and serendipity smiled and no adult could be spotted or could spot us. There was such mischief to get up to and we were all such willing slaves to her. When a new family found their way to our village and were certified welcome after many shifting eyes and more wagging tongues, their children were taken under wing and none was allowed to be found unable to swim, incapable of stealing Babu’s bicycle from in front of his retail shop, afraid of flora or fauna and thoroughly seasoned in being on the receiving end of the cane of many a mother including their own. One such family came into town a little before I came to be and as soon as my mother and grandmother agreed that maybe the city with its twinkling lights, not as fresh air or water, ominous air, hope, and promise wasn’t a bad idea for my mother. My mother never did say who my father was and no one explicitly remembered seeing her leaning suggestively over fences, taking the long way around on errands, tracing and retracing with her shy feet the contours of our great motherland as sweet nothings were sent her way; so my announcement and boisterous arrival into our village remained unspoken of. Mama Neserian would not be bothered, bullied or otherwise cajoled to reveal such information because the truth was too much for her heart to re-tell. The night my mother sat next to her in front of the deliciously warm hearth, as the flames licked the walls and boiled evening tea along with the morning maize, my grandmother felt the air shift to make room for whatever it was her daughter needed to lay at her feet and she instinctively knew that because it was my mother, it would serve them both well to let her lead the way. And so my mother let it be known of my impending arrival in 7 or so months, that she was okay as okay can be for a 16-year-old girl, and had been and would continue to take care of herself and thus me as I lay cosy and budding, and that when she was done with the business of bringing me forth, could my grandmother then please do that which my mother was sure only she could for her, raise me and raise me well. And that is how my mother became a distant connection to an enchanting place over the horizon. My grandmother never let me forget that she was my grandmother and not my mother so at that same warm hearth, late in the evening, she would tell me tales of who she knew my mother to be, what she was up to through her letters first, and later through the most fascinating of contraptions called a mobile phone. My mother tried to visit and the first time she did I have heard it said that it seemed the shadow she bore had faded, quieted and she seemed all the better for it. Laughed easier, more freely, was gentler to interact with. As I grew and morphed into my own person embarking on that often arduous journey of finding and being self, my mother and I settled for camaraderie and she served us well. I eventually found myself in that twinkling, promising place on the horizon and Mama Neserian could not be prouder or sadder in equal measures. We missed each other terribly yet I was her connect to my other siblings and her children, a task I loathed or thoroughly relished depending on which relative was on the other side of the coffee, lunch, dinner, Saturday afternoon meet-up or phone call. One evening as I put up my feet and freed my braids, my mother appeared unannounced at my door. This happened often and was never a cause for concern yet on this particular evening, she was antsy. She was battling cervical cancer. She wore her bald black head with pride, fought her doctors at every turn, attempted to live life on her own terms and, so when she walked in, settled on the couch wrapping a blanket across her legs to keep warm and looked me straight in the eye and said, “it is time!”, my heart leapt to my throat. Unhurriedly, unfeelingly, in a voice devoid of extremes and calmly still, my mother proceeded to tell me our story. How she and her shadow were forever merged, how I came to be. When my mother turned twelve, she remembers, a new family came to the village. One of the whole ones so there was a mother, a father, six children of four rambunctious boys and two pretty girls, their livestock for no village is complete without a corral of them, and as is our African nature, theirs was a revolving door of various relatives. That year, an uncle came to live with them and that man came to be the life of our village! Young and old drew to him like flies to filth. He was the quintessential uncle to watch over children, chase them down hills, the eager goat bounding along with them, he drank at the table of men and spurred ideas of growth, better farming, higher yields, promising marriages and one last try for a boy, and he was the ever-helpful hand for mothers needing an extra sinewy hand. My mother watched all these things like she watched all life then, from under her downcast eyes and bowed head, quietly reading the random newspapers that were used to line the inside of some houses. This uncle finally came around to noticing her and would always try to stop and talk to her or sit next to her as she read or accompany her on errands. My mother never protested or acquiesced and sometimes his presence helped to keep off cat-calling boys and bullies and gaggling, whispering girls and that suited my mother just fine. By the time my mother turned 14, she and he were now on speaking and laughing terms and so they would remain. He was the only one other than family that my mother would raise her head from staring at the ground for, and he became and would remain her fiercest protector. The day I was conceived, my mother’s protector was away. Over the hill in another village doing what men do in providing and protecting. Mama Neserian had developed a cough that sounded like an old coal train announcing its ascent from the very bowels of the earth and by the time it exited her body, she was spitting black sputum and blood. And so, despite her protests, my mother had taken it upon herself to go see the medicine woman across the ridge. My mother was fifteen and oblivious to the fact that the new family’s father had come into the village, set down roots and proceeded to notice her and keep noticing her through the years. So on this particular day, as she set off on her mission to bring back respite and relief, he noticed and followed. Respite and relief never made it back and instead, Mama Neserian was found fretting and worrying for darkness had preceded my mother’s return. Uncle Murata returned from being provider and protector to find Mama Neserian waiting for him with sputum-laden breath. He needed no coaxing and became the search party. Two days later, him red-eyed and bone-weary, my mother bruised, battered and bloodied showed up with the dawn. The medicine woman was fetched and in the middle of her “tsk, tsk, tsk” and frequent wiping away of tears, she pronounced my mother alive but violently robbed of virtue. Mama Neserian stood there shell-shocked and after she had stared unseeingly into the walls of her home, she sent one of my mother’s brothers to fetch the ‘modern’ medicine woman. His feet cycled like a bat from hell and only briefly slowed at the melee that was at Uncle Murata’s compound that he would later hear left the father of that home dead and Uncle Murata packed up, never to return. My uncle returned with the nurse in tow who wiped, disinfected, examined, patched up and cuddled my mother back into what would now be her new self. She spoke with my grandmother and left strict instructions and the promise to return every day until she was satisfied she had healed that which medicine could, the rest would have to be left to God. Mama Neserian and the other elders were informed of the happenings at the new family’s homestead and the conclusion that the dead man was responsible and Uncle Murata our hero. He never stayed to receive punishment or accolade and only left behind the instruction that my mother was the only one who could reach him if and when she wanted and for whom he would return should she need him. My mother’s body healed, her mind limped, she never did reach out for Uncle Murata and only because she knew he would face grueling yet half-hearted punishment. When she went into the city, she did find him and they did remain protector and protected until three days before she showed up at my door. She said she had gotten the dreaded call from an emergency room and went in to find Uncle Murata laid upon a cold, metal slab. As her heart shattered, he remained still, peaceful, unmoved by her screams that though she thought were silent, rent the air and resulted in her in a heap upon the floor. When she rejoined the conscious, the emergency room doctor explained that Uncle Murata had been dumped at their doors, too many stab wounds for them to keep from discharging his precious life. They asked if she wanted his possessions to which she answered, “and his body as well. He deserved to be buried in love.” So here she was with a crumpled, bloodied note she had found among his things and all the note said was, “for dad.” In the days since she had found it, she had unearthed its meaning and was here to ask that I accompany her to face its writer. Without thinking twice, we left and as I drove, she stared out the window and then the tears came. They tore a wail from the bottom of her soul that I was sure had everything to do with not just the present but some 20-odd years ago. We got to a quiet neighbourhood, the kind that reminds you of the Desperate Housewives. She pointed to a red-brick townhouse, picket fence and all on the left and we sat and bore witness to its occupant go about the rituals of an eager host. Just as he and friends and family sat down to an elaborately laid out dinner, my mother weaved her fingers with mine, I heard her hold her breath and the night air tore with an explosion! Between reacting to it and watching my mother, the scene plays out in slow motion for me. That red-brick townhouse, its occupants and elaborate dinner go up in a whoosh of flames while my mother lets out that held breath. She had found the writer of the note and taken her own pound of flesh.


Hanbei knew the story Jingwei, the fierce bird who flew through the skies above the Chinese oceans. She often wished she had met the beautiful princess who was transformed into the mighty-winged bird who protected her people from the crashing waves and the powerful seas surrounding her homeland. Hanbei regularly looked up into an unfamiliar sky filled with New York skyscrapers, and she wondered if Jingwei knew that she now lived near the Atlantic Ocean and in new country where her family needed the protection of the bright, majestic bird. Dragons moved to the new country years before Hanbei was born, and often it slept quietly until poked to awake and stir the words and actions of those who spit fire and clawed into the air. Because of this, Hanbei’s mother forced her to stay indoors until the dangerous creatures slept again, leaving the city in peace. Deep in her bones, Hanbei, like so many new immigrants, yearned for the open spaces of city parks where trees shaded the pathways and where children safely ran until their legs grew tired.  Her parents did their best to help her feel that she could live beyond the thin walls of her apartment by setting up ‘play dates’ with classmates on the computer. Hanbei took virtual violin lessons and played small pieces with those from the other apartments who sometimes leapt to their balconies to share their musical abilities with the city. Still, Hanbei wished she had wings like Jingwei. She wanted to fly far from the invisible danger that lurked like an approaching storm just outside of her front door.

Hanbei’s parents knew their daughter’s legs were itching to move and her arms aching to fly. Once, on a shopping trip, Hanbei’s father looked frantically up and down the aisles for his daughter’s favorite spaghetti sauce; this was her favorite American food. Surprisingly, during his search, he discovered the very small display of various games in the back corner of the store. Immediately, a pair of red handles and a bright yellow jump rope caught his eyes; he could not stop smiling when he put this great find in his grocery basket. As soon as he was home, he and Hanbei ran down the steps to the small patch of dirt and grass that everyone at the apartments called ‘the garden’. They immediately began to practice jumping in sync while Hanbei’s mom videoed the perfect moment Hanbei’s feet jumped together in rhythm with her father’s, and they flew from the ground and left the earth for a moment. Still, in between laughter and happiness, there was always something hiding behind her parents’ smiles. Hanbei heard them whispering in Chinese, and sometimes in English, about how dangerous this new world was for them.  She knew her parents cried behind the bedroom door, and when her dad stepped out on the balcony or sat alone in the apartment ‘garden’ with his tea, she knew things weighed heavily on his mind. Hanbei felt the most fearful when her mother’s glasses fell off the bathroom counter. Purchased in China just months ago before they crossed oceans, the glasses were frequently taken on and off during moments when her mom felt a headache coming on. Eventually, the screw holding one of the lenses in place fell out and was nowhere to be found. Hanbei and her parents quickly crawled on the floor looking for the one piece that would hold the lens in place. Quite unexpectantly, her mom, not being able to see clearly, accidentally crushed part of the frame of her glasses with her knee when she thought she caught sight of a silver speck and reached out to grab hold of it in the blurry world in which she now found herself.  At the sound of the plastic frame cracking on the tile floor, Hanbei’s mother drew her hands over her eyes and began to cry, softly at first, and then uncontrollably. The three of them huddled on their knees in the bathroom and secretly wished they could all magically be transported back to their homeland. The crying passed when Hanbei’s dad taped the frame of her mother’s glasses so that the lens could stay in place. But at breakfast, the lenses from the broken frame popped out and landed in her mom’s cereal. Everyone laughed at how silly it was to see the lens floating in milk. Both Hanbei and her dad made funny faces and pretended their ears or noses fell into their cereal bowls, and they would wait patiently for Hanbei’s mom to smile as they each fished through their own bowls in search for what they had lost. During one of those times at breakfast, Hanbei looked longingly at her parents who began to question the strange glaring of their daughter’s eyes. Was she was feeling all right? Did she have a fever? Hanbei assured them that she was fine as her parents felt her forehead and held her cheeks in their hands. Hanbei understood why her parents built the safety nest of the apartment; she knew they loved her more than she would ever understand. But she felt something move within her and she needed them to let her go. She did not excuse herself from the table. She did not ask for permission.

Hanbei’s mother quickly jumped for her daughter who was now already down the hallway and near her bedroom. Hanbei’s father jumped up too; he reached out for his wife who wanted to run for their daughter now shut up in her bedroom, door locked. He held her as she cried into his shoulder. Into the curve of his neck, she pleaded for him to let them return to China where it was safer for them all. Quietly in Chinese, he desperately tried to calm her. Didn’t she know she needed to accept their new country, its dragons and monsters lurking? Every country did have them, regardless of whether they seemed more familiar to her in their home country than they were here. Hanbei listened to her parents from the other side of her bedroom door; she wanted to strike out of the apartment, but she could not leave her parents standing alone. She quietly opened her bedroom door and moved down the hallway. Once within reach, she threw her arms around her parents, and from just outside her window, the wings and the cooing of city pigeons could be heard as they swept between the buildings.


“I can’t move!” cried Aria. She was submerged waist deep in a murky swamp of brown, and green water. She’d fallen into a riverbed of squelching mud. With every struggle of movement, she could feel herself sinking and tipping off balance. She had got herself completely lost out in the wilderness of Northern England. All around her was a picturesque woodland filled with pine, oak and silver birch trees. Arms of branches outstretched in a shadowed cluster; little circles of gleaming sunlight shone through in spotlight beams over the fallen autumn leaves that hugged the muddy wood ground. Everywhere she turned there was something moving, something alive. Creatures great and small roamed the grounds; it was all so lush and vibrant, full of life, nature and greenery, but in it all, Aria could only feel great distress. The cold water clung to her legs; her tight jeans felt like they were contracting around her. Aria panted breathlessly; every breath felt like burning fire down her throat. She tried and failed to pull her legs free. Her heartbeat was like a jackhammer, so fast it set her nerves on edge. A white heat enveloped her. The water seemed to be swallowing her in long, slow gulps. Her feet were immersed deep in the sinking squelching mud which seemed to be thickening at her ankles, tightening like shackles; her shoes were the only thing to keep her on balance. The smell around her was so strong it engulfed her in a vile, revolting stench that hung in the air and all over her; it was beyond repulsive, almost as strong as sewage; she could taste in her mouth, so pungent. The sky above was a vibrant white, headachy and muzzy; the bright spherical sun glistened, catching her eyes through the rustling trees. An easterly wind blew in strong gusts, whistling through the woods like an echo; birds followed in glorious song. Aria struggled to stand; her arms flapped like a restless bird, eager to stretch its wings, and the dirty water splashed, soaking her more and more. All she cared about was escaping, being free from this filth. For a moment, she took in her surroundings, under a canopy of coniferous trees, shadowed by their long-winged branches. She’d walked through a field of cows and sheep on a long cross-country pathway; there were only two other people she’d seen on that path, and that was hours ago. She’d taken a slight detour to take pictures of the woodland area she’d found just to the side of an old reservoir. It all went downhill from there. She’d fallen, and tumbled in a sideward roll down a steep hill, and she’d hurt her legs, back and arms in the process. As she stood to her feet, disoriented and bruised, she regained her balance, but as she did, she was suddenly startled by a big black dog staring at her; its bark was fierce and gruff, its teeth sharp like razors, its eyes were white almost ghostlike with the irises red as blood. A scream escaped her as she picked up her pace, and she fled, limping further into the woodland not knowing where she was going; luck wasn’t on her side as she fell again, only this time she fell face down into a stretch of murky, stinky water, and as she came back up, she panted fearfully. She looked back up to where she’d been; the dog stood there on the embankment, shadowed under a silver birch. Its eyes glared at her, void of any emotion. She stared back, trembling; the black dog blinked, and her heartbeat accelerated, but then it suddenly turned and fled back the way it came from. Aria breathed in deeply, and then she began to wade through the river; after a few moments, she noticed she was gradually sinking deeper and deeper; she stopped and stood still. Aria shouted out for help, but after almost an hour nobody had heard her, nobody had come. She could feel herself sinking deeper. Aria had dropped her bag on her run; there was no way of contacting anybody. She felt hidden from the world, with nobody around for miles to hear her cries. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she wept. She wondered what to do, and which way could she turn. All she wanted was to escape and be back home in the peace and safety of her house. This wasn’t how her day was supposed to go. She craved an adventure, just a simple walk would satisfy, but this was beyond what she could possibly imagine, and she’d hurtled into treacherous grounds with no means of help or any civilization in sight. “Somebody! Anybody, please help me!” Aria screamed out in distress. Her voice grew hoarse the more she shouted, but she continued until she couldn’t anymore; her throat was dry and scratchy, and she desperately longed for clean water to quench her thirst. Silent tears fell, soaking her dirty cheeks, as she stood there, alone and afraid. A single thrush swept through the air and landed gently on a small hook-shaped branch. Its pleasant whistle sang for a few moments, and Aria stared at the creature, listening intently, but paralysed to move. She closed her eyes, taking in the beautiful song, and she gradually found herself calming, until her heartbeat had eased to a steady rhythm. She opened her eyes, and caught a glimpse of something under the thrushes’ claw. She squinted curiously at it, and saw it was a crumpled piece of paper; she could only make out one letter, a capital ‘T.’ The thrush stayed with her for over an hour. Aria was cold and shivering, and constantly looking out for help, but nobody came. She stared at the thrush again. A sudden sense of boldness came upon her, and she tried to take a single step through the swampy waters; as she did, she tumbled into the water. It felt like there were dozens of arms gripping at her leg pulling her under. She couldn’t see a thing as she sank under the dirty water; her eyes stung, and all around her was darkness. Aria kicked frantically and managed to come up for air; she gasped and choked on the disgusting water. She managed to regain her balance, and she stood with her legs a good width apart to maintain her upright stance. Only her head was visible as she poked out of the river. She squinted her eyes; the raw sting made her bite back a hiss. When she was able to open her eyes completely, everything ahead was a blur; she angled her body to her right, and as she did, a waft of wind blew at her face. She turned again, and was met by the thrush; it perched itself on a small twig that bobbed up on the water beside her. Aria breathed shakily. Sunlight suddenly peered out from behind the whiteness of the sky; its radiance shone through the cluster of trees, and adorned a shimmer of a bright rainbow in front of Aria hovering above the water. “What have you got there for me?” Aria whispered down to the thrush, as she stared at its closed claw holding the paper. The thrush tilted its head to one side, listening to her voice. Slowly, Aria raised her right arm out of the muddy river; the brown water rolled off her arm, streaming like a waterfall, and it fell in small droplets onto the colourful sight that now had spread wider onto the waters. Her hand lightly caressed the birds wing; the thrush didn’t appear to be frightened or welcoming of her advances, it was simply just content with sitting there. With a steady hand, she reached for the paper, curiously peeking at the ‘T’; she saw a curve which followed on the next letter, and for some reason her interest in the paper had caused her for that moment to forget where she was, and that she was currently submerged in water, trapped and sinking. Finally, the thrush acknowledged her presence; hopping from the twig, it landed on her finger, with the paper still woven through its claw. She grasped hold of the paper with her cold fingers, and just as she was about to pull it free, the thrush took off into the air leaving Aria alone again; the feeling of hopelessness washed over her once more. “Don’t go,” Aria cried. The sky darkened. Chills ran through her body. In all her life, she’d never felt more isolated than she did in this moment; fear and dread took hold of her. Occasionally the horrible feeling of isolation had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming peace, but for this moment she felt afraid. Aria wiggled her legs and feet until the numbness turned to a dull tingle, and she could feel the mud caked around her whole body. A tiny ripple bubbled under her chin. Aria raised her head, and her eyes widened; two golden silhouettes of harps shone out from the radiant sun encircled with small bright white spheres. She thought for a second she might be dreaming, or even hallucinating, but it was real, she could feel it. A calming warmth came upon her once again, only this time it felt like it was being poured over her and she couldn’t escape it, not that she wanted to. Every sensation, every heightened emotion dwindled down to nothing, as she felt this calmness envelope her. With her head raised to the sky, her eyes fell closed in a still surrender. Aria moved one leg through the clumps of slimy mud that had become stuck around her; she was almost cemented in the river like a statue. As she went to move her other leg, she nearly lost her balance again. She kept her eyes closed, completely calm in the situation, the opposite of when she started; now she wasn’t a slave to her fear. A sudden feeling of boldness and courage had taken over her fears. She dragged her legs across one by one, almost like ploughing through four feet of snow. She continued this action with all the strength inside pushing through her; it didn’t even feel like she was the one doing it. A sweet whistle hummed from above, and Aria’s eyes flitted open to see the same thrush return; it circled around her in a large halo. Her attention immediately went to its claw where she could no longer see the piece of paper. It soared in a wide spiral before finally landing on a floating log beside her. She took her eyes away for one moment as the black snarling dog reappeared on the hillside. She became distracted, and as she was, she began to sink again. The water sucked her under like a vacuum. She held tightly to her breath. This time when she opened her eyes, she didn’t feel the sharp sting from the waters’ impurities; instead, the water was clear, and the surface above was entirely visible. Aria saw the dancing trees, and the bright white sky, and then she saw a flock of birds which flew in a synchronised ‘V’ formation; they came straight overhead like a huge arrow pointing towards something. With every second it got harder and harder to hold on. Aria kicked her legs, frantically trying to reach the surface, but the mud just wouldn’t let her go. She desperately needed to breathe. The wind swept two trees right and left, creating a divide where the suns’ radiance shone through. Aria’s eyes fell closed, and as they did, the water began to disperse, until all around her it gurgled, vibrating across her body. She gasped for air as the water drained; she looked on in awestruck wonder as all of the swampy riverbed dried up into the soil. Then it came to her, that one word she was searching for, ‘Trust.’ Trust; I can!


The council chambers feel small as I pace the length of the podium. I was unprepared for the revelation that came this morning, as a rider knocked on my cabin door, bearing a letter with the personal seal of the late Queen…of my true Mother. I look to the chambers high rafters, seeking a sign from above. My whole life has been a lie, from my earliest memories until this day. I draw the letter from my tunic pocket, reading the words once more… I pray this letter is never read, for my greatest secret should be free to live a life of freedom, a life unburdened by the strict regulations that accompany my fate, and that of YOUR older brother. I have come to learn that you've been given the name of Grayson. I believe that name would have suited you fine had I been able to keep you, but I could not risk the possibility of a challenge to Rubens' ascent to the throne. I'm sorry, I haven't made the truth clear to you Grayson, but you are my son, and if you are reading this letter, then you will soon be crowned as the next King of Prenwill. When I became pregnant with you, I shut myself away from the people, hiding the fact that I was with a second child, even from your father, my husband King Gregory. Upon your birth, I made the decision to send you away, into hiding, for fear that Gregory, holding to his old ways, would slay you to preserve Rubens claim as the crowned Prince. It was all I could think of to save you, and as I've learned your name, I've also learned that you are a blissful child. Do you recall when we met, how you hid behind Perditas skirt until I offered you a sweet? I hope you do, I hope you hold it as a fond memory. The truth is, I do recall the memory. Queen Nidia Priibus had given me my first taste of the sweet cinnamon bread, and it's been my favorite ever since. The memory brings both joy and sorrow now, as this letter tells that it was the first time I met my real mother. I can't tell you how much I wanted to take you in my arms, to declare to the world that this sweet, handsome little boy was mine, my youngest son, and to dote on you so. I can't ask your forgiveness for my cruelty, but I must ensure that you know that I did this out of love. Now, for the reason that you are reading this letter. Your brother Ruben has passed, and has no heir of his own to succeed him. You must now have your entire life uprooted in order to take his place as King, and lead our people. I have left instructions with my personal Knight Albrand, that he is to keep this letter on him at all times, along with three other letters. One to be given to the council with the revelation of your existence and lineage, and instructions of what must come to pass with Rubens' passing. The second letter is to be given to Gregory, should he also be alive at the time of this exchange. He may seem cold and distant at first, but once he understands that you are of his blood, then he will welcome you with open arms. Open arms? King Gregory has never been known for being welcoming, or even cordial. He hails from a barbaric tribe to the west, one that often murders any second born males to ensure the order of inheritance. I've met him before as well, but it's more a stinging memory in comparison to the time I met Queen Nidia. I was just becoming a man, being put to work in the castle forge, when he came to inspect the special weapon he was having crafted for Ruben. Oh, that sword was beautiful, crafted to perfection by my mentor, the double-edged blade slightly curved to be wielded from atop a horse. It's rather ironic that Ruben wasn't very skilled at swordsmanship, or at riding. The way I hear it, he had an accident while training, falling on that beautiful sword and killing himself. When King Gregory inspected the sword, he desired to test the blade, which my mentor had anticipated and had a fresh boar carcass at hand. It scared me to tears when he ordered his knights to hold me for him. King Gregory would have cleaved me in two had Queen Nidia not arrived and reasoned him into keeping me around, telling him to carve the boar, that a good smith was hard to train, and they had already invested much time in my tutelage. She saved my life that day. The final letter will be given to you just before you are crowned by both the council and Gregory. I pray that you receive it well, and that you remember that throughout your life, I have watched you become a kind, strong man, and that I love you, and wish I could have made that love known before. This is too much, why are my eyes tearing up? I have to shut my eyes, hold back the tears, I can't let anyone see me like this, like I'm weak. This letter is important to me, it's the only piece of her that I have, so I need to keep it safe. The door opens, allowing King Gregory to enter the chamber. "Hello Grayson." Gregory shuts the door behind himself before awkwardly strolling up to Grayson. "I remember you. I'm… I'm sorry for that day. There are many things I feel sorry for now." Gregory lifts his own letter in his hand, indicating that Nidias words have affected him. "I…" he takes a deep breath, clearly fighting back his own tears. Without warning the older man rushes forward, pulling Grayson into a large hug. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry Nidia feared the worst from me. I'm sorry for the years you grew without knowing me as your father. I'm sorry you didn't have the life and love of your brother. There are too many things my old ways have stolen from me, and this should not have been one of them!" Gregory holds Grayson tightly, sobbing into his shoulder. "It's fine sir. I grew with everything I needed." Grayson wraps his hands around the older man's body, hugging his father for the first time. "No boy, no. It wasn't right, and I know I'm to blame for it. Nidia kept you in her heart, she kept you near enough to watch over, but free of our traditions, our stupid traditions that kept you from us." Gregory breaks the embrace to pull a new letter from his coat. "This is Nidias final letter. It's for you, to be read before I announce you as my new heir." Tears stain the old man's face. Grayson takes the new letter, running his fingers over the intact seal. "Do you have an idea of what she might have written here?" "Part of me prays that she tells you to run. That you and I should pack our horses up and live in the woods as a father and son. Free of the edicts of this land, of this castle. But no, I know not what she wishes you to know." "May I have a moment to read it through?" "Yes, yes. Go ahead, I'll keep to myself, but I won't let you out of my sight, never again, my son." Grayson nods, feeling a bit uneasy with Gregory's exuberant display of emotion. He turns his back as he breaks the wax seal, unfolding his Mother's final words to him. Grayson. These are my final words to you: CHANGE THIS WORLD FOR THE BETTER!! Grayson, you have grown up without the responsibilities and constraints that come with being a member of the royal family. You know what it means to live a life that is truly your own, but fate calls you to take up a new role. I can think of no one better to bring an end to the stigmas that plague our country. The first thing I expect you to change is a rule unknown to those who are not part of the royal family, or the council. I know I said that Gregory would have wanted to kill you as a baby to protect Rubens' inheritance, but the truth is that the royal family must sacrifice any secondary males born to them. I say sacrifice because that is what it feels like, that we sacrifice the life of the child to some unknown deity that demands it. I don't know if you may have children of your own just yet, but I can assure you that there is no greater pain than to lose your child, either by death, or by giving them away in hopes they have a better life. No one should endure that pain, which brings me to the people. I have seen far too many children dying due to famine or war, and my heart weeps for them and their parents. Please, having lived amongst the people, not above them, you should have a greater understanding of what might be necessary. I know this is a heavy burden I am tasking you with, but please, do your best. There are so many other wrongs in our world, too many to list, but I believe in you, and I believe that you can be the catalyst for change for our people. Remember my son, I love you, and I am proud of you. Grayson runs his hand through his hair. How can she ask me to do that? Change is not easy to enact, especially trying to change things that have been in place for what seems like forever. "What did she say to you, my son?" "She has asked that I change the world. How can I do so? If we really want to change the world, then the old ways must die, to make room for the new." "Well, as King, you will have the power to change things." "How? None before me have had the power to change what they inherited." "I… I don't know. Nidia simply asked you to change the world? No other direction was given?" "She said to change this world for the better. To make this world better for the people." Grayson feels a spark of an idea run through his mind. "How was the kingdom of Prenwill established?" "The people rose up against an older monarchy that served an ancient, wicked deity. When your ancestor slayed that king and his archmage, the connection to the deity ended. That was when your ancestor was crowned as King, and Prenwill was formed." "What about your tribe? How did they gather and come to be?" "My ancestors became nomadic to escape the torment of that previous kingdom, they used our people as sacrifices." "I think I have an idea of how to change the world." "How?" "I must remain anonymous. We cannot declare me to be your heir. That is how we will force the change." "Grayson, couldn't you better cause change by becoming King? You could force the changes, have the army enforce it." "No, for change to truly come to pass, the people must want it. The people must desire to change the world, of their own volition, to change fate. They must do so of their own free will."


There was my bridge, my darling bridge, and all was right with the world. Just one step and my feet were on the wooden planks, my hands holding on to the iron railing on each side. Bliss. I turned upstream and lifted my chin. The summer breeze blew gently onto my face. It was also caressing my bare arms. Closing my eyes with a smile I breathed in. My nostrils were cooled by the air rising up from the water below me. I reached up, unclasped my long, curly hair from its clip and shook it free. I knew it was going to be a nice day. I was twenty five with my whole life ahead of me.

I ran to the other side of the bridge and scrambled down the grassy bank. I kicked off my sandals and dipped my toes in the water. Divine. Carefully, I stood up and walked into the middle of the stream. It made my heart sing, even though my favourite yellow dress, with daisies on, would be a sodden mess when I returned. I walked away from the bridge for a while not intending to go too far. That was always my thought but I never stuck to it. The pebbles on the bottom were slippery but I loved the sensation of my legs moving through the water, which was about three feet deep. Eventually I turned and the bridge was nearly out of sight. Again. No matter. I had been  enjoying myself too much to notice. I spotted Mr Kingfisher on a low branch. He was a regular visitor, with his stunning, metallic looking blue wings and his bright orange chest. Such a beautiful bird. I'd made friends with him and he wasn't at all disturbed by me being there. I even talked to him most days.

"Hey Mr Kingfisher! Caught any fish today?" He must have been in a bad mood as he ignored me and flew off. I enjoyed hearing my own voice in this setting. There was an echo if you called out loud enough and most times I did, because I loved it. "Coo ee," and sure enough my words flew back to me as if by magic. I could feel that I wasn't alone. There were tiny fish in the stream. Flashes of silver would go past me and I would bend down and cup my hands trying to catch them but I had never succeeded. Mr Kingfisher did, but only when I was safely back on the bridge and out of his territory. I could understand that. Walking back I deliberately sloshed the water with my hands. This created interesting ripples in the stream which caught the sunlight but had on occasion drenched me if I'd done it a bit too enthusiastically! Sitting on the grass I put my sandals back on and made my way carefully back up the bank. I didn't want mud on my dress which, in the building heat, would soon dry out. The sun had gone in for a moment but it would soon be back. Before long I was on the bridge again and I could see Mr Kingfisher darting in and out of the stream so quickly that he was but a blue blur in the distance. The water would bubble and break over the glossy stones at the stream's edge and I felt totally calm. The moss on the banks held my attention for a while. I was fascinated by the shapes and textures. There was even the odd mushroom growing. Then the sun came out again and suddenly the water became like a living thing beneath my feet as it twinkled and shone, reflecting the sun's rays. Butterflies fluttered by. A line from a little girl I hadn't seen for years. It was silly but it made me smile. I felt so alive here. Such a happy scene to anyone who might be watching although there was never anyone there and it truthfully was a happy scene, but I was only happy here. The rest of the time happiness was just a distant, fuzzy memory from long ago.

The birds were chattering. I felt the warmth on my back from the sun as it went down. Time seemed to move faster here. The water was glinting as if it was smiling at me in these last rays of the sun. The rich reds and opulent oranges of the sunset made me gasp, but it was time to go. How many more visits like this would there be? I tried to block that question out but it was getting harder. Over the other side of the bridge the trees at the water's edge caught my eye, the way some of the branches had grown heavy and now dipped down into the water. Heaviness was something I identified with. It surrounded my heart, the heart that had turned to stone. Why? That was an easy question to answer. If my heart was stone it couldn't feel, couldn't become enraged. A stone heart was safe. It protected me. It left me able to live my life, such as it was, but that was rubbish and I knew it. The heart of stone didn't protect me and it certainly didn't stop the feelings. It just squashed them, leaving them to fester, eat me alive. At times my chest became so tight it bubbled much like the water below me.

I'd had to learn to bury my feelings from a young age, but even to a master like me it was getting harder and harder being unable to speak out, to be the real me, whoever she was. So much of my life hadn't been what I wanted it to be. The face I showed the world was a sham, always smiling and accepting of my situation. I put it on every morning and took it off every night.

I grabbed the railing tight and breathed deeply, trying to concentrate on the wonderful flowery smell of this beautiful spot hoping that might keep me here a while longer. When all else failed this had always been my last resort, a way to calm the rage inside me but lately every breath just reinforced the stone as it hardened at all the broken places. I dreaded the day when it might crack open leaving me vulnerable, having to exist in an outside world I had no idea how to live in. My anger was becoming too great to keep inside. Who would I be without the stone around my heart? Daisy, the little girl inside me, cried with fear at the very idea of it. Her entire world had ceased to evolve so many years ago she didn't know how to live as an adult. She needed me for that and I'd mothered her for far too long. It was exhausting and seemed so pointless. She'd never grow up. I'd delayed as much as I could but now it was time to go back to the real world where all the people around me saw me as static. It was as if I could manifest myself as being in one place whilst at the same time being miles away, just as I was now, alone on the bridge.

In truth I was still lying in bed in my room at the care home. I had not been able to speak, or move from the neck down since I came out of my year long coma. The doctors had told my parents that my life expectancy was twenty five at most. I was seventy six years old. I'd beaten the odds, but with pneumonia I was ready to go, hoping I'd visit my bridge in heaven. Maybe I'd finally meet Daisy, my younger self. My life had been stolen. Seven years old when I was hit by the speeding car. Just one step in the road.


HARRY GET OUT YOUR CANE. Ginny sat, once again, in her therapist's office. She wondered if she’d ever be done with this woman, yet in the same moment looked upon her with deep gratitude. This person had stood beside her for almost two decades. She stored an encyclopedia of details about Gin’s life and knew things and connections to things that few others did. Gin could be quite a blabbermouth and though she told people much, she hid even more. Her words often became a shield that protected her from those she felt most vulnerable. The woman who sat in front of her knew exactly the myriad of ways Gin tried to twist and squirm in her attempts to get off an invisible hook. With one sentence, she could reel Ginny in to a standstill. In this brief moment of respite the therapist's words then had a chance to penetrate a rather thickened outer shell. And so...the therapist’s words, “You deserve a relationship in which the person is equally invested in you!!” sent Ginny into a tailspin. This woman rarely spoke with exclamation marks and Ginny was taken aback by the directness of her observation. The words zapped her like an electrical charge. She had little to say, her tongue felt tied. The thrill of the shock from her words, sent Ginny out of the office, into Luke's waiting truck. The pair headed off into the wild blue horizon. More precisely, home to Gin’s garden. Ginny had great hopes for getting this man into her garden. He certainly had been generous in planting seeds, which, watered by her imagination, produced erotic scene after erotic scene. Most of Luke’s suggestions culminated with him generously spreading his seed across her already lush landscape. She held onto a vague dream where this fantasy would become reality. It didn't happen. As the couple sat and visited, Gin watched Luke retreat into his ivory tower and as hard as she tugged and enticed, he obstinately refused to budge. As Luke coolly spelt out his position, a lovely white feather drifted down and settled at Ginny's feet. She smiled, glanced up into the clouds and...admitted defeat. She was tired of fighting, of always seeking the best in others so that they would then see that reflection through her eyes. She'd begun to see what an arrogant, pretentious act this was. Yes, she was capable of great insights into human nature and had the ability to scour and dig past places few dared to explore. However, having the ability to do something and then ACTING upon that ability, were two different things. What happened most often for Gin was that the person ended up resenting her intrusion and, rightfully so. Her 'marks' would at first be amazed at her abilities to sleuth out hidden secrets and then once they realized the full scope of her powers, would turn and run. Most often they grabbed whatever weapon available to cut the insidious ties that had begun to bind them to this rather remarkable woman. Gin's default position then became a weighty tome of resentments. She would work very hard to stab herself in her heart, in her belly, in her side, over and over again, crying out, "Poor me, why am I so hard done by?"

She had finally begun to learn the lesson set out for her by a power so much greater than herself. She entered the safety of her apartment, alone, no Luke in hand.

She ate some yogurt and fruit, drank water and retired to her bed for a rest after an emotionally charged morning of activity. Ginny promptly fell asleep….

Lilith woke up panting.

She slipped a hand down to her throbbing Netherlands and immediately exploded in a fiery burst of rippling waves of pleasure. She sighed, knowing that her twin, Ginny was soon going to grab her, chastise her severely and then…well, Gin could throw a wet blanket over any fire Lilith started. Ginny could be a bloody pain in the neck.

Her prissy assed morals and ‘good’ Catholic girl indoctrination often put a crimp in Lilith’s lifestyle. Sure enough, Lilith felt that irksome sibling’s hand snake out and grab her by the butt.

The gentle pinch held promises of a more painful prodding.

Lilith’s still rippling orgasm began to settle down and out of the ashes, arose…a beautiful fiery Phoenix. This mythical creature born again and again, silently admonished Lilith with a gentle reminder - “Love should never be a weakness or a place of harm, It should stand rather as a pillar of strength, offering a soft refuge in a turbulent storm.”

Lilith had been engaged in a rather steamy affair with a guy that had caught her twin’s attention. Luke wasn’t quite sure what he had trapped, but sensed that Gin’s rather sedate, prissy assed exterior was but a facade for a hidden beast that roamed wild and free.

He would have been wise to pay heed to Jim’s warning in the song 'Riders on the Storm'… “There's a killer on the road, his brain is squirming like a toad.” "Into this world Luke had been born, like a dog without a bone." Luke was a musician and easily got caught up in the passion of rhythm. For it was in those brief moments of time that he escaped the prison of his brain and flowed down rhythmically into the rest of his body.

He felt hostage to the urges that prodded him to entice, tease and manipulatively nudge Ginny into places that horrified her. She would admonish him severely for his ‘inappropriate’ behaviour and in the same breath, ponder the size of his penis. He’d been rather blatant in his attempts to hook her interest in that organ. One of his observations, “Yes, I fared well when we moved from Imperial to metric, I went from 7 to 17” was an offhand enticement that may have crossed an invisible line. What he didn’t quite realize was that his teasing had aroused Lilith. This creature had been with Ginny for many years. She had sensed her presence many times throughout her life and though she had vague recollections as to Lilith's birth, chose instead to ignore and sublimate this rather troublesome companion. When Lilith came out to play, Ginny’s response was to run and hide, hoping that her twin would grow tired of the game or, get bored and leave.

Ginny had allies. Her mother for one. Trixie sensed that her daughter housed some mysterious stranger and she did her best to squelch this rather irksome guest. She ran herd on a child that could be quiet, obedient and rather angelic in one breath and in the next, turn into an unrecognizable feral cat. Trixie did her best to tame this being but came to realize she was fighting a losing battle.

Had she been of a generation that understood certain signs in a child, she might have guessed that what happened to her oldest child, at the age of three, at the hands of an inquisitive, hormone driven teenage boy needed to have been addressed.

Sadly it took Ginny over 40 years to face the inner issue that had coloured and tainted every moment of her life. Her memory of being carried through the deep forest, was as fresh as the day it happened. Her family was very close to another family who had several children, some older than Gin and some younger. Gin's favourite was the 13 year old son. A hormonally driven teenage boy who was quite indulgent with her. The two families had gone camping. Ginny at 3 adored her 13 year old hero and followed him around like a little puppy. The families joked about their relationship and no one seemed to think it anymore than a little girl’s crush. What happened to end this innocent arrangement, left an indelible scar on Ginny's psyche. The betrayal that happened twisted and jaded her sexual experiences for most of her adult life. Ginny distinctly remembered sitting on the boy's shoulder as he carried her through the forest on their way to the beach. What anyone observing, even carefully, would never have guessed was that while he ‘protectively’ cupped her behind as they walked, he managed to wiggle two fingers into the deepest recesses of Ginny’s body. Her memory? The boy she adored, touching her in a way she found incomprehensible. Her body, however, perfectly comprehended what was being done and…responded. It was at this moment Lilith was born. As Ginny retreated further and further into the sky, Lilith settled deeper and deeper into the body they shared.

Lilith loved the sensations produced as the boy stroked her clitoris and slid his finger further and further into her vagina. Ginny? Not so much. She remembered somehow watching what was being done to her body and she flew high up into the sky. It was many years later, as an adult in group therapy that she was finally able to look at what had happened that day in the forest. It took many more years, two failed marriages, an affair with a woman and years of recovery from a disease which frequently took the lives of those who hosted this unwanted guest. Into her sixties, Ginny finally began to trust men…tentatively. She was still suspicious and not quite ready to risk being stabbed yet again. She'd carefully tested the water a few times but usually found a myriad of excuses as to why her dreams could not be fulfilled. Luke, for her, was a great puzzlement. Their relationship, as it developed, brought more and more confusion for Gin. And as always, when Ginny was confused, especially about sexual matters, Lilith came to the rescue and dealt with the problem at hand. With Luke, she was ruthless. She took his provocative teasing and carried it to a level that shocked even a rather jaded musician who had been immersed in a world of “sex drugs and rock’n’roll.”

He may have been able to handle Ginny, but not Lilith. She was a hard one to control and when she came out to play, well, no guarantees on what could happen. Lilith was wild, crazy and totally unpredictable. She flew with whatever wind blew her way and when stuck in a doldrum, found many ways to entertain herself and her fellow shipmates. Life was rarely dull when Lilith was in charge! Lilith highly approved of Luke. She smacked her lips, thought to herself “what a delectable morsel this one appeared to be.” Her biggest problem was how to ditch Ginny and her annoying habit of trying to duck out of ways to have ‘fun’. Luke, Ginny and Lilith began spending many hours texting one another. Luke may have believed it was Ginny he was communicating with, when in fact, it was mostly Lilith. She cast out her lures and Luke bit…till he realized that something strange was happening and that he was caught up in an adventure that, at best, was headed for a train wreck. Luke was actually a pretty cool headed guy. His attention to this woman he had unsuspectingly snagged was like a soothing balm to a deep wound. Someplace inside him recognized a troubled soul and he reached out as best he could from his own well of experience, strength and hopes. The odd part was that his own personal issues meshed very well with this woman he had engaged in extremely scintillating provocative texting. Eventually he seemed to come to his senses and sent Gin the following message:

“ I'm trying to focus more on what's really best for me, and less on what I think is best for the world. 🌝I have to be honest.... You really need to know that I have no intention of becoming involved with anyone, in any type of romantic endeavors for the foreseeable future.

I'm now happy and free...but yet very much wanting to continue with a program of recovery I'm thankful that you've decided to continue looking for "that person" in your life. My friendship with you is not in any way contingent on whether you should find 'that partner.”

The message was loud and clear to Gin. Most importantly, it got through to Lilith! Ginny knew this was a man of integrity and honour and one who was doing his utmost to live a life of peace and serenity. She reigned Lilith in, hard. She doubled up on her vigilance over her twin and made every effort possible to accept the situation as it was and at the same time demand and expect accountability. She knew in her heart that even Lilith was not so cruel and selfish as to continue with behaviours that caused harm to herself, Ginny and those who crossed their paths.

One of Gin’s decisions was to cease texting, not just with Luke but with those that used this format as a way of avoiding…much. She suffered a small amount of grief, but knew her love for this man was deep enough and pure enough to overcome whatever trouble Lilith may have stirred up. She was very grateful for the catalytic charge he’d detonated within the deepest well of her being. Over the course of the next week, much fell into place for Ginny. Lilith decided to behave, for the most part, and life became…very good. Ginny pondered her therapist's words and the years of counseling that led up to her advice. She knew without doubt that Luke had set a wonderful example for her and her gratitude spilled out into total acceptance of the fact that indeed, “She deserved a relationship in which the person was equally invested in her!!” She began looking beyond the limitations imposed by her previous experiences and saw…a sea of possibilities. She smiled at the images that swam across her imagination. She turned on her music just as Joni started singing “Carey”. Ginny had always heard 'Carey' as 'Harry' and in her mind, that was who Joni was singing about. The wind was in from Africa and images of elegant men with canes began to blow across the corners of her imagination. The next song in the iTunes shuffle just happened to be an old Skeeter Davis song, "Gonna Get Along Without You Now". Ginny laughed. Her Higher Power had a very droll sense of humour. As Skeeter finished up, Eric Clapton's old band, Cream began playing. Ginny gasped as the message sunk in... She was FREE!


So I really wasn't supposed to tell you this, and you have to keep this a secret. Because if she finds out she will hang both of us... but you deserve to know. It's about you too. The story is about me and my girl. And it starts with a phone call. "Come on please" she giggles loudly, "I'll literally do anything". "Anything huh?" I tease. "Okay I change my mind don't come" she teases back. "I'll be there tomorrow babe don't worry" I say suppressing a giggle of my own. "And at 1 we can go on our study date?" She asks. "Yes sweetie don't worry".

That was basically the dumbest decision of my life. Because that day, I lost her, and I'll never forgive myself for it.

The day starts off mundane with me driving 3 hours to go to where my girl lives. Long distance relationships aren't hard... when you're so in love you drive 6 hours every weekend. They were the best days of my life truly. It's a shame that I threw it all away.

I pick her up and we go get coffee. I'll be honest I've never liked her town. Everyone knew everyone and the small life wasn't for me. But she can't drive so I dealt with it. We take our coffee and drink it on our way to the library. We never study there, but she insisted we do. Why I ever agreed is beyond me. But she looked so keen I decided no harm could come. Again, I was wrong.

We go into the library and it's beautiful. The walls and walls of bookshelves look surreal. And I am instantly mesmerized by the sheer beauty of it all. "Wow" I let out with the breath I was holding in.

And a very very very loud "shhhhhhhhh" comes from 4 different directions. Thing is, the library was empty. No horror movie marathon would have warned me of what's to come. Oh wait, every single horror movie did. But we still went to the nearest table and sat side by side. I glanced at her and noticed she was just staring at the wall. And she was fiddling with her rings. That surprised me. She was nervous... Very nervous. Again RED FLAG. But anyways, I trusted her with my life, so I ignored my anxious thoughts. My third mistake.

It's 3 pm already and I get up to get a book. The history section was the target. Me, being a history major, I was always at peace there. Knowing I had no idea what I was taking in college was honestly an amazing feeling. No sarcasm ofcourse... While I was there I noticed that really no one was in the library. And it didn't give me that "oooo we're alone" vibe. More of a "shit were alone" vibe. But I made my way to the history section in silence and searched for a book. Then I made my 4th mistake. I did not see a single book I recognized, so instead of being suspicious, I took a random one. Why that was a mistake is quite obvious, or so it became.

I go back to my table and hold her hand. She smiles at me and rests her head on my shoulder. "Are you okay?" I ask. "SHHHHHHHHH" I hear from multiple directions once more. This time much louder. And I'm freaked out alot more now. Because honestly what was happening? I stand up and I shout "who's there?" "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" they say louder. My girl looks terrified. "I'm sorry" she mouths to me, "it's the only way". And she sprints out the door.

And that's all I can remember for God knows how many hours. I wake in a very dark room. No idea where I am. I decide not to speak because that seems to be what angered the library gods, or whoever is in charge here. Suddenly, a man walks in. He's wearing a black suit and tie, very expensive shoes and watch, and the ugliest mask I have ever seen. It's as if those kids from Doctor Who and those horror masks had a deformed child. "You or the one you love?". Huh? What do you mean? "You or the one you love?" He repeats. Well obviously me, she just left me here to die, I say in my head as one does when they're in a library trap. "Your choice has been made, you have chosen yourself over her. Reason being: revenge."

What the fu- how did he even hear me? "We hear it all" he whispers. Honestly why'd he whisper it, that was creepy. "Bring me your loved one within 48 hours or you shall die" he says much louder.

Then I find myself outside the library door. I make my way to my car and drive over to her house. She's obviously surprised to see me. "Dude how did you get here?" she asks. "What are you talking about you left me there and I just looked around then came here." I reply "quite strange really but you've always been wack in the head". "No no no it didn't work I'm going to die" she cries out. "Baby I think you might actually be wack in the head" I laugh. What she did next did not make any sense to me, but she literally took a knife and stabbed herself in the chest. What the fuck man, you betrayed me because of some library dope and now you're risking us both? Selfish.

After trying my best to deal with her wound. I go to the library with her limp body and dump it on the floor. "Hey dude can you please take her as my sacrifice, I'd really like to leave" I shout. And then, the weirdest shit happened. I wake up in my car, with the most beautiful girl next to me. "Who are you?" I ask. "I'm your new girlfriend" she replies "let's go home".

And so we do. Maybe that was the best day of my life, I can never really tell. But kids, your mother sure is beautiful.


TW: alcohol dependency I won’t be able to do that today, I’m sorry.

That’s what she was thinking to herself over and over as she lay in bed that morning.

Apologies, but I won’t be able to do that today.

She stretched out her feet from under the covers and clicked the joints in her ankles. Her body expanded for a moment in satisfaction and then flattened itself out again. The ache around her temples wasn’t so bad this time.

I won’t do that today. I’m not sorry. I don’t apologise.

Her eyes fixated on the ceiling as the shape of the shadows strewn across it gradually shifted. The sun was creeping in behind the blinds and there were long, rectangular blots of darkness striping her ivory painted walls. For a moment it looked like a prison.

I’m a prisoner.

I’m a prisoner trapped inside my own discontent.

She rolled over and let the flickers of sunlight warm her face. In that moment the brightness might have tricked someone into thinking it was summer, she thought.

There was no use setting an alarm in the mornings these days. Her body seemed to know what was coming. Sleeping in late by mistake would not be an issue but more of a blessing. If she were to miss her train then she would get into trouble, trouble that might lead to action. Action that might change her situation. It might even make her feel like she is worth more than the numbers under her name. Worth more than just the secrets she can keep.

She could hear the sound of people on the street outside. It was usually quiet at this time of morning but some people took shortcuts down her road. Most of the other people were probably still sleeping in their homes.

I’m not fucking doing that today.

She let out a yawn and flopped her arms either side of her onto the covers. Then, with a sigh, she plucked herself from the warm bed. She hoisted the blinds, turning her prison into a light box brimming with potential for the day ahead.

--

Seventeen people were in her train carriage that morning. Two she didn’t recognise, but every other face she had seen many times before. One man was on a phone call, like he was most mornings. He was loud and got progressively louder when the train passed through a weak reception area.

She was sat facing two other women, one was looking out of the window with her headphones in. She gets off at the same stop. The other woman was asleep. Closing your eyes on the morning train, even for a second, was a bad idea, she thought. If you liked where you were going, that is.

Maybe I should close my eyes then.

She thought about what she would say when she sat down at her desk. She had to say good morning because it would be rude not to. She had to make niceties with them even though she did not want to. As soon as she took one step into that building, she would conceal her true self. Her eyes would glaze over. Her lips would purse. Her walk would stiffen.

The train pulled up to her stop and she watched as the woman with the headphones gently tapped the sleeping woman next to her. She jolted upright, smiled and shuffled out into the aisle.

Sorry you had to wake up.

--

The building was a short walk from the station. She quite liked this part of the journey. It was an adequate amount of time for her to gather herself before she began her day. This part of the city had less of a rush about it. She could walk at a pace which didn’t feel like she was getting in the way of anyone behind her.

Part of the reason she had put up with what she had for so long was due to the location of where she worked. It gave her some disconnect from the bustle that consumed so many other parts of her life.

The building loomed overhead and she braced herself for what was to come that day. It was a tall building and not unpleasant to look at from the outside. What went on inside told a different story. From the outside you couldn’t smell the lingering stench of a used bottle. You couldn’t hear the clinking of two small glasses crammed inside the desk drawer.

--

She watched from her desk as everyone went about their morning routine. Coffee machines were filling the quiet with their familiar sound. Cups were sliding in and out of the plastic hold, one after another. No one paid much attention to her before they had indulged in their morning caffeine intake. The second for those who had ample time to drink one before they left home.

Then she saw her. Jenny. Walking out of her office, dressed in bright turquoise with heavy black heels. She swept her hair back as she made her way down the corridor, smiling at anyone that fell into her line of sight. Being the boss of a business like this one would wear anyone down. Luckily for her, it didn’t show in how she dressed.

Just in what she did.

The two of them clocked eyes from across the main printing area. Jenny’s eyes lit up and she let out a knowing smile, one that could be identified even from all the way across the room. That look she gave was all too familiar.

I’m not doing that. Today I’m not doing that.

She smiled back at her boss and turned around to her laptop. It was 9:02. It was too early for that look.

--

Shortly before lunch, she started to prepare herself. She had somehow got through the morning without having to go in to Jenny’s office to speak to her. On a busy day, she would have been in and out of there at least three times already by this time.

She wanted to avoid having the conversation all together. Dip out for lunch. Try and time it so she got back into the office after everyone else.

But if you don’t have the conversation now you won’t ever have it.

She was half way out of her chair when she heard her name called out alongside a loud noise. The sound of metal on glass. She turned around to see Jenny opening the door. On her way to open it, she had probably knocked into the blinds, causing one of them to fall down, covering the office from view.

That’s convenient.

She braved a smile as she made eye contact with her boss. There was that look again, this time accompanied by a gesture that was welcoming her inside.

Her body froze up with a tension she had grown to ignore. Today it was unavoidable.

She wanted the words to come out. She had rehearsed them in her head. They shouldn’t be hard to say.

Today. I’m. Not. Doing. That.

Nothing. She loosened her body and uncovered a smile that she didn’t think was there. Then she walked into Jenny’s office. --

It started a year ago on her first day.

She was learning how to get used to everything, as the systems they used at this place were a slight upgrade from her last job. The people in her team were friendly, if a little disinterested with welcoming another new person. She had got the impression that there had been a fair few people before her who hadn’t lasted that long.

Just before the end of the day, Jenny had called her into her office to go over everything. It was a lot of general chit-chat, a bit of eye-rolling about certain software complexities and it ended with an offering.

Jenny placed two glasses on the desk before her. She pulled out a big, dark-green bottle masking the brown-coloured spirit inside. Before she could object, Jenny was pouring her a glass. She wanted to decline, to tell Jenny that she wasn’t drinking anymore. That she had stopped when she found herself having a glass every night before she went to bed. When she crashed her sister’s car into a lamppost on a late-night run to the shop.

She held the glass and they toasted to a successful day.

Maybe one is fine.

But it turned out to be more than one. What started as a celebratory drink with Jenny, the bright and bubbly, successful business woman, ended up becoming a weekly drink. Every Friday Jenny would call her in, they would toast to the week, good or bad. Jenny began to find out more and more about her life, who she was dating, what she thought about everyone else in the office.

Then the Friday drinks became daily, and after not too long Jenny was calling her into the office during lunch.

She didn’t know how to say no. She had told Jenny things that a boss should not know. But Jenny still didn’t know about the car crash, or about the mornings she would wake up wishing she could remember what she had said the night before. Jenny didn’t know that it made her feel like a prisoner.

--

She closed the office door behind her as Jenny muttered something under her breath about the mess. It was a mess. Stained, sticky rings circled the wooden desk and piles of paper with curled edges littered the sofa. The plant atop the filing cabinet was withered and dead, like the smell lingering from the empty coffee mugs.

Jenny asked her how her day was going so far.

Today I –

Before she could answer, Jenny started talking about how ugly the receptionist’s hair was today. She was wearing a new colour that she had had done the day before. Jenny made a comparison to a rusted saw that ‘you might find in the back of the garden shed’.

She was uncapping the freshly bought bottle, probably picked up on the way in that morning.

You were in the shop buying alcohol before I had even left my bed.

As the drink slid into the glass, the rich and robust smell of toxicity filled the air. She looked at the level rising, the measurement increasing with the amount of time that would be needed to finish it.

She wanted to put her hand out and cover the bottle. She wanted to push the glass off of the table. She didn’t want it but she didn’t know how to say she didn’t.

I am not. I’m –

The room had gone silent. She hadn’t responded to a single word Jenny had said since she had entered the office. She hadn’t even sat down. Now the silence had crept up on her. Jenny was staring at her.

Right then there was so much that needed to be said. There was a silence that needed to be filled with small talk, with drinking and toasting to unnecessary achievements or commiserations. But suddenly she saw in Jenny’s face all she needed to make her act. To make her walk into the trouble.

Jenny sat, head back and slightly angled to show a look of confusion. Her whole body was illuminated by the midday sun outside, the rays of orange lighting up her whole complexion. So bright, so piercing in their revelations. As her boss stared on in disbelief that her companion was blankly ignoring everything she said, long rectangular shapes darkened and striped her whole body.

In that exact moment, Jenny; the powerful, vibrant boss clutching her glass of room temperature scotch looked like a prisoner. Just like the ceiling in her bedroom this morning.

Jenny was behind bars, her own bars that she put up herself. She couldn’t get out because her fellow inmate was keeping her going, enabling her problem, extending her sentence.

This time she knew what she needed to say. There was no moment before then that was more perfect.

“I’m not doing that today.

“I’m not doing that with you today or any day. This isn’t normal behaviour. We are prisoners to it, Jenny. There needs to be a point where we say ‘enough’.

Jenny sat in silence, the drink inside the glass still swirling from being poured mere seconds before.

“I actually only agreed to come in here today because I wanted to tell you that I am leaving. This place is not good for me. I wake up every day and feel like I’m already sliding down the neck of that horrible bottle before I have even brushed my teeth”.

There was silence in the room again except for the faint sound of people outside the building, heading to have lunch. She could feel herself moving with them. She could sense her feet taking light strides with everyone else unconsumed by Jenny’s poisonous habit. Her poisonous habit.

She had been treading the dark waters of this room for so long she was close to drowning. Now she could feel herself beginning to swim.

She breathed out a deep sigh that felt like it had drained the tension away. She felt warm, in her mind and in her body. She felt like she had broken out of jail and, from the look in Jenny’s eyes as she backed out of her office door, no one was going to stop her.


The pastor took a deep breath. Here in the office, waiting to give her sermon, Vida felt confident. She knew that that confidence would fade step by step as she walked towards the podium.

Today was February 14th. It was St Valentine's day. The original St Valentine was a priest and a doctor circa 270 ad. Under Emperor Claudius Gothicas II he became a martyr, suffering persecution along with all the other Christians the Romans could lay their hands on.

There were varying rumors of what he was known for. Some sources claim that St Valentine sent a letter to his jailer's daughter (whom he had cured of her blindness), and signed it from your Valentine. Other sources claim he defied the emperor's orders to unite couples in marriage to save them from being sent to war. Either way, it didn’t matter. What had started as a holy day to venerate a Christian martyr who died in the service of the Lord Jesus Christ had turned into an abomination. As usual, humanity had turned a sacred event into a commercial occasion. The real St Valentine had become obscured in history. He had been replaced by cheap chocolates and fading flowers, this by men who wanted to open a woman's legs, with or without the sacrament of marriage. The women, of course, seemed more than happy to accept their trinkets and oblige the men by allowing themselves to be used and debased. Not only did the masses debase themselves, but they also spit on God’s holy people, his saints, and his sacrosanct word. Vida had had enough of people's disrespectful ways. Half the alleged Christian congregation was fornicating with the other half. None of these people were married to each. Some were even married to others. It was disgraceful and shameful.

1 couple had walked into the church holding hands with each other, making no secret of where they had spent the night. The male member of the couple had only separated from his wife of 15 years the month prior.

This was not the kind of church that was smiled upon by God in the Bible. In fact, the Bible was very clear, especially in the book of Revelations about where these people sat in God’s plan. The other pastors seemed content to let people ‘go with the flow'. They encouraged people to do what felt right. They said as long as they repented every week, that sin was ok. The pastors didn’t say it in so many words, but it was the implied message. As long as people donated their money and the numbers of churchgoers stayed above a certain limit, the other pastors didn’t seem to care as to guiding the souls along the right path, from sin to righteousness in God’s sight. They only brought up the passages from the Bible that encouraged or threatened people to part with their money and attend church. Never did any of the verses that could convict that pastors themselves, of what she felt to be their shoddy shepherding, were used.

Vida’s hard line on sin didn’t come from a spot-free past. Her hardline on sin came from a jaded past. Vida had suffered firsthand because she had committed sin after sin. It didn’t matter that the original motivation for the sin had not come from her. Master manipulators had forced her into sin and she had lost blessing after blessing. By the time she had been forced into deep contemplation, she had lost everything and her most pressing question had been:

why? Over the last several years of her life, she had spent much time with God, not only acknowledging her sin, where she was responsible, and where she wasn’t but making the appropriate adjustments in her behavior so that she did not continue to sin. It hadn’t been easy, being in so much isolation, but it had been necessary. It was the only way Jesus and God had been able to shift the direction of her life from where physical failings were taking her and make her into the spiritual success that God and Jesus wanted for her and themselves. It was a bigger picture that God was looking at. It was simple to see how her personal testimony of God’s intervention could save others from the same mistakes she had made. It is one thing when you are unconscious of the sin, but another thing when you are aware of the sin. Then you make the decision to either refrain from sin or continue to sin. As long as one sin, she knew from experience, she would never receive God’s blessings. What Vida needed in her life was an abundance of miracles and blessings, considering the heavy spiritual attack she was always under from Satan and his ‘chattel’. This was to be her first real St Valentine's day ever. Not one of the men that had used and abused her, for their sexual gratification or as something to hit when they couldn’t control themselves, had she ever received a Valentine's day gift.

To be able to preach to the congregation about the authentic St Valentine, what the real meaning of Valentine's day is, and about her experience with sexual sin blocking her from the blessings of God, was the Lord’s gift of love unto her.

Though Vida was a new pastor, she understood the eternal soul very well. Vida took the responsibility of helping others onto the right path very serious. It was important to her to steer others away from the snares and traps of the Devil. Today was her day to prove to the other pastors, the congregation and whoever else in the world was watching where she stood on certain subjects. God, silent, but not absent, always watching, already knew of the miraculous transformation from a sinner that had taken place within her own soul.

Today, through her personal testimony, if it was God’s will, perhaps another soul would turn from their wicked ways, unto seeking Jesus with their own soul, rather than with lip service. Either way, it didn’t matter. The outer room was silent now and Vida heard herself being introduced through the speakers.

It was time to set matters straight and souls on the right path.