I park my car and sit for a few minutes alone to gather myself. I hold my head upon the steering wheel; this was not the moment I had in mind when I thought about reaching out to the family. I contemplate how life has a way of taking unexpected twists and turns when one least expects them or even wants them. I say a short prayer before heading to the church. I soon enter through two large old brown wooden doors that greet me at the entrance. Rows of flowers line both sides of the vestibule, along with candles and weeping people standing six feet apart. The morning light of the day shines across the room in silence; only a single candle flickers from the altar to brighten the lifesize crucifix hanging above from the front.

I am early; I make my way to the empty altar, the gentlewoman below the crucifix rests and does not stir. She lays alone in peace on the other side of the plexiglass barricade. I stand at a distance to give my last respects. Her hair of silver crowns her small quiet body. A pleasant goodbye smile slumbers across her silent red lips; no more to speak my name or kiss my cheek. She will no longer give hugs to greet me or to say farewell.

She lays in a pink floral print dress that is fresh and crisp.  I return to sit in the back row facing the commotion of spectators as they line up six feet apart to bib her one last farewell. The fragrance of incense roams the church to offer a spiritual homage to God and the woman who gave her life to him and her family.

Childhood memories long-forgotten stir my emotions; loving tears fill my eyes. I think of the many times she opens her home to my family when we have none. Her words of kindness play before me in bittersweet thoughts.

Her handmade tortillas with dripping butter, and beans, bite the hunger from my door many times.

She often has little to share, but she always shares what she has. A lady with a heart like hers is hard to find in this world. More so, one who never asks for anything in return. Although her own family is large, she never turns us away. Her famous words still ring in my ears. "Kimmy, adds some more water to the beans and make a few more tortillas. We have family here for dinner." As I sit in the back of the church alone, I make sure my mask is secure tight about my face. I move to the far end, close to the aisle by the wall. With much hesitation, I attend the church service. My hands clutch and tremble with prayer as I drop to my knees. The sad thought of my life being devoid of her smiles and hugs forever here on earth hits me. My heart fills with pain as it breaks for her. It beats in a slow cadence as I offer my silent prayerful whispers to heaven. I wonder how do I apologize for a lifetime of neglect runs the emptiness of my soul. How do I even begin to tell her how much she means to me?

I take a breath as I lower my head, and the simple words begin to flow from my lips. They fill with such an energy of love and devotion, to my surprise. I know they will reach heaven from this holy place around me. That young child within speaks with the love that surrounds my being. Family ties seem anew with love, that fills the room and all the people that have gathered. "Oh, my dear Aunt Mary, thank you for your kindness and the generosity you gave my family. If angels walk this earth? You are indeed one. You know I love you and always will be grateful you crossed my journey here on earth."

My Aunt Mary was the last link to my childhood pass. It was less than a week ago, she and I enjoy a simple meal of cookies and tea in her suite at Peaceful Pines. My cousin Kimmy also came to visit that day. Whom, I had not seen since my mother's funeral last spring.

We talk and share memories of long ago along with smiles and hugs. They also share many fond memories of my father that I have long forgotten. Perhaps it was the loss of my mother that finally urged me to visit.

Before I leave, I think of the many wasted years that have gone past. I promise my aunt and Kimmy that we will get together soon. We make plans to get together for the upcoming holidays. In anticipation of our future get-together, my aunt promises to share one of her famous bread pudding recipes. The following week, her daughter, Kimmy, calls to notify me that my Aunt Mary is in a coma and dying from cancer. Where has all the time gone? The many years I missed knowing her and her family as an adult are gone forever. Yet, here I sit alone, thinking about her one more time. I reflect on how to make it up to her. I gather myself off my knees and sit back in my seat. I stand and walk over to my cousin Kimmy and the rest of my Aunt Mary's family across the aisle. Kimmy and I look at each other with masked faces. Our teary eyes smile; we know we are family. Since my Aunt Mary's funeral, I keep in monthly contact with my three cousins. We have gone out to dinner on a few occasions. Even though our lives have taken different paths, we still share old stories from our childhood and often share our plans. I know my Aunt Mary is gone, but her memory lives on in our hearts. With the current pandemic still at hand, a family is so much more precious.


It’s gone. Where the heck is it? He’s going to kill me. It’s gone. He’s gonna kill me. I woke up at 6:30 this morning and turned off my alarm. It was there then. Then I went to the bathroom, wiped myself, but I checked before I flushed, and it was there. Then, I went downstairs in my Mickey Mouse PJs (my nieces and nephews love these), took out the pots, sprayed them with butter, and cooked. The ring was there then. I poured coffee, took out the bacon, pancakes, and syrup, and ate. If it fell on the plate or in the sink, it would have gone clank, but there was no clank. I put my plate down for Izzy (our Golden Retriever, put the ring was there after that, and then I refilled his food bowl and water bowl. He, Izzy, licked up the syrup and I picked up the plate, put it in the dishwasher, and went upstairs.

Then, I already bought a special container for my night stand for my ring, so I put it in there. I went for my shower, dried myself off, put on the ring, pet Izzy, Izzy kissed me and I kissed Izzy and I drove myself to work and it was gone. Maybe when I shift gears it fell into the area between the shift and the seat, but I put the flashlight on my phone on both sides of the gear shift and it was nowhere to be found. Where is it? He’s gonna kill me.

We had the air-conditioning on in the house, so all the windows were shut, so it couldn’t’ve been stolen and if I dropped it, I would have heard the clunk. It doesn’t make sense. My fiancé’s on vacation in the Alps with his parents. They wanted me to come, but work wouldn’t let me off. I’m a real-estate agent. At least I know I lost it before I left for work or I would’ve had driveways and houses galore to go through. So, I meet my clients for coffee at Starbucks and we talk about how much they want to spend on their house, the type of neighborhood they want to live in, and they’re looking to start a family soon and their biggest concern is the quality of the schools, the size of the house, and the property tax. I look at the woman’s finger and she has on a two-karat, similar to mine, but not mine. Then, we start touring. I show them four houses. Then, I go home to walk Izzy.

Izzy’s usually asleep on his dog bed when I get home, but he’s not this time. For some reason, when I get home this time, his stomach is pulsing, so I get him outside, so he’ll puke out there and not on the carpet. He tries to puke, but nothing comes out. He tinkles but when he tries to go BM, he’s constipated: weird. I take him back in though and give him his Meaty and he’s happy again. Also, there’s an old wives tale that says if I give a dog yam, it’ll make‘em regular, so I give him some leftover yam.

I’m about to drive to work and he calls.

“Hi, Honey, how are you?” I kind’a want to tell him and kind’a don’t want to tell him. “Good. Wazzup?” “The weathers a little rough up here, so I’ll have to stay a few more days.” Thank God. I hope I find his ring by then. “That’s ok. I miss you, Baby.” “I miss you, too.” I think about it, though. “Honey, there’s something I gotta tell you,” I say. “Yea? What? What’s wrong? ” ”I lost your ring.” There’s a pregnant pause. “You what?” “I . . .” “Go back to every place you’ve been. Everywhere. Call up the city of Denver if you have to, to see if you flushed it down the drain,” he yelled. “I will. I’m sorry, Barry. I’ll find it. I promise.” “Call me when you do.” Then we said our goodbyes without ‘I love yous’ and hung up. I went back through my morning in my head while heading back to work and had a soft cry. I met the clients back at the coffee shop and they asked if I was ok and I told them; “Yes, I’m fine” and we toured more houses. The clients got out their iPhones and took pictures of the houses, but I made a lot of mistakes. I confused the prices of the houses, forgot where the keys for the houses were, and almost fell down the stairs in one of the houses. The clients smiled, though, and didn’t get angry. He might break up with me. It looked like a $10,000.00 ring. The time flied the way it does when I’m nervous. I asked the clients if they had any specific questions about the houses and they said they didn’t and asked to look at more houses the next day. I drive home and my body is shaking like someone with Parkinson’s Disease. I go home and see Izzy and I give him a hug and cry loud and hard. My whole future: Me living in his house, us getting married and us having babies, the car which he lent me money for, gone, because of my mistake. Darn it. But, after five minutes, I prepare the Mise en place for dinner and get Izzy’s leash and a poop bag. Maybe this time, with the yam, he’ll go. Before I open the door, I see my reflection: my face is red from crying and there are bags under my eyes. Little ones, but I still see them. Then, we exit and I close the door behind us.

    He pees in his usual spot (the oak tree on the corner) and he smells the plain in our backyard and he finds his perfect spot to poop. I pick it up, as usual, and go back inside. Izzy’s happy and I give him a treat. I then go to the side of the house where the garbage can is, to throw the poop out, but I feel hard things in his poop.  So, I open up the poop, separate the poop, and I see an ordinary rock. Darn it. But, as I dig deeper into the poop, I see a small sparkle, and it’s there. The ring’s there. A sigh of relief comes out of me and I take the poop and the pop bag inside. I put the stop in the sink, fill it with soap and water, and clean the ring off. I’m ready to call my fiancé.


“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Alan kept repeating to himself as he gazed out across Biscayne Bay from his twentieth-floor balcony. The shadows of the high-rise condominiums that line the Miami shoreline were beginning to stretch out across the bay as the sun slowly settled behind him. He took another sip of his gin and tonic and winced as it was much more bitter than he expected. The clouds out over the ocean were slowly turning from white to a soft tangerine as the last rays of the setting sun slowly settled on the opposite horizon. Alan’s lips again mouthed the words, “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” Today was his sixty-sixth birthday, and in five days, it would be the first anniversary of Colleen’s death. They had planned this retirement for years. And once their three children had scattered to the winds, there was no reason to stay in Central Ohio. Alan and Colleen’s kids were grown and gone, with lives of their own, raising their families, chasing their dreams – looking forward, not looking back to Columbus. That was the past.  That was where they were from, not where they were going. With the house now empty, the Midwest winters seemed colder.  And South Florida seemed more and more inviting. Linda and her mom often discussed them moving to Florida, and the more they talked about it, the more Linda encouraged her parents to make the move. It wasn’t that she wanted them to be further away. It was just that she wanted her parents to be happy and to start enjoying that third chapter of their married life together; to live out their golden years with people their own age and without the pressure and responsibility of raising a family. For almost a year, things were perfect. Both Alan and Colleen retired from their respective jobs and never looked back; it was a clean break for both. They sold the only house their kids had ever known, sent the dog to live with Linda, and followed the moving van south out of town to Florida. Over the next nine months, everything fell into place. Colleen made many friends both within and outside the condo – friends to play bridge with, friends in the book club, and girlfriends to simply share coffee and gossip. Alan was just as lucky; the condo had a men’s group that organized fishing trips, poker nights, football watching parties, and most importantly – golf. Alan loved golf but never seemed to have the time for it back in Ohio. Here he had nothing but time, and anytime was a good time to play golf. The plan was to spend the next twenty years together here in Miami.  They had the financial resources to last that long. Then after Alan’s passing, twenty years seemed reasonable; Colleen would regroup with the kids and probably move somewhere close to Linda for the rest of her life. This understanding may have seemed a little morbid, but that was the plan, and they were just being realistic. Unfortunately, fate didn’t see it that way. Thirteen months after settling into their perfect new life, Colleen was struck by a massive heart attack as she was playing bridge at a friend’s house. She was not feeling all that well on that fateful morning, but it was bridge club, and she didn’t want to disappoint her friends by staying home. Besides, it was just indigestion, and it would pass once she got into the game. The EMS were frantically summoned at 10:14 that morning. Her friends desperately applied CPR until the paramedics arrived, but two hours later, Colleen was pronounced dead at University of Miami Hospital. It was not supposed to happen this way. The light of Alan’s life had suddenly and unexpectedly gone out. Alan took another sip of his gin and tonic. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten as a full moon broke the ocean’s surface on the distant horizon. It was the twelfth full moon Alan had watched take the night sky since Colleen’s death. And for the twelfth time in as many months, he sat alone on his balcony silently staring out to sea. As Alan quietly watched the moon make its appearance in the night sky, an unusually bright star slowly rose just below it. “It’s my birthday, and it wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he kept silently repeating. Suddenly he was jarred from his stupor by the sound of a loud knock at the door. It was either his friend Sam, who had promised to take him out and get him drunk for his birthday.  Or it was the pizza kid delivering the pizza he had ordered. He set his glass down and slowly walked to the door. As he opened the door, to his surprise, it was neither. Well, it was a person holding a pizza. But it wasn’t the usual Hispanic kid with tattoos covering both arms and baggy pants that barely clung to his bony hips. It was a beautiful young woman. She had steel blue eyes like Colleen’s, but any other similarities ended there. She had dark brunette hair almost to her waist; Colleen was blonde and never wore it longer than shoulder length. The girl had a goddess-like Florida tan; Colleen was fair-skinned and burned easily. And instead of baggy shorts and South Coast Pizza t-shirt, the usual kid always wore; she was wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian print sundress. Colleen wore sundresses, but for some reason, never Hawaiian prints. Alan just stared. “Pizza,” the girl said with a huge smile. “You ordered a pizza, didn’t you?” “Uh – yes, I ordered a pizza.  Where’s the tattoo-kid?” Alan finally managed to stutter. Deferring his question with a question of her own, she politely answered, “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” “Uh, yes,” he said, still searching for words. “And how did you know it was my birthday?” “Let’s just say a little birdie told me,” she said as she skirted past him and headed for the kitchen. Surprised that she had just slid around him and entered his apartment without an invitation, Alan quickly closed the door and turned to follow her. “That little birdie wouldn’t be named Sam, would he?” “Sam?  I don’t think I know any birdies named Sam,” she responded with a flirtatious tone to her voice as she set the pizza on the kitchen counter and opened the grocery bag she was also carrying. Alan hadn’t previously noticed the bag, and to his surprise, she pulled out several salads, olives, some sort of Italian dessert, and a bottle of wine, all of which she neatly arranged on the counter. “I didn’t order any of that,” he protested. “Oh, it’s okay Alan, it’s your birthday,” she paused, and with an innocent little grin, added. “May I call you Alan?” He felt his temper flare, but she was just so damn cute – and that smile. “Okay,” he stuttered. “And what’s your name?” “Stella,” she said as she spun on the balls of her feet, and standing on tiptoes, opened kitchen cabinets to get out plates, serving bowls and wine glasses. Alan couldn’t help but notice she was getting down two of everything. “Are you staying for dinner?” he inquired, still not sure if he should be upset or not. “Of course, it’s your birthday. You don’t want to spend it eating alone, do you?” Stella responded with a wink of her eye. Befuddled and a little annoyed, Alan started to snap – but she was so damn cute. “Okay, okay you’re staying for dinner, I get it. But who sent you?” She had found Colleen’s pizza paddle and slid the still-hot pizza onto it. “Well Alan, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you. And besides, what difference does it make? It’s your birthday and none of your family or friends wants you to be alone, and more importantly, I don’t want you to be alone either.” Alan settled on to a nearby barstool and watched in amazement as she transferred the olives and salads to serving bowls, set the table, and even lit candles. “Mind if I get my drink?” he asked. “Oh no, of course not – but hurry back. Dinner is almost ready.” As he returned from the balcony, he pushed the sliding glass doors all the way open to let in the sea breeze and pulled back the curtains to allow for the full view of the moonrise over Miami. He started to plop down in his usual chair, but noticed she was patiently standing next to hers. Luckily, he realized in the nick of time she was waiting for him to hold the chair for her, which he quickly did with a smile. “Stella, this is beautiful – thank you,” he said sincerely as he settled into his chair. She poured the wine and they clinked glasses. “Many people love you Alan, and they don’t want you sitting up here night after night by yourself,” she said with a sparkle in her eyes. “Stella, it wasn’t supposed to be this way…” he said before she cut him off. “I know Alan,” she said, interrupting him. “But you’re here tonight and I’m here tonight. It’s a beautiful evening, the moon is rising – and Alan, your pizza is getting cold. So, let’s not talk about what was supposed to happen. Let’s talk about here and now.” And over the next hour, Alan talked like he hadn’t spoken in over a year, and Stella listened intently to every word. He also ate like he hadn’t eaten since Colleen’s passing. And as the moon slowly rose above their view as they sat at the dining room table, every morsel of pizza, salads, and dessert were consumed, along with the entire bottle of wine. Finally, pushing back from the table, happier than he’d been all year, he said, “Let me help you with those dishes.” “Okay, as long as you’ll sit and have another drink with me on the balcony when we’re done,” she said with a smile. “It’s a deal, Stella – I can’t thank you enough for the wonderful evening. Thank you.” It seemed like old times as they washed and put away the dishes. Alan opened another bottle of wine as Stella arranged two chaises side by side on the balcony. From the balcony, the moon was visible again as they settled next to each other and gazed out into the moonlit sky. The moon was so full and bright, almost no stars were visible, except for that one brilliant star that seemed to be following just south of the moon as it rose higher and higher over Biscayne Bay. “They say love is a tender thing, so why do I find it so painful?” Alan sighed. “Love is forever Alan, and pain always fades in the face of love,” Stella answered. She reached over and laid her hand on Alan’s. He responded by interlocking his fingers with hers. Staring out into the night sky, Alan spoke first.  “Stella, do you know what I miss the most?” “Yes,” she said, “I actually do know. You miss the companionship of another person to share your life with. You miss your partner – you miss your wife.” Alan slowly took a long sip of wine. This girl couldn’t be more than twenty-five years old, he thought. His daughter was older than that. How could she know these things? And who in the hell gave her the right to say them. He had never laid eyes on her before this evening, and yet she seemed to know him better than he knew himself. Who was she? But the softness of her hand and the scent of her body next to his kept him from asking. The food, the wine, and the moonlight were all taking their effect. Alan was more comfortable, more at ease – more vulnerable than he had been since Colleen’s death. “Alan,” Stella asked. “I am also your birthday present. I’m sure you realized that by now.” “What do you mean?” Alan responded, though he actually knew what she meant. “I’m spending the night,” she said lovingly. There was a long silence. “Stella, I don’t know who sent you, and I guess at the moment, I don’t really care. I’m honored and flattered, but you can’t spend the night.” There was another pause, “I mean, we couldn’t do anything. I’m sixty-six years old – I’m not the man you are expecting.  I’m not the man you deserve.” She squeezed his hand and leaned over towards him. “You are all the man I need, and besides, I still have one more gift for you.” Alan hadn’t previously noticed, but she had a small coin purse in her hand that she placed between them and snapped open. Inside was a tiny pill bottle with two blue tablets. She took one tablet from the bottle and held it out for him to take. “Stella, I can’t.  I take nitrates for my heart, and a pill like that could kill me.” “Alan, I would never do anything to hurt you. This is a light dose, and it won’t interfere with your medications,” she said in a knowing and caring voice. “Am I healthy enough for sex?” he jokingly retorted, paraphrasing a popular TV commercial and holding the pill to his lips. “You are tonight, my lover,” she softly responded as she slipped from her lounge chair and onto his – straddling his body at his waist. Sitting atop him, she offered him the Sirens’ glass of wine. He paused, pressed the pill between his lips, and sipped the wine until the tablet was gone from his mouth. She took the wine glass from him and placed it gently on the table beside them. He sighed in resignation as he knew this might be the last night of his life, but he was powerless to say no to her. Smiling, she stood, still straddling him, and slid backward until her feet cleared his lounge chair. Now standing facing him, she slipped her hands up under her sundress and pulled her panties to her knees. She then wiggled them to her ankles and kicked them to the corner of the balcony. Alan realized she was now only wearing one last piece of clothing, the sundress. She had kicked off her shoes while they were doing the dishes, and there was no way she could have been wearing a bra as there were no tell-tail straps or lines. With an alluring smile, she walked forward and resumed her previous position sitting atop his lap. As she slowly started unbuttoning his shirt, Alan could already feel the effect of the little blue pill. His face was suddenly flush, his eyesight began to blur slightly, and for the first time in over a year, he felt a definite tingle in his groin and the beginnings of that long-lost firmness of his youth. Stella could also feel it, the unmistakable tightening of Alan’s pants as her bare crotch pressed into his zipper. She gave Alan a knowing smile of approval and a wink of anticipation, as Alan responded with his own smile of accomplishment, but with a slight hint of apprehension and fear. After pushing his shirt aside, she took another long sip of wine before bringing her lips to his. To soothe the blurring, Alan closed his eyes and soaked in the sweetness of her kiss that lovingly lingered on his lips. His head swirled with memories of so many kisses so many years ago. Stella’s touch and taste, and scent instantly brought back memories of his first date with Colleen. All the feelings of loss and loneliness vanished as Stella’s soft lips left his and started a long and luxurious journey across his face, around his neck, and ever so slowly down his chest to his belt line. There she sat up, unbuttoned his pants, and lowered his zipper. She then stood, and straddling the lounge chair, pushed his pants down and over his feet that dangled off the end of the chaise. As she returned to her previous position kneeling just below his waist, she slowly settled on to Alan’s lap and began their sensuous journey to mutual gratification. As the drug had dulled Alan’s normal sensitivity, their voyage to his climatic release lasted longer than he was accustomed to. But he was in utter heavenly bliss and didn’t mind if it took forever. The warm sea breezes of the Miami evening enveloped them both and carried Alan to an imaginary tropical paradise of his youth. And as Stella so sensuously moved her hips to the sound of a distant Samba band, she was inevitably compelled to cool herself by pulling her last remaining piece of clothing up and over her head before tossing it to the edge of the balcony. She now sat naked atop Alan’s waist, with her dark hair swinging back and forth to the distant rhythm. When Alan’s moment of fulfillment finally came, it was a total release, unlike anything he had experienced in years. It was like college; it was like the first time he had taken Colleen to bed over forty years ago. It was like they were both kids again. Alan’s lover collapsed onto his chest, and as he wrapped his arms around her to hold her tight, she responded with like affection. Their bodies seemed to fit so perfectly together. Her scent, her touch, the warmth of her body just seemed so natural. Alan drifted off for a moment into a dream-like sleep. Upon reopening his eyes, he gazed into his lover’s face – it wasn’t Stella at all, it was Colleen! “Colleen!” he stuttered. “Yes,” she calmly replied. “It was you – it was you all along.” “Yes, my darling, it was me.” “But – but where did you come from?” he said with his voice choked with emotion. “From that star,” she answered. “That star just south of the moon.” “Colleen – that star, that was you?” he managed to say as his eyes filled with tears. “Yes, my precious, that was me,” she reassured him. “That star just south of the moon,” he repeated as he struggled to search the sky for the star. “It’s gone,” he said after frantically scanning the night sky. “It’s gone; where did it go?” “I’m right here Alan, and I’m not leaving you again,” she whispered. There was a long pause. “Where am I Colleen – am I dead?” he asked. “No, my beloved, we’re together. Together forever, together someplace just south of the moon.”


Here she is again. That annoying woman. Cannot get a wink of sleep. Every time I turn around she is dusting or vacuuming, or taking down curtains and running the washing machine. When I hired her to do just some light housekeeping, I did not realize my day would begin at the crack of dawn.    She is middle-aged and she had excellent references, but even so, enough is enough. I climbed out of bed and stomped down the stairs. "Really Mrs. Spitnik, you think you could tone it down just a little?" It's the middle of the night."

She paused in her vacuming, without turning it off, and looked pointedly at the clock. I looked up at the clock on the wall above the refrigerator, and it was indeed eight o'clock in the a.m.     I growled something unintelligible, she couldn't hear me anyway over the roar of the vacuum cleaner, and stomped my way back upstairs praying for a little more shut eye before I actually had to get up. God should be so good to me.

    I hate pro-active people. They're so annoying. They're always trying to improve something. Doesn't anyone ever just leave anything alone anymore? Does everything have to be improved? Does it occur to any of them, we might not like the improvement? What then? We're stuck with it, aren't we? Unless I am in serious danger of sticking my head under the couch and inhaling a dust ball, couldn't we leave the vacuuming for some time other than sunup? Who would know? Who would care? Certainly not me. And I'm actually paying for this level of annoyance. Hard to believe I realize, but that is just the way it goes. No help for the weary.     I tried going back to sleep, just a few more minutes, but of course I wasn't able to. I shuffled to the bathroom and began my morning routine. Everything there was the same, thank God. No one had improved my toothbrush and toothpaste. My deodorant, or my hair brush. I am huge on routine. I am a creature of habit. I detest changes. Constant changes bespeak a dissatisfied person. I am a very satisfied person. I take pride in that. Everyone else has a lot to learn in my opinion.

    Finishing, I dressed for work and walked downstairs for the second time that morning. I didn't have time for coffee or toast, my usual breakfast.

    At approximately eight fifty I closed and locked the door, and began the ten minute walk to my office. Something I do Monday through Friday, every week of my life. Routine is good for the soul. It is comforting. People should try that. This world would be a much happier place if people would just learn to leave everything alone. If it's not bothering you, why bother it?     I reached in my pocket for my key ring before I remembered, we no longer have keys. Now we have key cards. Of course, we had to improve on the plain old key didn't we? Keys were no longer good enough. Now we need key cards. Ridiculous. See what I mean?

     This company used to have a Doorman named George. George and I had very little relationship, other than George knowing I was an employee at Wilson Grover & Carlisle. Once we got key cards, and a new system for entering the building, George was no longer necessary.

    Can you imagine that? I do not consider replacing a person with a computerized system, of any kind to be any type of progress, but apparently no one cares what I think. Although everyone would be better off if they did. I am into my senior years so I have seen a lot and I know a lot, and people would profit heavily from my experience and knowledge. Not that anyone ever asks me. It's their loss...though...really.

      I heard the door click shut behind me, as I walked toward the elevator and stepped inside. I punched the lighted icon for the third floor, as was my habit, and waited patiently. When the doors opened I headed straight for my office. I greet no one. One's place of employment is not a social occasion, and should not be treated as such. Ridiculous. And a waste of everybody's time.

    I take my lunch in the cafeteria every day, but I eat alone. I have absolutely no desire to engage in idle office gossip. I am proud to say I am above all that.     Everyone knows where I stand on such matters. I work hard and I am good at my job. Been with this company for years. I do not bounce from job to job looking for something better. I am a satisfied person with a stable life. Other people should try that. At approximately 4:45 my supervisor knocked on my door, which I keep closed. He opened the door and poked his head inside. ,,,,"Mind if I come in Paul?" he asked.

"Of course" I replied. James Davison is a good man. He does not bother me and I do not bother him. Uninvited to, he pulled out one of the two chairs across from my desk and sat down. I was irritated. A long visit. What I was thinking must have shown on my face because James smiled with just one side of his mouth lifting and said, "This will not take very long." I merely nodded and sat waiting patiently.     "It has been brought to my attention" he began and coughed lightly, and momentarily covered his mouth with his hand. He lowered his hand and continued. "It has been brought to my attention that you are too set in your ways and are very resistant to change. This makes you difficult to work with. Disgreeable. I am thinking perhaps this company is not the right place for you, Paul. Perhaps another job might be more to your liking."

    I stared at James. "Your presence is no longer required here" he said rising. 'Please clean out your desk." With that he walked out the door and closed it quietly behind himself.

    I stared into space for just a moment and thought 'Great. I have spent years surrounded by these people and not one of them has learned a thing worth knowing. I will take my expertise somewhere else where I will be held in high esteem. Any employer would be lucky to have me. I despise the changes that are coming. Change is positively dogging my every footstep. It is like a shadow that follows me everywhere. More faithful I would guess, than my actual shadow. Change be damned!' I'll change if and when I want to.' I smiled to myself, and I began opening the doors in my desk.


Going Native            Although it was the first week of September, the official college classes had not begun for the 38 study abroad students from the Buckeye State. Alcalá de Henares was but a train ride from the medieval city of Toledo, but 4,000 long, heartbreaking miles from its sister city in Ohio.            Although the experienced program director Jimena could attempt to cover her grays, her years of leading the program allowed her to detect the aroma of homesickness with the acuity of a truffle-searching Lagotto Romagnolo.            “Roberto,” Jimena called out to the familiar graduate student in her finely-tuned accented English, “I want you to take this girl under your wings.”            “What do you mean?”            “She’s homesick,” Jimena explained while adding an exaggerated guttural quality to the letter H. “She’s already talking about going back home. You’ve got to convince her to stay.”            Roberto had learned the ropes two years earlier as a green undergraduate student under the tutelage of this same wise program director. Of course, back in the States, his friends called him Robby, but in the Iberian Peninsula he had transformed into a sort of native alter ego—Roberto. Robby had been an insecure bumpkin in the fall of 1988, however, by the time he left Spain that following spring, he had soaked up the language, the culture, and the habits of any young Spaniard. His language became peppered with the best Spanish curse words and he could cluck his tongue to nonverbally reject another’s proposition as if he had been born in Madrid.            Brooke stood out as a foreigner from the instant she exited the TWA flight at Barajas Airport. Her pallid skin barely contrasted with the bright white t-shirt she sported that day. As she stood nervously in the Plaza de Cervantes, her beige shorts were hiked up high and her long, pinkish legs drew attention away from her round noggin. Anticipating her three months in a foreign land, she had her regular beautician trim her sandy locks short enough to require minimal maintenance until her scheduled return to The United States of America on December 21.            “Brooke,” Roberto voiced her name loudly to assure that he was targeting the correct student. Her blue eyes shot towards the slinger of names and she rushed to Roberto.            “ Sí ,” she eagerly answered in her nascent second tongue as she looked directly at Roberto.            “You and your roommate are coming with me,” Roberto laid out the details of the day trip to Madrid. As a seasoned veteran of the Madrid scene, Roberto would lead four girls through the streets, show them the sights, and acclimate them to the capital before meeting up with the larger group in the early evening.            Once they were in the city, the four ducklings followed their leader through La Puerta del Sol and Plaza Mayor. Roberto whipped out the nostalgia card and droned on about his days in those very sites. He noticed that Brooke tended to pull up the rear, avoided most communication with her classmates, and appeared to be mentally distant.            “What’s wrong with your roommate?” Roberto frankly asked Lizzy.            “She won’t give it a chance,” Lizzy replied instantly, “She wants to go home and I really wouldn’t mind if she did.”            “Not on my watch,” Roberto stated although Lizzy seemed unimpressed.            As they reached the northwest corner of Plaza Mayor, Roberto ushered the unsuspecting female students into Casa Rua, a traditional joint with fried squid rings in the window. Jimena had handed each graduate student 2,000 pesetas and Roberto decided that a round of draft beers and five squid sandwiches would come in well under that budget. The leader of the pack ordered without asking input from the others.            “I’m not eating that!” Brooke exclaimed preemptively as she watched the scowling barman shovel warm seafood rings into five hard buns.            “Just try it,” Roberto instructed her and the other skeptics, “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.”            Twenty minutes later, three half-eaten squid sandwiches remained perched sadly on the counter as Roberto paid the bill. He had been tempted to finish off the delicacy himself but decided against the gluttonous act.            The five students exited the establishment intending to head towards the Royal Palace where they would meet the rest of the group.            “ Vámonos, ” Roberto motioned to his understudies as the effect of one round of beer compelled them to want more.            “Roberto,” Lizzy forwardly asked, “can we get another beer?”            He stopped abruptly and would have looked at his wristwatch had he not fallen into the habit of not wearing it. Nobody was ever on time in Spain, so he had left his watch in a drawer in Ohio.            “Great idea.” They entered the closest pub and the party began to take off.            “I’m not old enough to drink legally in Ohio,” another disciple named Sandra mentioned. “This is great. No fake ID and everything’s so cheap.”            “I’m not much of a drinker,” Brooke commented while tepidly retrieving her first sip and subsequently removing the foam from her lip with a thin paper napkin.            “Just throw it on the floor,” Roberto instructed Brooke in proper Madrid bar etiquette. She refused, crumpled the used napkin, and placed it delicately on the table next to her tulip glass.            Although she disobeyed his directive, the mere fact that the first glass of draft beer had loosened her tongue warmed Roberto’s heart. He felt he was nearing a breakthrough. As the other four chatted in English around a high table, Roberto excused himself momentarily, plunked some coins in a machine, and retrieved a fresh pack of Fortuna cigarettes.            “Oh, you smoke,” Brooke looked at Roberto with disapproving eyes as he pulled out an orange lighter and lit up his first filtered stick. In polite Spanish fashion, he offered smokes to the rest but only Lizzy accepted the proposal.            “Brooke,” Lizzy exhaled a stream of smoke upwards, “maybe you haven’t noticed, but everybody smokes here.”            “Well I can’t stand it,” she replied, “and that’s another reason I hate this country.”            Roberto and Lizzy looked at each other and he raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment that they would have to team up if they were going to convince the prudish American student that studying in Spain was going to be the time of her life.            With the beers, tapas had been placed in front of them.            “Free food,” Roberto haled, “You can’t beat that!”            “I don’t like olives.”            “They don’t always give you olives.”            “I don’t like any Spanish food,” Brooke countered, “I’m dying for a cheeseburger.”            The absence of a wristwatch did not mean that they could spend all afternoon drinking in the center of Madrid and Roberto quickly asked the barman for the time, paid the bill, and they exited back into the blinding early September sun. Roberto’s plan had not been fulfilled, but persistency had always been a hallmark of his personality. He enlisted Lizzy to continue to loosen up her roommate.            “Don’t leave her out. When you go out with your friends this weekend, make sure to take her with you.”            Lizzy failed to mount a protest but her facial features communicated her passive unwillingness to include her roommate in any of her plans. ***            April 28 th fell on a Sunday in 1991. Roberto and his roommate had spent their last weekend in Alcalá de Henares enjoying themselves as much as possible in the bars and discos in what had become their hometown. The academic year abroad had come complete with its ups and downs. The Gulf War broke out in January, the dollar tanked against the peseta, and an overall malaise hung in the air. Nonetheless, the three dozen study abroad participants and esteemed faculty and staff would gather on that Sunday night at a fancy restaurant to say their official goodbyes. A traditional musical group would play while everyone downed copious amounts of red wine from earthenware pitchers. The food was spectacular but an afterthought as the melancholy feelings of the end of the study abroad experience were upon them. Potentially, some of these undergrads would return for grad school, but for the great majority, this was their last hurrah in Spain.            In such a large group, there were cliques and a particular division between graduate and undergraduate students. After Roberto’s initial mission to relieve Brooke of her homesickness, he had not followed up on her progress. He had discovered that she did not return to Ohio in December, but rather, she did what most one-semester students wish to do—stay for the entire academic year. Deep inside, Roberto felt that he had accomplished something.            The tuna finished playing their traditional music and the group prepared themselves to continue the party in the streets of Alcalá. Brooke sought out her graduate student mentor, took him by the hand, and they entered into the adjacent patio area.            “Roberto,” she looked directly into his eyes as she finished her final glass of wine, “I wanted to thank you.”            “For what?” He feigned ignorance. He was keenly aware of the situation but he wanted to hear it in her words.            “For making me want to stay in Spain. I was this close to going home.” A smile beamed across her face as she measured the distance with her right hand. Although her American physical traits continued to make her stand out as a foreigner, she had changed. Her style was different. She had begun to dress with a European touch. It was difficult to pinpoint, but she had been transformed from that scared American that arrived in Spain eight months earlier.            Roberto experienced a slight melting of his heart as she confirmed his good deed. She initiated a hug and their eyes welled slightly with tears that would never breach their lids. The embrace lasted a mere fifteen seconds and they found themselves awkwardly alone on the patio.            “I’m glad you stayed,” Roberto eventually uttered. “I had a feeling you would.”            Brooke reached into her bag, pulled out a nearly empty pack of Fortuna, and silently offered him a cigarette. They chuckled as they exhaled. They had both gone native.


I stumbled through the hospital corridor, leaving red handprints on the clean white walls as I went. I could hear the footsteps, tens of hundreds, trampling over each other in the stairwell behind me. I stayed focused, searching desperately for the operating room. I passed one door, then two as the screams began to echo behind me. I turned a corner and increased my pace, aggravating the wound on my ankle. A wild gunshot rang out from down the hall behind me. My eyes widened and I saw the sign ahead of me, three doors to my salvation. I heard them slamming into the wall trying to turn the corner. Another gunshot rings out followed by a cacophony of screeches and howls as they lay eyes on me. I burst into the O.R. and slammed the door behind me. It only took a second for them to crash against it. Through the thin window I could see them, the twisted things. One pressed its face against the glass. it was an exact replica, down to the little mole under my earlobe.

We all were, down to the bone, identical, I had gathered that much after week one. I rummaged through the room and found some antiseptic and gauze. After clambering onto the operating table, I began dressing my wound. Thoughts raced through my head. My fingers were twitching. By week two I had begun to understand their patterns, their… herd mentality, if you could call it that , but their motives are well beyond me. I poured the antiseptic onto my injury and winced. They were wild, feral, single-minded in the goal to not just kill me, but devour me, as I learned this week.

I can’t accept this reality, I can’t even understand it.

The window shattered, arms reaching through, writhing in search of my flesh. I finished binding the gauze to my ankle and hopped off the table, remembering to stow the extra supplies away in my backpack. Adorning the back wall of the room was a large mirror. I pulled my rifle off my back and

shattered the mirror with the stock, revealing an observation room hidden behind. Exiting from the observation room back into the hallway, I took off my shoes so they wouldn’t squeak as I snuck away, looping around back to the stairwell and elevator. I reached for the call button but hesitated before pressing it. The elevator would likely chime upon reaching this floor, alerting them to my presence, and even if the doors closed in time, it would chime again once I reached the ground floor, alerting any stragglers stuck down there.

The stairwell door suddenly swung open again, allowing another flood of them to pour onto the floor. Luckily none of them noticed me, now curled against the elevator door, as they ran to join their companions. There was no counting how many were in the stairwell now; the elevator was my only option. I reluctantly pressed the elevator button. Switching the safety off my gun and checking the magazine revealed approximately twelve rounds remaining. I got to my feet and prepared for the signal, which came just a moment later.

Ding! I leaned hard against the door as the screams began anew. They rounded the corner as I stepped back into the elevator, hitting the close door button as I did. I knew hitting the button repeatedly had no effect, so I focused on aiming down my sights. Shots came down the hall at me with little precision, and I returned fire with more fortunate gains. I counted four incapacitated by ten rounds. One lunged forward, diving to the ground and crawling like a spider with frightening speed. I fired my last two rounds at it to no avail, proving itself too agile to counter. It pushed me to the floor and bit into my neck. I stuck my fingers in its mouth and pried it loose. I pressed my foot into its gut and threw it off, buying myself enough time to aim my gun at it and pray to any and every god that I miscounted the bullets. I pulled the trigger, and to my elation, one final bullet stormed from the barrel, tearing through the things chest. I breathed a sigh of relief, taking this reprieve graciously. When I tried to stand, however, I found myself too weak to do so. I pressed my hand into my neck and found a copious amount of blood leaking out. I paused and thought for a second, and that's when the clone struck again, its breathing ragged from the hole I had punched in its lung. It flipped me on my stomach and grabbed me by the hair, slamming my head against the descending elevator floor, again and again. Crack! Crack! Crack! I could feel my mind going blank. Crack!  I struggled, exerting all my energy in a desperate attempt to throw it off my back, to no avail. Crack! Crack!  I stopped resisting after I felt my skull split open. In another lifetime, perhaps I would uncover the truth. I found myself out of time before I could come up with a proper last thought.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious for after that, but I awoke to the sensation of thick dried blood in my sinuses. I was caked in the stuff, sitting in the elevator alone. To my left was a corpse, head split open and hollowed out. I was unfazed, although I wasn’t sure why. Where the hell am I, the hospital? No wonder I’m covered in blood. It was logic better suited for a dream, and I was indeed in a dream-like stupor. As I stood up a sudden pain burned in my chest. I felt for an injury, but found nothing save for a small hole in my shirt. I wavered out of the elevator in search of a bathroom. It was unseemly, but I stuck my pinky up my nose, trying to dig the remaining blood out of there. I washed my hands for what felt like the fifth time before trying to add some kind of style to my hair, just enough so that people wouldn’t point and laugh at me for looking so downtrodden. I stared drearily at myself in the mirror before heading to the door. I nearly bumped into the man waiting in line outside. He looked so familiar, but in my state I didn’t quite recognize him. I also didn’t quite comprehend his hands reaching for my neck.


The problem was their clothes. Everything else was just downright freaky, but wearing  the thin cashmere and cotton of the desert, while four feet of ice covered the dunes? Blackened appendages were only the beginning. Horrible things happened to people who strayed too far from the fires, which had begun to tax the endurance of the man who was supposed to maintain them. Coleman eyed him with more than a trace of concern, up there at the head of the marching order. From beside him came a nudge. "How much longer, do you think?" "Days. Maybe weeks," said Coleman. He'd walked this trail before. Beside him, the first man cursed under his breath. "He's a wizard, inne? Cann'e, I d'know, speed us up?" Coleman took another look at the robes, which were flapping dramatically despite the lack of wind. he sighed. "One can never guess at the motives of those who wield the power of gods." There was a silence filled with shivering. Above, the first bright stars of the desert appeared between patches of fleeting cloud. There was no slowing in the wizard's pace. "That were that irony you told me about?" "You're learning." They'd started with half a dozen camels. Now they had none. The wagons were being pulled with what, for lack of a better explanation, Coleman had been forced to concede was magic. He'd never liked wizards. You couldn't trust people who wore boots that came that far up their thighs. "Reckon we stop soon?" "Who's to say?" Coleman sighed, and this was enough. Both he and the merchant walking alongside well remembered the last few nights, full of more walking and terror than any sort of rest. The worms had been new. He'd never seen worms like that in the desert before, or anywhere else in the world. Beside him, Plub was watching him closely. After a while, he said, softly, "swallowed that camel right up, didn'ee? 'Member up in the Galetops? Those dragons? Reckon those things could eat a dragon, no problem. Right shrimpy, really, those dragons." The worst of the snow had subsided. Now, only a few lazy eddies spun through the night. It looked almost peaceful, Coleman thought. Then Plub nudged him. "Would ye look at that, " he murmured, and pointed at something behind them. Coleman took a cold, sudden breath. Then he hurried to the front of the marching line. No one paid him much notice. They were focused on their feet, which were invariably clad in frozen sandals. At the head, the wizard slowed his pace. Amber eyes, glowing with the reflection of the fire, stared impassively into Coleman's soul. "Here! Wait! Is this . . . this is you, isn't it? Your magic?" He dreaded the alternative enough to repeat the question, in more or less the same degree of eloquence. "That's not how this is supposed to work," he added. After a moment, he became aware that Plub had followed him, and was slinking a little behind. "You mean the snow," said the wizard. "The answer is no. But if it reassures you, I have already noted it." "But what is it?" Coleman was whispering, for the desert silence made his voice seem very loud. "We were leaving a trail yesterday, I'm sure." "That is true." "Is it magic?" "It is beyond your power to change, suffice it at that. It poses no immediate danger. In fact, I'm sure you can imagine, it is also very good for us at this juncture of the desert." "No tracks," muttered Plub. "I thought the worms used tremors, isn't that what you said?" "It is," said the wizard. He had resumed his previous speed, and now Coleman found it difficult to keep up with him. "But there are more things to fear in this desert, than just worms." A howl split the air, full of power and teeth. As it faded, Coleman noticed that their movement had also stopped. The wizard turned around, eyes on the dunes. "Wolves?" Coleman shouted in a whisper. " Here? It's the middle of the desert! What do they eat? " "Presumably," said the wizard, "us." "This is devil work, friend. No doubt of it. Me mother told me about the devils. They spoil water in the wells, turn it into mud and drag children in to die." "Bringing snow to Prythenia, though?" "Perhaps you'd prefer the Veilmen?" said the wizard innocently. "They seemed very happy to have us, didn't they?" And he walked on. "Keep formation," he shouted back to the line. "Any man who strays is unlikely to see the sun." And that was that. The crackle of feet breaking ice continued, and now that he was listening, Coleman could also hear little pops as their footsteps disappeared. It was actually wonderful to watch. It wasn't so much that the snow filled the imprint, as it was that Time, in a microcosm, reversed to a point where the boot had never made it. First, little cracks appeared as the treads faded away, and then the condensed matter bounced up into its plane. He watched the process for maybe half a minute, before Plub pulled again on his arm. "The wagon's goin' by," he said, and they trudged back to walk along it. The ash or the snow . . . what kind of choice was that? Coleman looked up at the stars, brighter than they were in the city, and wondered if the Veilmen had brought the ice to the desert. But why would they? Why snow, instead of ash that could burn the flesh and kill cities where it fell? Why worms and wolves, when they had black wyverns with eyes that smelled of the void? Coleman had always been a practical man, and the basis of his philosophy was that there was quite enough magic and nonsense in the world, without him joining in, too. He'd never had time for spells and verses and incantations, for in his travels he had learned that there were very few things magic could do, that a clever understanding of levers, gears, and pulleys couldn't replicate. It was a good life. It kept him out of trouble. The issue being, in this situation, the trouble had come to him. "I wish we were back in Ans," he moaned. Plub looked at him, with a face more sympathetic than pitying. "Good beer in Ans," was all he said. The line had stopped. Again. A shout, presumably an order, was given down the line, but Coleman failed to pick it up. "What'd he say?" Plub shrugged. "Maybe wolves?" Coleman felt a chill run down his spine. Against his better judgement, a part of him moved his legs back up towards the front, next to the wizard. "You again?" "Coleman! What are you doing? " "I . . . what's going on?" The wizard only pointed. Up ahead, cresting a dune and looking down upon them, was a man larger than any Coleman had ever seen. "He's been there for nearly two minutes, now. Watching us." "What is it? It's . . . too tall for a man, isn't it?" "Too far south for giants," said Plub, matter-of-factly. The wizard gave him a nod. "Get the tents set up, get a fire going." "What, here? Now? " "I see no better time for it. And hurry. We will soon have guests among us." ***** "Just like a wizard." "What's that you said?" "Never gets his pretty hands dirty, does he? You'll never see a wizard, Plub, you'll never see a wizard doing a day's honest work." "That so?" "I'm going to go see what they're talking about." "Is that smart? Hey, wait!" They'd built the fires in a small ring, with the women and the older folk in the center, with the wagons. A little apart from the group, under an overhang of rock, the wizard was talking to the giant. Beside them, visible only as a dramatic silhouette in the wizard's own blue flames, was another figure, that looked to Coleman like a small bear. It was wearing spectacles. ". . . people out here, are pilgrims or lunatics. So tell me, Flavius, which one are you?" The voices carried easily on the light winds. From his expression, Coleman could guess at the wizard's opinion of his "guests." "Running from the Veils, I presume?" "Looking for a Prophet. Never heard of any 'Veils.' " The bear roused itself from its position by the fire. Now, Coleman saw that it was actually a small man, bundled in an exorbitant number of hefty furs. "Now, hold on . . . you don't mean that portal in Dyrz, do you? I was reading a few reports from down south . . . has anything gone wrong?" "You could say that. They've burned the library. Moved north." "What are you two going on about?" asked the larger man. His face was turned away from Coleman, who had slunk behind one of the nearby dunes, but his voice was loud, and carried well. He wore only a light cloak, fitted for his broad shoulders and not quite concealing the massive sword strapped across his back. "Danger, Bugn. Things you can't hit with a sword." "Where you're wrong, wizard. You can hit anything with a sword. Sometimes it just doesn't do much." "Charming," said Flavius. He turned back to the shorter man. "We're not quite sure how far they've gone. The tyragaeth chased us into the desert, but no further." Leslie gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, I think we can answer for that much. Snow in a desert . . ." "Their work, is it?" "No. Rather above their pay grade, really." He laughed again. "Your parents every tell you stories, Flavius? The old legends." "There were books at the Academy." "Hh." "What are you saying, then?" A short smile curled the wizard's features. "That this is god work?" There was a silence deeper than stars. "Yvermoney's Tales, fifth chapter." Flavius hesitated. " Ballad of Eduros, wasn't it?" Leslie nodded, and said a word that was utterly foreign to Coleman's ears. The wizard, though, seemed to understand perfectly. He began to stroke his chin, a thoughtful expression spreading across the prominent forehead. "Well," he said at last. "That changes things. So they're divine wolves now, yes?" "It's not a laughing matter, I assure you." "You're heading south." "Yes." "There's nothing but desert down there. You know that." "Yes." "I told you," said Bugn. "Looking for a Prophet. Name of . . ." "Orogas," supplied Leslie. "Have you heard of him?" The wizard seemed to be thinking. "I don't think so. No, most certainly not. Where did you hear of this Orogas?" "We had a guide," said Leslie. "He only spoke the mountain dialects, though. I'm afraid Bugn threw him off a ravine." "Stupid little creature," the giant grunted. "Couldn't speak proper language -- his own fault." "I'm sure that's debatable." The wizard rose. "Well, you've certainly given me much to think about. You won't stay, by any chance? There's meat." "No. We have much to walk. Now, if you have anything to drink . . ." Flavius smiled. "I understand." He drew up a hand and, with a series of complicated motions, drew up a heavy flagon, which the giant took. He peered in, and took a draught. "Good ale," he said. "You're improving." This received a response, which Coleman was no longer there to hear. He crept back to his own ring of flames, his footsteps conveniently disappearing behind him. Now that he knew why, though, it seemed more terrifying than charming. Plub looked at him with concern. "Ever'thin alright, friend?" Coleman hesitated. He was a practical man. There was no good that could come of terrifying the camp. No matter that his own heart seemed ready to sprint away screaming on the frozen sands -- he had to keep his nerve. "Just cold," he managed. "No fire on the dunes." He made a show of rubbing his hands in front of the orange glow. Plub laughed. "Hear anyth'n int'restin'? I've been bored." "The small talk of wizards is surprisingly dull," said Coleman, and laid out his sleeping bag. "Why else do you think I came back early?" Plub shrugged as he settled into his own mat. "Good sleeping, friend. I'll see you at the dawn." "If the wizard continues his pace, it'll be much earlier." This earned a laugh, and for a while, all was peaceful. The fire crackled beside him, and the clouds had finally dispersed. The sky glowed with diamonds. He remembered a time, when he was very young, when he had learned just how far away the stars really were. Unfathomable lengths of distance, filled with . . . nothing. He'd long ago given up trying to imagine. He was, after all, a practical man. Life was like that, he thought, as his mind drifted away. You thought you had all the answers, or no, you thought the answers, when found, would at least be understandable, but it was, in the end, so alien, and so pointlessly intertwined. You couldn't write it in a story, he decided. It wasn't like that. You'd need at least a dozen before you got anywhere near the truth. And still. You could never touch the stars. You'd never get close. But perhaps . . . and here the first of many dreams began to tug on his mind . . . perhaps that was for the best. After all, who knew what was hiding behind them? ***** The camp was sleeping. A little ways away, under an overhang of rock, the wizard watched them. Almost unconsciously, he traced his hand in a familiar pattern, and a verse rode his breath and spread through the quiet air. The fires would burn all night, now. The wards were up. He'd done all he could do. He sighed. Bugn and Leslie had passed on. No trace remained of their travel. And that was how it always was, he decided. The wake of man was nothing. Legacy, an illusion. A hand was waved. The stone moved, into a ledge under which a small fire leaped to attention. The wizard slept, and his dreams were full of gods.


Everything was dark. There were no words to describe the feeling.  The utmost horror realizing that part of your life had been stolen from you. The once lively world plunged into an abyss of nothingness. This morning's events played through his head on a loop, Prometheus doubted he would ever forget them. Even now he could feel the slithering cold along his spine as he clutched the letter demanding his presence at Olympus.

‘Masking his fear with a confident stride Prometheus entered the Olympus courtyard, the gods' usual meeting place. Several seats were occupied, but Prometheus’ eyes drew directly to Athena. Refined and elegant as ever, seated with a tight expression on her face and to her left, the renowned king of the gods, Zeus. You didn't even have to look at the gold, engraved throne he was perched on to know that he ordered this room. Waves of authority flowed right off his muscled, bronze frame. “Come forth, Prometheus.” Zeus commanded, in that imposing tone he took when he talked to those beneath him. Which to him, was everybody.

Prometheus paced forward until he was at the center of the impressive room. It was the only empty spot on the floor, the rest were covered with mosaics. Depicting the birth of the gods, to creatures only found roaming the deepest parts of the Underworld. “Now, I’ve heard that you and my daughter have taken on a project. A new specimen to worship us.” Zeus thundered.

Prometheus nodded. Athena and him had taken to studying and experimenting together, finding that their minds weren’t all too different.

“But do you believe they are to worship us Prometheus? If you had, perhaps you wouldn’t have done what my daughter here says you have.” Zeus paused for a moment, searching for a reaction. But Prometheus would refuse to give one. He refused to even glance her way. Athena had been his partner since the war had ended. Yet the betrayal wasn’t an unexpected one. All these gods were the same. Power and glory, no matter who was destroyed in the fray. He would refuse to let this hurt him, they didn’t deserve the satisfaction. “The ‘humans’ were ordered to be simple beings of worship. Care to explain, why are they being taught trades and survival?” Zeus continued in anger, as Prometheus carefully kept his expressionless mask in place.

“You are stirring the pot for a revolution Prometheus. You may have sided with us during the war, but that means nothing to defying us.” Zeus threatened.

Seeing that Prometheus still proudly kept his head up, Zeus continued infuriatedly. “You care too much Prometheus, for beings that are not to be cared for. You forget your place, you are blinded by what they are to you. Do you show remorse for your actions Prometheus?”

Prometheus could recognize stepping over the line, but he also knew that the gods did it themselves often. Yet they received no repercussions, and he was beyond tired of it. So despite the air radiating the aura of a bad idea, Prometheus held Zeus’ gaze and shook his head.

Zeus’ stormy gray eyes darkened. “You refuse to see what this could lead to Prometheus. Thus, that will be your punishment. Your vision will only hold the darkest of nights, for if you are blinded in your heart, so will be it for your eyes. You want to provide humans resources, so they could overpower us?” Slowly, a sadistic smile forms on Zeus’ face. “Then your job will be to sustain our resources instead. Betrayal to yourself isn’t it? Your task will be to sustain the Flame Of The Gods.” The few gods in neighboring thrones grinned, and clashed their wine goblets together, proud of their ‘cleverness’. “I-” Prometheus stopped himself, taking all his willpower to hold his tongue, not give them what they wanted. But the effect had already been done, they had gotten to see the amusement they could have with their power and control. Always granted to the wrong people.

“Take him away.” Zeus ordered with finality. Every word he had said was imprinted in Prometheus’ brain.

“You refuse to see what this could lead to Prometheus. And so that will be your punishment. Your vision will only hold the darkest of nights, for if you are blinded in your heart, so will be it for your eyes. You want to provide humans resources, so they could overpower us? Then your job will be to sustain our resources instead. Betrayal to yourself isn’t it? Your task will be to sustain the Flame Of The Gods.” It echoed around his head, reminding him of what had landed him here. Not his creation, Prometheus would never feel regret for scientific evolution. It had been the gods that had gotten them here. The dictators playing with power, were threatened by him. Prometheus would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy that, he longed to teach them a lesson. Put them in their place, when they tried to force Prometheus into what they said was his place. Prometheus was determined not to let his newfound blindness deter him. He resolved to adapt, to find his vengeance even in a world now shrouded in perpetual night.

The feeling of hands tightly gripping the underside of his arms startled him. Unaccustomed to the loss of one of his senses, he let the arms guide him, hauling him to the ancient temple, a sacred place that housed the Flame of the Gods. Rumors spoke of a divine fire that had burned for centuries, a beacon of hope and light for the people. It was said to be an artful work of magic, and so it was fed with magic as well. Ichor, the substance found in immortals, was the best source for the flame, and now that Prometheus was connected, his ichor would be tethered to it. And while he would have enjoyed defying the gods by doing his best to ruin the flame, he had another plan in store.

While his vision was stolen, the black abyss he was condemned to seeing allowed his other senses to be heightened. Focusing on what he could feel and hear, guided only by the echoes of his surroundings and the whispers of the wind, he mentally stored away the pathway to the temple. The journey was treacherous, filled with uneven paths and hidden obstacles, he could feel the guards clutching him grunt and pant. It was impossibly more difficult for Prometheus, forced to use his other senses to make his way up, being forced to let go of what he had relied on for as long as time. Each passing moment injected a bitter feeling into his chest, as the darkness that he could practically feel was a reminder of what was taken from him. However, while Prometheus’ world may have been devoid of light, his heart burned with an unyielding determination to disobey them, turn around their rule and show their faults to the world. They were comparable to toddlers given all they could've ever asked for, misuse is assured. At this point, Prometheus could feel the guards hauling him up the flight of stairs.

‘ Exactly thirty. ’ Prometheus counted, storing away the information for later.

He felt the guards use their bodies to push open the door, it opened slowly, he speculated that it was heavy, marble likely. They took him further into the room before dropping him to the floor, presumably in front of the fire as he could feel licks of heat nipping at his skin.

‘Should we lock the door?’ One guard asked the other. “It’s not likely he could find it, lets just head back,” The other guard snickered. How foolish they were. Underestimating him would be their befall. Feeling around in front of him, Prometheus came in contact with a deeply engraved wall with a deep oval groove carved into it, where the heat was radiating from. Lowering his hands into it, he rested his hands on top of the flame. He felt the flames flicker and dance on his calloused hands. He had heard myths that the flame was of odd colors and moved unusually. Something that he wouldn’t get to see, another bitter reminder, but also another reminder of his plan for vengeance. The flame rose in temperature on his palm, he felt a slight tremor rock through his body and he knew that it had just consumed energy from his ichor.

This process continued as the days turned into weeks and months. Prometheus found himself often bored, and missing the pleasures of the outside world. He found himself reminiscing about his days in the workshop, listening to the clatter of metals and the rustle of map paper. Soon however, Prometheus noticed he was building a connection with the Flame of the Gods. It became a project to him, as everything did. He wanted to figure out the extent of what he could do. His days passed quickly as his experiments continued, he could manipulate its shape to adhere with his thoughts, feel its warmth even when he was not near, sense its flickering dance in the air, and even discern its moods. The longer he had gone without his once important sense, the more he was able ‘to see’ with his other senses. He was building his strengths that the gods thought they had taken. And soon enough, what he had hoped for happened. His plan was falling into place.

Every week the guards bring Prometheus ambrosia and nectar. Consistently, they had been taking his previous dish, and bringing him a new one, often sternly reminding him of the consequences if he pulled a stunt with the stone platter and copper bottle he always received. But they had begun to let their guard down. It was an alarmingly stormy night, as thunder roared and rain battered against the ivory temple walls, Prometheus knew this was the work of an angered Zeus. his theory was confirmed as the guards entered frantically. "Hurry brother we must leave quickly, Zeus is full of wrath today. Hera has learned of Io's birth, happening in a fortnight.” One guard urged his brother, a frightened tone in his voice. Prometheus slowly smiled with his back to them, he had found the day he could sneak away, and truly defy the gods.

It was the night before that fateful day when the guards arrived to collect the platter that Prometheus spoke to them for the first time. “Kind sirs, do you mind leaving the flask, this flame is sapping my energy. I would prefer a container if the sickness worsens.” Prometheus groaned, lying through his teeth. He felt the vibration as one of the guards startled at his voice. He could hear loud and clear as they muttered, asking each other the best decision. And even through the force of two minds, they still did not choose the right one. ‘You are permitted, but we will retrieve it next time’ The startled guard told him in a no-nonsense voice, as if Prometheus hadn’t just heard his anxious whisperings. By next time Prometheus wouldn't be here, he could laugh at the sheer thought of it. Prometheus nodded his thanks and as they left he heard one laugh about how the ‘blind fool’ would miss the flask completely. It was ironic who was laughing now, for soon their ignorance would cost them. They would remember their stupidity in this moment and regret it. And how Prometheus would love to witness it. Prometheus stayed up that entire night, in wait of what would come the next day. He finally felt the warmth of the sun's rays glaze his skin through the small window upwards of the fire. Dawn had arrived, and so had the day. His plan might earn him death but it would also earn him remembrance, recognition, reverence perhaps. Blind or not. Guided solely by the rhythmic heartbeat of the flame, Prometheus gathered his flask and eased the flame into it, he tucked it inside his worn sheep skin vest. He could not lose it, the flame was the most crucial part. Prometheus paced the temple with anticipation, he thought over every miniscule detail on how he would execute this. He had to. This was no longer about the vision they had wrongfully stolen from him, now it was about their misuse of dominance for years. Their narcissistic beliefs, how they were always right, and any who challenged their ego simply had to be punished. And today, Prometheus would challenge their ego to its extent. As midday crept, hints of a storm began to form, Prometheus could hear the patters of water as they bounced along the temple walls. It was a clear sign that Zeus had left to deal with the complications of his affair and Hera. Zeus unknowingly was contributing to a plot against him. As the rain began to fall heavier, and a clap of thunder reverberated somewhere far away, Prometheus began to leave. As he stood, he drew a long breath. He silently acknowledged that as soon as he exited the temple, a likely torturous fate would befall him. But regret wasn't something that came easy to Prometheus. Arms stretched in front of him, he used the steps he would hear the guards take as a reference. Feeling with his fingertips Prometheus rans his hands along the walls until he came to the one with a crevice down the middle, the temple door. The door that would lead him to an uncertain fate. Turning to his side, he pushed open the massive door with his shoulder, and stepped out into the damp earth. Prometheus could've fallen to his knees right then and there. He had almost forgotten what the mud and grass felt like under his feet, what the fresh rain smelt like, he could imagine it so visually he felt like his blindness was cured. He allowed himself another moment to revel in the simple beauty before continuing on his journey. Thankfully, the path there was completely memorized, for the countless times he had been to his human's village before. Pausing to make sure he couldn't hear any footsteps, Prometheus patted the lump in his vest, steeled his nerves, and started down the path. He had everything he needed and there was no one here to stop him. This was his victory, although he would remain blind, forever bound to the darkness that had become his world, he would become a symbol of resilience. Prometheus, condemned to the shadows, would show he was not going to be prey for the gods. He would show how not even their punishments could deter him, he would defy the gods and their dictatorship whether it be the last thing he does. He would give the Flame Of The Gods to the humans.


Here I am, smack dab in the middle of an ocean I can’t even name, and you've got me tied up tighter than a tiger shark. I know you're thinking I’m some lousy kid from the Rocks, but give me a chance! I can explain why it ain't my fault there's dead bodies all over your deck. After a week straight of the shiver-sweats, I was finally starting to feel myself yesterday afternoon, so I came up here, right to this spot. I like feeling the salt-spray on my face and watching how the blue waters sparkle. Back home, our water is grey and stank like rot. You’d have to boil it for hours before drinking, and bathing in it makes you dirtier than before you washed. “I’m only stretching my legs after the fever broke,” I told this guy with huge muscles as he moved crates across the deck. “I took off in the middle of the day without telling a soul, and my family definitely thinks I’m dead. Foolish and dead. If they didn’t blindly follow the clan, they’d know I was lucky and alive.” I laughed.

He grunted.

I couldn’t help but think how nice it was to finally have someone else to talk to. Do you know how miserable it is being stuck in a cramped little cabin for days, your teeth click-clackin' off each other hard enough to make your jaw hurt? And it’s not like I had a lot of people to talk to back home in the first place. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is for a boy like me to get a word in where I’m from, not being all grown up and stuff. Talk at the wrong time and someone will just smack the back of your head. And that's if you're lucky.

Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, Muscles.

“They couldn’t have guessed I’d be so lucky,” I told him, “because my lack of learning lessons, no matter how much they beat the tar out of me, ain’t nothing compared to my never-ending itch to explore. These gifts dropped me right into Ora’s lap. “You couldn’t know her,” I continued, “but Ora is this tiny, wrinkly old thing who’s been sweating away in a little garden, tucked back behind the old oaks miles from my family’s land. The look on her face when she found me in one of her game traps! Instead of gobbling me up like the stories papa would tell about the dangerous cannibals living beyond our safe zones, she made me herbal tea served alongside some strange little biscuits." You know, she did stare at my eyes too. Kinda like you’re doing right now. I mean, everyone does it, but everyone else says stuff like, "What's wrong with you?" and, "Are you cursed, Kamat? " Ora just peered at them for a few seconds and never asked me about the different colors.

So after I said that, Muscles started struggling with a soggy crate, and I ran over to shove my hands under the bags that were starting to slip out.  “She never actually talks, though, not a single word,” I said to him, “but she speaks with her hands. I can understand her pretty easy because before I was born, all the girls in my clan started going deaf as babies, and they began using a similar set of signs to teach them, and us boys had to learn it too, of course. I’m pretty quick at it, even for how young I am, though I can’t always understand what she tries to tell me. When she introduced herself that first day, the motions she made meant nothing to me. She kept flicking her little finger up and sideways. Looked like gibberish. She couldn’t spell so I guessed names until she threw her hands into the air. I’m usually a pretty good guesser.

“‘Well you look like a Nita, or Aretta, or a, or a...Ora, hey that’s kinda nice,’ I told her, not even serious, but the way her eyes bugged out while reading my lips made me laugh until tears rolled down my cheeks. The name stuck. “Anyway,” I went on, “in between retelling some wild stories, she taught me how to make the tea and made me promise to come back every month since she liked having the company. Then she'd send me home with a sack full of dried herbs and a pouch of sweet crystals. She warned me there wasn’t enough to share, so I’d have to keep the whole thing a secret. Super easy since I’m real good with secrets! She was so nice, I’d sneak away to see her pretty often. We’d work in her garden together, taking breaks so she could share more stories or ask me about everyone in my family, but she always made sure to send me back before the moon rose.” We set the crate down with a thud, and as I stepped back, the man leaned against the railing, wiping his brow with a yellow rag as the ship rolled on a large swell. Looking down, he only seemed to notice me then. Tucking the rag into a pocket, he reached up, wiggled his fingers in both ears, and shrugged at me.

Behind me, laughter boomed, and I turned to see a mean-mugging, skinny man with an even skinnier red beard. His cheeks were gross and peeling. I’m pretty sure he’s the guy I was always seeing drinking and being rowdy with the rest of your crew.

I bet you can see where this is going, but I’ll keep laying it all out for you. “Dev deaf, son. Got 'is eardrums blowed out by a cannon blast asa boy, but you kept on chat’rn his ear off, mebbe ten swells o' more. Wasn’t gonna find nothin’ bettah tuh do but watch ‘n see if he’d step right on ya and squish ya skinny ass,’ he said at me through a chewed reed and several big, thick teeth. “Look at ya, still ‘n one piece an’ helpful tuh boot.” Even though he smiled real wide, I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or looking for trouble, so I stayed quiet. I should probably tell you that I was pretty embarrassed about the whole thing too.

He frowned at me, coming real close to my face and whispered, “So much tuh say till someone starts talkin’ back, huh?” I started to back away when the bell clanged from the other side of the ship.

I shrugged at him before running off to get a bowl of chow while it was still hot. I’m sure you know how slimy it gets with all those limp onions and clumps of fat once it starts to cool. I could hear Red laughing again, but I didn’t care. My stomach was louder. Thinking about it now, I wish I would’ve just stayed in my cabin to avoid this whole stinkin’ mess. You know how I said I had those fevers? I wasn’t sick or nothing. I was shaking off the last bits of being poisoned. Like I was telling Muscles, er, Dev, even though he didn’t actually hear a word I said, Ora gave me those herbs, and the last time I saw her, she was worried looking and fessed up to the truth. She used to be Kwento, part of my clan, but she ran away when she found out the elders were poisoning all the children with some drink made from scorpion venom. Turns out, what they called medicine was actually making everyone sick, but they told us it would make us stronger and tougher to survive hard living on the Rocks. I guess they did it to keep us from leaving, to control us. It seems to hurt girls the most, since the poison makes nearly all of them deaf.

Ora tried to convince her brothers to come with her, promising she’d find a way to keep everyone alive, but they were too scared and turned their backs on her. No one knew how smart she was, how she knew all about the plants that grew in the Rocklands, especially herbs like the ones in the bag you’re holding, Captain. You’re supposed to make tea with them. They don't fix the deafness, but it cleans the blood or something so you won't get sick anymore. After telling me all this, she gave me enough herbs to wean myself from the venom and signed to me, "Kamat, it’s time to leave. Get on a ship and leave the Rocks for good." She hugged me so tight, tears spilling from her eyes. Standing there so close to her face, it was only then I noticed, behind the cloudiness from her being so old, her eyes kinda looked an awful lot like mine.

I really miss her, you know, I think she’s the only person in the world who ever cared about me. Maybe I can go back some day when I’m bigger and knock someone out if they try to poison me again. I could see if she might leave with me.

Anyway, about this whole mix-up, I went to sleep last night and woke up to some strange sounds, but I couldn’t see anything since it was so dark. I tried to lay real still and listen for the noise again, but I must have fallen back asleep. I’m still really tired from the fevers, you know? When I got up this morning, all my bags were tossed around and hanging open like someone rifled through them. Red must have thought the bag of herbs was filled with tobacco and stole them from me. How was I to know he’d roll a bunch of smokes with it and pass them around to half the crew. I swear to Gamab, I didn’t even know it’d kill you if you smoked it. And that is why, even though there are a bunch of dead bodies all over your ship, you don't really have to toss me off the plank.


It was a regular day in my school. Everyone was playing with paper balls as usual. The goal was to hit everyone in the room in their face, especially the ones that were doing something productive. Our teachers used to ask,” Why?” when the sweepers complain that we are noisy. It was all to see the expression in their face when they were hit by a dirty paper ball right in their face. You couldn’t feel the fun until you see it and they start throwing back. And so they started throwing back. “Duck!” I screamed. It seemed as though Damian thought that I meant the other duck and got hit by a plastic pen cap in his face. “Why are you using pen caps?” I asked. “It’s an upgrade,” Friz said, “ Its aerodynamic design makes it faster than paper balls.” “And also dangerous.” Maeve said. “She is right,” I insisted ,” Let’s stick with paper balls.” After the talk I looked back and Damian’s face looked as though he was waiting for me to ask him if he was alright, but yeah I knew he would be so I didn’t care. “You should learn to react fast.” I advised Damian ,” You see what happens if you don’t.” The relation between me and Damian was considered to be the best example of friendship in the whole school. But for the past few weeks there were tensions in our friendship. He didn’t like me going and spending time with Maeve and her friends. He thought I was avoiding him, yeah I actually did avoid him by doing so because I thought that spending time with many people will be fun, that’s what our principal said on our last week morning speech. But still I can’t give up on him, I planned for a revenge on the person who hit the pen cap, Sean. It was the time when our teacher would come, so I couldn’t attack him now, so I quietly helped cleaning the mess we created. The teacher came and we all stood up like good students and exchanged good morning with him. After some time he started teaching and writing on board. Josh sitting in front of us asked me for a sharpener. The look I gave made him regret it and Damian gave him what he asked. When our teacher was busy writing, I took a rubber band in my hand and made it a deadly weapon. I took paper from my desk space and made it to bits. “What are you doing?” my partner Damian silently asked. “Wait and see,” I smiled. I quickly fired a mini paper ball onto Sean’s head. He noticed and examined the back of his head with his hand and looked back for a second and started writing again. “Wow! Perfect shot!” Damian exclaimed. “Shhhh” I whispered by keeping my index finger near my mouth in the way they keep while saying, “ Shhh.” Luckily there was a much louder noise that caught everyone’s attention. The sound was from the Loudspeaker of a truck selling vegetables. I sighed. I told Damian to whisper, and not to shout and not to look at my face after the object we throw hit someone. Damian nodded. “Ok, now your turn.” I gave him the rubber band. He quickly got ready and threw an eraser that almost hit Maeve. I stared at his eyes with anger. “Why did you throw on her?” “By mistake, I missed Sean,” he whispered with a broken voice. “Maeve is literally sitting in the other end,” I whispered back,“ Don’t make me angry again.” “I am sorry,” Damian apologised. “Don’t behave like you are still 7 years old, We are adolescents now.” “You are being rude to me nowadays.” “No, I am just being like a man.” Damian didn't say anything for that. “Here is your sharpener.” Josh turned back and kept on the desk. “Now, see and learn,” I said before I aimed and prepared to fire the broken sharpener on Sean’s head. But unfortunately it’s weird shape made it deviate from its path and gain a upward lift and misfired on our teacher’s head. He screamed in pain and turned back. We all stood up. Well, it was obvious that it should be the job of back benchers. “Who did it!!!” he shouted. Obviously there was no response. In our class there is an unwritten rule. We can hit each other or break somebody’s neck but nothing should reach the teacher’s ears. “Whoever did it come out themselves!!” he shouted again. Damian looked at me. I stamped his feet whispering him to look straight and so he did. “Fine, if the person that did this doesn’t come out, all of you will be punished!!” After shouting this he walked out of the class. Everyone sat down and started speaking, they all knew he was going to the principal room. It was deep trouble. “Someone threw something on my head too,” Sean was telling to Friz ,”And I think I know who it is,” he looked at the backbenchers. “What are we going to do now?” Damian asked me in a low voice. “I am going to lie ,” “What?” Before we could continue anything Principal madam came inside the class. Everyone stood up again. She was angry, her face told us. She asked us, “Who threw it on him?” This time we had to speak something, because we were prepared to speak and it was the principal that asked us. But nobody spoke, it was fear. “I know who did it, it would be decent for them to accept it themselves.” she said. We responded with silence. “Fine, I will give you half an hour time to think. But if you stand like this even then, you will see my other face.” She left the classroom taking all the anger with her. And we started speaking again. “Let’s go and tell her.” Damian insisted me on telling the truth. “Do you have the slightest idea what it will lead to?” “She knows is the backbenchers.” Yeah he was right. She knows. What I was planning was the only way to save us. Actually speaking Damian didn’t do it, but whenever he spoke, he spoke as though we both did it together. The eraser he threw did not even hit anybody, He couldn’t even be blamed for anything. But he still was in my side. “Well, I am happy that you are caring for me, but the truth alone can’t save us.” “What? So how is a lie going to save us?” “It can’t save us either.” Damian gave a confused look. “We need both of them to save us. I am going to lie and you are going to say the truth.” “Explain.” “Here’s how it works...” I whispered in his ears. “Well... you really have changed a lot.” Damian agreed to my plan and we both decided that Damian would tell the truth and I would lie. The half an hour time principal gave was over and she entered the class again. “Right. So have you decided yet?” she asked looking at everybody. “Mam,” I stood up,“ I have something to tell you.” “Proceed.” “Josh threw the sharpener. I saw it with my eyes.” “NO! MAM HE IS LYING!” Josh shouted at the top of his voice. “Sit down Josh. Let him speak first.” “Since he was my friend I hesitated to tell you mam when you asked first. But after thinking I understood this was the right thing.” Josh’s face was so angry and annoyed. He was as angry as an old woman with a broken window. “Also, I have eye witness mam. You can ask Damian about it.” “Yes mam, Josh borrowed the sharpener from me. I didn’t know what he did with it.” “I remember giving it back! Why are you lying?” Josh yelled at us. “Quiet. Josh did you borrow the sharpener?” principal mam asked. “Yes mam, but I gave it back!” “Mam, yesterday math’s teacher humiliated Josh in front of class for not completing home work.” Sid who was Josh’s partner said, “He told me that he will take revenge.” “Mam, I said it just to sound cool. I could never have the courage to do something like that.” Sid was a jackpot for us. He hated sitting with Josh because he thought he was stinky. Sid was very studious and got good marks and he never liked sitting with someone who failed often. Well we didn’t like Sid for that. But anyway we couldn’t avoid such a help. “Also Josh always disturbs me while studying mam. I couldn’t focus on what the teacher teaches.” Principal mam made her decision. 3 vs 1 was easy to decide. And so Josh was suspended from school for a week and was scolded heavily by Principal mam. “But what about his parents?” Damian asked me as we were waiting for our apple juice. “I heard that Josh often fights with his parents and lies to them too. So they won’t believe him.” I was confident. “Hmm. Parents can easily find out if their child is lying or not.” Damian said. “We will take care of it when they get to know,” I said , “But for now, we won!” “Yeah,” Damian replied and we both did a cheers when the apple juice came to our table.                                                 **********************