I wondered if they knew. They looked so happy, like in that moment, they were infinite. I wondered if they knew it wouldn't last for very long. If they did, they didn’t show it. They reveled in the moment. They were okay that something was going on now. Noisy children, dogs and laughter. Human beings don’t fascinate me. At least they don’t anymore. We’re predictable creatures, all of the time. I knew how this was going to end. I was too blind to accept it. Flickering images. Memories I should let go of are the ones I cling to the most. Is it loneliness if you choose to be alone? Probably not. I’m choosing to be alone. I’m choosing to sit on this park bench and observe. I don’t observe because I’m fascinated. I observe because I want to see if the pattern changes. I wonder if they know happiness doesn’t last forever. If they do, they don’t show it. They’re so consumed by the now. Maybe they do, but they choose to be happy anyway. I want to smash the invisible walls I can’t see into oblivion. I want it to disappear. Sometimes I want to disappear, but this time I want it to. I think maybe today is the day for human interaction, to be fascinated again at the prospect of happiness, but then I think again, maybe it isn’t. The sun is shining brightly, way too brightly because it’ll be gone in approximately four hours and return the next day. It’s too bright for something so determined to disappear in the evening. When I was younger, I used to think it was beautiful watching the sun rise and set because I knew it would be there tomorrow. Now I feel tricked because it disappears and thinks it can show up the next day. It’s been 166 days since I had any proper form of human interaction. Maybe if I do the math, it’ll help. Maybe it’d be just another equation, except it isn’t. Approximately 5 and a half months since he left. 166 days since I ever felt so in love, never again. If only they knew love doesn’t last forever. If they do, they don’t show it. Couples are on picnics together, looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. Just by looking at them, I can tell which is a first date and which isn’t. The guy and the girl near the pond are on their first date. He’s shy, refuses to meet her eyes. I want to walk over there and tell him to look at her, that teenage girls like being looked at, but I don’t want to seem like a creep. Instead, my book is open in front of me just in case and I’m analyzing the situation in my head. The date probably won’t go well. I’m at least 85% sure. He’s way too nervous. She’s out of his league. They look like they’ve been best friends for a while. He’s way too deep in the friend zone to get out now. Maybe if he knew he was stuck there, he’d give up. Maybe he does know, and he decides to give it a try because if he doesn’t, he’ll never know. Beyond the gates of the park, pedestrians are crossing the street. People are bumping into each other, buying flowers and ice cream at different stands. It’s too hot for ice cream, it’ll melt and the flowers will wither in less than five days. They have to know that. Yet they buy it anyway. Maybe they don’t care. They get to enjoy the cold feeling of the ice cream on their tongues on a hot day and the delicate flowers in their hands before they disappear, so what does it matter if they get to enjoy it only for right now. Theo was right. You can be surrounded, but still feel alone. Working is important. It’s good to be successful definitely and to be accomplished, but what good is it when you have no one to share your accomplishments with? He told me I would drive myself insane, but he never left. He stayed. He stayed until 166 days ago. I want to be angry, but I’m not. I knew how it would end. I had prepared myself for the day he would leave, but clearly not enough. I notice everything, even the smallest detail, but I don’t notice that the bench creaks. I don’t smell his cologne. I don’t see his sneakers until I look down. “What are you writing?” he asks. He doesn’t ask my name. His question doesn’t make sense, yet he’s so focused on asking me this, he hasn’t bothered to ask my name first. I want to ask him if he’s stupid because I’m not holding a pen, it’s a novel. I don’t ask if he’s stupid because he seems so sure of his question. “Come again?” I ask him. “What are you writing in your mind?” he asks this time. He noticed me staring off into space. He noticed I wasn’t reading even though the pages were been flipped at the right time. It’s such a dumb way to ask a question. He easily could have asked, “What are you thinking about?” But if he had asked that way, I would have given a conventional answer. The conversation would have ended. I wouldn’t have been thinking about it so much. I wouldn’t have pyscho-analyzed the question the way I’m doing now. I don’t want him to know I’m fascinated. I don’t want him to know that I’m glad he noticed me. I don’t want him to know no one has since 166 days ago. I want him to be fascinated. I don’t answer the question. Instead, I ask one of my own. “Do you believe in love?” He notices I didn’t answer his question, but he says nothing. He just goes with it. He wants to make conversation. First attempt in 166 days. This isn’t looking too bad. “I believe in the idea of it. I don’t believe you end up with everyone you fall in love with. I definitely don’t believe it’s everything we think it is, but yes, I believe in it.” At anyone, I think I would have rolled my eyes. I almost don’t remember Theo while I’m speaking to him. It’s a breath of fresh air. I feel refreshed, almost. “Well, I don’t. I think we’re too selfish to know what genuine love is.” I do think that, at least most of the time. I’m not thinking it now, so I don’t know why I say it. The words hang in the air between us. I’m sure he thinks I’m a loon. I blew it. I expect him to get up and move somewhere far from me. He doesn’t. He laughs. I know he’s laughing, but I’m not paying attention to the sound. I know he’s laughing because I see his mouth moving. I see his eyes twinkle. It illuminates his entire face and I know he’s laughing at me, but I smile. It’s too contagious. “What about love at first sight?” he asks. He enjoys asking dumb questions, I’m sure of it. If I don’t believe in love, does he expect me to believe in that? “No,” I don’t believe in love at first sight. Maybe infatuation, but not love. You can’t love someone you know nothing about. “Good, I don’t either.” That shocks me slightly. I wanted him to have a different opinion, maybe I wanted him to prove me wrong. “I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I do believe in ‘Koi No Yokan’,” he says. I’m fascinated now. If there was ever a doubt about that, it’s gone. “It’s an untranslatable Japanese phrase. It’s basically the premonition of love. It’s the feeling when you first meet someone that you will inevitably fall in love with them.” When he says that, he looks directly at me with his eyes that look too dark to be brown. It’s the kind of beauty that turns one moment into a personal eternity. When he’s done talking, my cheeks are hot. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. I’m grateful that he doesn’t. ‘Koi No Yokan’. I know I’m going to remember that. The park is becoming more crowded, but I’m not upset anymore. Maybe it’s good to live in the moment sometimes. Maybe everyone does have that voice that reminds them that things may not last very long, but they choose to ignore it. You don’t have to let it consume you. You don’t have to let your happiness revolve around one person either. I want to be happy. Even if it doesn’t last an eternity. Loving is important. Even if it doesn’t last an eternity. Because it’s short-lived doesn’t mean it never happened. The teenagers are still laying on the picnic blanket. I thought they’d be gone by now. Their hands are entwined and her head is on his shoulder. She's still out of his league. Maybe they'll remember this ten years from now, or maybe they won't. For now, I’d say the date was a success. The almost stranger who I’ve had the longest conversation with in 5 and a half months looks at me and smiles, “My name’s Sebastian.” I smile too. “I’m Andrea.”


She was known as a Goddess, one always in a hot spring in her temple. It was small compared to the other gods, but she was visited more often than the others. People travel from miles to see her, and to ask her to grant them a wish. And she does, as long as they offer her something just as valuable. But doesn't take it as far as others have. Never shorten someone's life, never has some trick up her sleeve to deceive anyone. From her generosity she has became a well known name, and also a big target for some. Many have tried ways to kidnap her, trap her, or threaten her to obey to them. And only grant them wishes. All have failed, and as punishment by her. They were publicly humiliated for trying. And usually I would have never thought of trying to take her, she was a goddess, minor or not she could easily have done worst. But when my father started getting ill, we needed the money to survive. After many jobs, late nights, and exhaustion from still never making enough. Soon a group of thugs came to offer more money to do some of their dirty work.

If my family wasn't in such a bad spot I would've said no. I would've kept working, not caring if I was breaking my body to get us by. But even with my mother's and I effort we could hardly make it. I usually went to bed hungry weeks at a time. Making sure bills were paid, and the rest of my family had something to eat. They paid decently enough, and most of what they had me do was scout out a location for them. Be a look out guard, or deliver things for them. I told them I never wish to know what it was I was dropping off, it keeps my soul at ease to just be ignorant of what I was helping with. But this new task, was different. They told me that I was going to see the Goddess, and ask her to be my wife. They said she would yes, they had a reliable source that said it is the only way to capture her without her punishing you. I was reluctant, but the amount they offered was enough to sway me. It could get my family to a stable place, so we won't be fighting an endless battle trying to get ahead. And I could still ask her for a wish, then I could make sure my family never has to struggle again. So I agreed, and spent a week trying to work the nerve to go there. Her temple was just at the outskirt of the town. There were always people there, all waiting to see her. Many came with offerings, she had a few beings made of boulders as her guardsmen to keep the peace. As some were inpatient to see her, and tried to push through. I finally worked the courage to go to her temple, it was later in the night. Fewer people around, and the the cool autumn air easily showed the steam coming from her temple. Leaving a light fog around her temple. I didn't wait long to see her, an hour at most. And when it was my time, I heard my blood rushing in my ears. I concentrated hard to just breathe, nervous to put the plan in motion. A water nymph escorted me to her, the room was heavy with steam, but yet it wasn't suffocating as it would be in a enclosed space. In the middle of the room was the spring, the Goddess floating inside. The room was lit from candles surrounding the springs, illuminating the Goddess.

Dark hair floating elegantly in the water, eyes closed as I approached. As I got closer I realized she was floating on her back, and steam surrounded her body to hide what she didn't want to be seen. Only her arms, legs, shoulders and head were visible. Golden brown skin had an unearthly glow to it, memorizing. She soon opened her eyes and looked right at me. I felt a blush creep in my face as I realized I'd been staring. Looking away to regain my composure she spoke.

"Hello human, what is it that you wish for?" She ask, voice so calming and soft. I looked back at her when she stood up. The water reaching her midriff, steam still covering her chest. I had to remind myself as to why I was here, to stop getting distracted. I'd heard of her beauty, as most Goddess are inhumanly beautiful, but to be in front of an attractive woman was harder then I thought it to be.

I cleared my throat to get myself prepared to accomplish my task. "I do not come for a wish, I-" She looked at me confused but said nothing, curiosity filled her dark eyes. "I would be honored if you would marry me." I said, my voice shaking. Even with the thugs assurance she wouldn't punish me, the memory of seeing all those she had filled my mind. She no longer spoke with a soft calming voice, it was filled with anger. "Marry you? I-" She was cut off, having submerged in the spring. I stood frozen as I saw her figure thrash under the water. After a moment she emerged, coughing violently as if she was trying to catch her breath from drowning. Her face hidden from my view by her hair. Which no longer held it's previous elegance. It cling to her body as she continued to catch her breath.

She spoke again, voice hoarse from the coughing. "How dare you?" She moved her hair from her face. Her skin lost it's unearthly glow, she sneered at me. My heart tried to leave my body as my head raced with all ways she could hurt me, she might even kill me for this. "How dare you!? You selfish man! You have taken me away from my child because you wanted a bride!!?" She yelled, voice echoing off the walls, her words pierced my body. A child? "I could've granted you money, power, status to gain a bride! You fool! You've taken my power!" While glaring at me tears began to fall from her eyes.

"I-What? I-I didn't know. I'm sorry I-" I stopped when she got out of the spring, her body fully exposed but fear over took any interest to look. She began charging at me, I knew I should move but I couldn't. My feet were frozen to the spot, and a small part of my brain told me whatever was to come was deserved. Just as she was about to slap me, I saw her body twitch and she moved at the last moment. Swinging at nothing, and her momentum flung her body to the ground. Hearing her hit the ground, I snapped out of my fear and tried to help her up, when she screamed. "Don't touch m-AH!" She screamed again and curled into a ball. Holding her left hand out, I watched in disbelief as a ring formed on her finger, the ring was glowing as if hot. The skin around turned red, being burned by the ring. It soon dimmed and looked like a simple silver band on her finger. The skin still red as she sat up and looked at me.

Tears continued to fall. "I hope you're happy. You have taken the power of a Goddess, taken me from my child. My lifespan less than half of theirs. They'll be alone, because of you. Nymph!" She yelled out, one quickly ran in and looked shocked at her. "A robe." Was all she said as she sat in a fetal position. I remembered she was still undress, and looked to the nymph leave the room. The nymph quickly came with a robe and helped her put it on.

"I am now your bride, an unwilling one. And while the ring won't let me hurt you, I will still make our lives together torture." She said as she stood up, her eyes red from the tears. But she still looked at me with hatred. My stomach seemed to jump to my throat, this wasn't what was supposed to happen. What am I supposed to do now, I didn't think I'd actually have a bride. How could I handle taking care of someone else now? I started breathing rapidly as she spoke to the nymph. "Call my sister and have her bring my daughter."

Daughter. She had a child, one that aged slower than humans do. I took her away from her daughter. I took away her powers, all because of money. The guilt began to eat at my insides as a bright light filled the room. Next to the former Goddess was another that looked similar to her, which makes sense if she calls them her sister. Golden brown skin, dark hair, in regal clothes. And holding a small bundle that began to coo as soon as the Former Goddess reached them.

"My sister! What happen? What-" The other Goddess looked at her in shock, lightly touching her cheek. "The curse?" She barely whispered, receiving a nod. The Former Goddess took the little girl from her sisters arm and held them close, whispering to the child. The sister looked at me and glared. "You did this to her." She raised a hand and lifted the water out from the spring, and was aiming at me. Just as the water almost hit me, the Former Goddess left hand shot out and pushed her sisters arm. Making the water miss me, hitting the wall with a lot of force. That the building shook on impact. "What?" The Goddess looked to her sister in confusion. "Ugh, stupid ring. Forcing me to protect him. Gah." The Former Goddess said, see looked at me and it was easy to tell she wished she let her sister hit me. "Don't waste your effort sister, it has already been done. I am now mortal, and wed to him." She looked back at her sister with sad eyes. "Please watch over her, let her know of me. Even after I've passed." They stared at each other, speaking in a silent language. The little girl between them, unaware of the misfortune I've placed on her and her mother. "Wait, I'm sorry. This wasn't my intention. Is there a way for me to reverse what I've done?" I said, their heads snapped in my direction. While my blood ran cold, I didn't stop talking. "I wasn't told of what asking you to marry me would cause to you. I'm sorry, I know me just saying so doesn't mean much to you. But please, is there a way to reverse what's been done? Whatever it is, I'll do it." "Would you die to fix your mistake?" Asked the Goddess in a cold tone. My mouth went dry, die? What about my family?

"Wait sister." Spoke the Former Goddess, she still held to the child tightly, but looked at me with more curiosity than hate. "What do you mean you weren't told of what would happen? Were you sent here?" "I-I was sent by a band of local thugs. I was only told to come here and return for a reward that is supposed to get my family to a more financially stable place. So we won't struggle, had I'd been told that asking you would do this to you. I would've said no, and I know you have no reason to believe me. But what I say is the truth, so is there something I can do to fix what I've done?" I pleaded, the Former Goddess looked at her sister who just stared at me. As if looking into my soul to see if I spoke the truth.

"He isn't lying, but even so. We don't know how to break the curse. It was place upon her by our

loving

mother." The Goddess spoke, venom on her lips. The Former Goddess looked hurt for a moment, before concealing her thoughts. "And we haven't spoken to her in centuries, not as if she'd tell us if we asked. Our... our mother is a wicked one. It's best to just make due with what she has thrusted upon me, instead of trying to stop her." She said, guilt ripped through my being again when she looked to her daughter, a small tuff of dark hair was visible from the bundles of blankets. The baby girl still cooed at her mother, small chubby arms wormed their way out of the blankets and reached for her mothers face. "Oh my darling. What I'd do to stay with you." She brought the baby up to her and gave a kiss, tears welling up in her eyes. "I will do all I can to see if there is something that we can do." Her sister said, placing an arm around her in a side hug. Looking at the baby girl, "Even if she isn't yours by blood, she's taken after you." She spoke softly, I shifted weight from foot to foot. not knowing what to do in this intimate moment. "It's better than not trying." "True, but my hopes aren't high sister." "Then I'll keep my hope high for the both of us." She turned to me again, anger still in her eyes. "And you, since she is now your wife I expect her to be well taken care of. She may be a former Goddess, now mortal. But she must be taken care of rightfully. That

work , you do for the thugs will not be suitable to take care of her." "I-But-" My mind was racing, now thinking of how I was going to go home with a bride. Someone else to care for, not as I could ask her to do work to help my family along.

"Sister, enough badgering. I may have been a Goddess but don't forget who I was before becoming well known." They shared a knowing look. "I can handle myself, and it seems you forget he was send here to get me for payment to take care of his family. I can still live here-" "No, that is not proper, this marriage wasn't proper, let's not dwell from tradition so much." They continued to talk as if I wasn't here. "And if he needs money so much your dowry should be enough." "Oh no, don't tell me you kept that? Dowries haven't been used in years sister." "And? Wasn't it good that I saved it? Look now, married to someone who isn't worthy. Let alone someone who can't take care of you. At least with this I can sleep well knowing you'll be okay." Her words struck me, and filled me with more guilt. "You, since you truly regret what you've done to my sister I will spare your life. As long as you take care of her while I find more out about the curse. I will visit her often, and if I hear just ONE thing that you've done. Like hurt her, or deprive her of anything she is worthy of. You will suffer the consequences."

"Sister enough, you know I am more than capable of handling my own issues." The Former Goddess stepped in, looking at her sister with a look I understood since I've seen my younger sister give me. ' I can handle myself, I'm no longer a child .' "Which I would usually agree, but with the ring now stopping you from harming him. Then it will be up to me to punish him." She took the baby girl back, rocking her back and forth. "Mortal I will be back in a days time with her dowry, you will live together and be a couple. I won't let my sisters imagine be tainted. Understood? So you will tell no one, and I mean not a soul of the curse or this plight." My throat felt tight, so I could only nod to let her know I understand. She soon left, in a blinding light just as she came.

"I love her, but she can be so old fashion." The Former Goddess said, looking at me expressionless. "As for her, request. It would be best no one else knows of what is going on, it could cause more issues. So ground rules, if ever in public we are a happily married couple. Though beware of your hand at all time. We will live here, I don't want to join your family and risk being found out. And lastly, don't EVER expect me to fulfill ANY wifely duties in private. Or so help me I will find a way to hurt you. Am I clear?" "Yes ma'am." I choked out, reality fully hitting me full force. Married, to a former Goddess because asking for her hand took her powers. How am I going to explain this to the thugs. It will cause a lot of issues with them, I though biting my lip. "Good. Nymph!" The same nymph from earlier runs in. "Close my temple, without my powers I can no longer grant wishes. Say I've decided to simply be worshipped through prays and offerings. Anyone who tries to come in without permission, have the guards punish them. Severely." She said in a hard tone, she looked over to me briefly. "And I guess since he's my husband now, that he is to be tended to. But as only a guest. His own room, far from mine. He can only give simple orders, anything higher must come from me. Now go and get another guard to go with him to gather his personal things." The nymph looked at me suspiciously but nodded and left us alone.


She couldn't see me coming. She didn't even know I existed. I would just be a face from the street, a stranger that she might have seen before. But i know her. I see the way she swings her hips as she walks. I know that she plaits the under-layer of her hair when she gets nervous, and that she bites her lips when she tries not to cry. I know that every night she goes into her apartment, completely oblivious to the fact that her windows face the street, that everyone can see in. She'll put her hair in a bun, change into some pyjamas, usually shorts and a vest top, and sit on her couch to watch Netflix. Her cat will snuggle into her side, and she will stroke his soft fur as she watches the screen in front of her. Then she will pause it and make herself a drink. It depends on her day. Wine for the bad days, tea for the good. If it's an especially bad day, she takes the wine bottle with her to the lounge area, as opposed to putting it back in the fridge. No boys ever go near her apartment, and on occasion a friend will go in. Here's the thing, Jenny is not the most social of people. Most of her friends are online. So she depends on them to keep her company, but they can't keep her warm at night. Not like I can. As I make my way into the building, wearing my uniform, she walks straight by me. She is talking to someone on the phone, but even still, she takes a break to smile at me as she passes. Her face seemed to glow as her lips curved into a smile. Those lips. She began to climb the stairs, her heels clicking as she walks. That's another thing about Jenny, she is deathly afraid of elevators. Even though she lives on the fourth floor, she would rather climb the stairs, no matter how tired she is, or how many groceries she is carrying. Tonight was the night though. I promised myself i would wait until the day she wore the colour red. Normally she stuck to neutral colours, so that her coworkers don't point it out. They have a habit of doing so, or at least i heard her telling her friends she did. I finished cleaning up the lobby, and made my way to the basement to the 'janitor's office'. It was basically a broom cupboard with a broken desk in it. However, i had access to most of the building's utilities. Though i wasn't trained to go near them. But the maintenance man often refused to show up for work, and issues in the building were not an unusual occurrence. Leaky pipes, rats and blocked water filters were fairly common, especially within the last few months. So with the picture of Jenny in my mind, i made my way over to the breakers, switching the fuse to one that had been previously blown, and allowing the leaky pipe to drip onto it. I heard the unmistakable fizzle of electricity, and made my way to the exit. People in the building could be heard rustling around in their apartments, likely looking for candles or torches. I walked slowly up to the fourth floor, and knocked on her door. "Oh, hello. Can I help?" Her strawberry blonde hair flowed loosely around her shoulders as she leaned her head out of the door, likely trying to see if it was just her apartment. "I was just coming to check on how you're doing. Maintenance has been called, and they should be here soon." I explained with a smile, and her composure seemed to relax a bit. "Would you like to come in?" She stepped back slightly. "Sure. It's Jenny, right?" I followed her into the small apartment, and clicked a torch from my waistband on, so that we could see. I closed the door, and silently turned the lock. "Yes, and i'm really sorry, but i don't actually know your name. Wine?" "Cameron, and yes please." I made my way around the apartment, shining my torch on various items, and taking in the sweet scent of vanilla that stayed around everything that she owned. She made her way towards me, and we sat on her sofas. "I think i have some candles in the kitchen drawer, let me just go check." She smiled as she made her way out of the room. As she left i properly took in her appearance. She was dressed in some black shorts and a white knitted jumper. I could see the straps of a black bralette sticking out from underneath the jumper, and i struggled to hold in a groan. When she was out of sight, i fished the small vial of liquid from my pocket, and poured it into her drink. She returned again, and lit the candles, which gave the room a warm glow, making it seem even more romantic, and i felt my muscles tense. We got to talking, and eventually i saw her eyelids begin to flutter closed, the orange-tinted light shining on her face. I reached out and stroked her face, allowing my fingers to run over the dimples and curves of her face. My pulse raced as I watched her sleep, and then I laid a blanket over her, and sat on the chair opposite her keeping my eyes steady on her as her chest rose and fell. Then, once the lights came back on, i picked her up, and carried her to the elevator, where i pressed the ground floor level. She stirred slightly in her sleep, and i smiled down at her sleeping figure. I carried her out to my van once we reached the bottom, and climb into the back with her. Her delicate wrists were easy to put into the zip ties, but i was careful with the tape over her mouth, sticking it down and placing a gentle kiss over it. I finally had my strawberry blonde angel.


*Please note, this story contains adult themes including child death and suicide, please be aware “What is that damn noise?” Council Leader Clive Peters growled to no one.  He was the only one in County Hall if you didn’t count the cleaners and Clive Peters didn’t.  Jumping up from his desk and leaning through the open door he could still hear it, coming from the main staircase.  Voices?  Sounds like a kid, maybe?  Whoever it was he’d give them something to moan about.

He went back to his desk, admiring the paperwork spread in front of him, his masterplan; a grand vision to really shake the council to its core.  He’d soon show the officers who had the upper hand.  Not elected more than a month he and his party had already begun their radical policy commitments to implement a change agenda: outsource non-essential services, slim down the leadership team, cut spending on wishy washy community programmes.  ‘Trim the fat’ was the policy strap line and by God he’d deliver on his promises.  A shadow at the window in his office door made him look up, it looked like a woman had stopped.  Straightening his tie and running an index finger across his eyebrows he stood to greet his caller and opened the door to no-one.  Looking left and right, nothing.  Peters returned to his desk feeling foolish which made him more cross. That woman from the local paper had been on again, asking about that young man’s death in the building last week.  Going on about allegations of bullying by councillors, a so-called workforce ‘purge’, pushing people to the edge.  He’d got one of his team to draft a statement; how sad it was, change could be difficult, fragile mental state blah blah blah, nothing to do with him.  Yes, the lad worked in his office and yes he’d a lot on his plate at home but he made one too many mistakes and needed to be torn off a strip to set an example to the rest of the team.  Peters thought knocking on what’s-his-name’s thick skull three times shouting, “anybody in there?” was funny.  If some kid can’t cope with a dressing down then that was his look-out and if he goes and kills himself then there’s no one to blame but himself.  Peters couldn’t help it if the lad’s Mum had recently died and he’d recently broken up with his wife after they lost their kid to cancer.  Peters had no time for sob stories. A knock on the office door made Clive jump, “Who is it?”  With no reply Peters pulled the door open and looked one way then the other.  No one about.  The corridors were dark and empty.  Whoever it was must have moved swiftly.  That would be another thing for Peters to point out to the now soon to be departing Chief Executive, staff discipline was pitiful.  His upcoming workforce conference to give the managers a bloody good kicking would make sure they knew their place, no more “Clive”, it was Councillor Peters to you sonny Jim and if you don’t like it, hop it! Bang! Bang! Bang!  The office door shook.  Peters grasped the brass handle and yanked the door open.  There wasn’t a soul about.  The vague hum of a vacuum cleaner over by the stairs was the only sign of life.  One thing Peters didn’t like was practical jokes.  He walked the corridor, looking in at the committee rooms one by one, nothing. He felt oddly uneasy.  He stormed back to his office, slamming the door and glaring at it.  After a few minutes of peace he forgot about the interruption and instead looked at the design for new staff lanyards, decorated with a repeated motivational statement, “Aim High”.  Perfect, straddling the line between patronising and passive aggressive.  The hand wringing liberals would be choking on their herbal teas once they got sight of this!  Wait until they all received their ‘Thinking Caps’, printed hats they were expected to wear accompanied by demands to find ways of saving money; that’ll raise blood pressures. Bang! Bang! Bang!  “Right!” bellowed Peters, rushing out of the door into the pitch darkness, voice echoing.  The lights must be out, or the cleaner turned them off.  He stomped towards the upper landing where County Hall’s wide spiral staircase began and leaned over the brass banister.  There was movement below.  “You, down there, have been playing silly buggers?”  No response.  Peters shivered as someone walked across his grave, to use his mother’s phrase. “Who’s that?” called a small voice with a strong local accent. “It’s the leader of the council, that’s who this is, and I want to know if you’ve been knocking on doors on floor five?”

After a grumbling pause the voice replied, “Did floor five an hour ago.” The sudden wheeze of the vacuum cleaner ended the conversation.  Peters looked about him, confused.  Feeling jittery he put it down to too much coffee and felt his way carefully back to the sanctuary of his office in the pitch black.   It was so dark he had to feel for the door handle, despite thinking he’d left his desk light on.  He felt for the switch on the lamp cord and jumped as his desk was illuminated to show his paperwork had been neatly stacked in a single pile, the lanyard samples laid lengthways across his laptop keyboard, the animated words ‘Aim High’ spinning on his desktop screen.  Shaking his head Peters was bewildered.  He didn’t know how to create a screen saver, hadn’t sorted his paperwork or draped lanyards. “Hello?” he called, nervously.  It was quiet again, a dead silence.  Looking at his watch he gave himself ten more minutes before he’d have to get home, papers to prepare, speeches to correct, job advert for the new Chief Executive to proof read.  A sudden noise made him freeze.  It sounded like breathing, gasping, from out in the corridor.  Slowly Peters moved to the door and opened it a sliver, just enough to peek.  He thought he saw movement, possibly a shadow in the gloom. “You!” he called out, making to give chase when behind him, in the office, a motor began to grind away.  It took Peters a few seconds to realise the office shredder was whirring, chewing through paper.  He flicked the main office light on and froze as the stack of paperwork from his desk, his change blueprint, tumbled into the machine, turning into confetti.   Yanking the cable from the socket he tried to retrieve the remains of his strategy.  Dumping the armful of files on a meeting table he could have sworn he heard a faint voice laughing nearby. “I’ll make you laugh on the other side of your face!” he cursed, spinning around to face nothing but more darkness as the overhead light flickered out.  He could hear his breathing, short and fast.  Peters had had enough of these bloody games and was grabbing what he needed and clearing off home.  His desk light seemed to be working okay so he sat to turn off his laptop. Bang! Bang!  Bang!  This time the noise was deafening, everywhere around him.  Bang! Bang! Bang!  Peters felt the air tremble with each knock.  The laptop started a Windows update which gave him momentary respite to curse before a sudden sharp sequence of three raps on the office window made him look up.  He watched as rapid fingers of frost scraped across the pane.  A gasping voice filled his ears, the words muffled.  He’d demanded the heating was turned right down to save money, but not so he could see his own breath.  Peters never panicked, never got flustered, least of all by easily explained phenomena, but ice didn’t appear so rapidly, did it?  Transfixed, he stepped forward to peer at the glass; a face stared in, ghostly white, eyes hollow making Peters let out a yell and stumble backwards, knocking over his waste bin.  He tumbled to the floor, staring as the pale grey face receded outside his office window, five floors up. Crawling along the coal-black corridor on his hands and knees, below the sight line of windows which were now all being quickly decorated in filigree patterns of frost, Peters dragged his laptop bag and briefcase towards the spiral staircase.  He’d considered then rejected using the lift as the electricity was obviously having a funny five minutes and he didn’t fancy being stuck in there all night, “I’ll kill whoever’s doing this!”

At the top of the stairs, he reached up to grab the brass banister, his knuckles aching with the cold, pulling his hand back, wincing as the biting cold metal took the skin off his fingertips.  A step at a time he eased himself down on his backside, the plummeting temperature making his joints ache.  There was that laughter again, childlike, he spun to look over his shoulder only to see nothing but darkness.  Not seeing his hand in front of his face he felt for his phone and fumbled for the flashlight setting, the meagre light allowed him to see the curve of the staircase as at the first landing his feet hit something, a wastepaper basket, like the one from his office.  Peering dimly he drew a sharp intake of breath, savagely torn paper and cardboard littered the steps.  Surely he’d seen these documents only moments before?  Scrabbling in his briefcase he found it practically empty, the masterplan files he’d saved from the shredder were now spilling from the wastebin, littering the landing where he lay.

Wide eyed, mouth dry, heart pounding, Peters fell still, listening.  Was something coming up the stairs toward him?  Waving the light from his phone he could only make out his steaming breath.  It was a sound not of footsteps but of slithering, sliding, a dragging of something heavy.  He tried to stand, stumbling, too afraid to hold the brass handrail, turning away from the source of the unknown pursuer.  Retreating as quickly as he could he reached the top, following the low wall around where he slumped into a corner, balled up, hugging his knees, terrified, pointing his phone toward the sound closing on him.  Barely breathing he watched unblinking as a small figure came into sight, taking each step as if weighed down.  It was a child, surely?  Shaking his head, Peters refused to believe a kid could be responsible for this.  His shredded documents, the temperature, the eyeless face at the window… “Who are you?” he called. The slight figure carried on its struggling climb, hauling something, a blanket or sheet weighed down by an unseen shape.  Peters drew himself up, there’d been enough fun and games at his expense. “Stop right there sonny Jim, wait until I get my hands…” Peters’ voice trailed off as in the wavering light of his phone he saw the figure up close, a child, a small girl, bald, dressed in a hospital gown, tubes dangling from her nose and frail arms, skin pale in the places where it hadn’t been eaten away.

“Good God!” terrified he looked away, anywhere, seeking escape.  The pale blue ring of the light around the lift button shone just ten feet from where he now stood.  If I can get there, he thought, I can get out of this madhouse.  Running from the apparition, his finger stabbed over and over at the call button.  He heard the whirring of the lift behind the steel doors, screaming, “Come on, come on!”

Behind him he felt something bitterly cold press into the small of his back.  Too afraid to look he leapt aside, swinging around, lashing at whatever it was.  The phone tumbled from his hand, offering only the briefest view of his pursuer, a thin smile on her lips.  He scrambled around for his phone, the child between him and the lift door that now opened, flooding the top floor landing with bright light.  A figure stood in the lift car, a woman.  She stepped out towards him and stood behind the little girl, a hand on her shoulder, nails long, pallid skin clinging to protruding bones.  A thin moan, one he'd heard earlier, made Peters turn and see what’d been hauled up the stairs.  A tall skeletal figure unfolded and nodded to acknowledge first the woman and then the girl before swivelling to fix on Peters with the face seen at his frosted office window, eyes dark, face drawn and ashen. “I don’t know what your game is…” Peters began then fell silent as the figures took a step towards him. “Aim high” whispered the grey faced man, rapped Peters three times hard on his forehead then gave him a shove in his wide chest.  Councillor Clive Peters, arms flailing as he lost his footing, spun around, striking the marble clad wall and brass banister of the staircase at his waist and fell, shrieking, to the floor far below. # This chatter at County Hall would run for years, “If that poor guy from the Leader’s office committing suicide in the gents a few weeks back wasn’t enough, now Peters is found at the bottom of the spiral staircase, broken neck.”

“That wasn’t the worst of it by all accounts.  One of the cleaners heard him fall and found the body. She’s the one who’s grandson killed himself in the building, and her losing her daughter and only great grandchild as well. Apparently the Police still don’t know how Clive fell, or what the chalk marks under his body were about, part of a big circle with symbols and the like so someone said, the rest got vacuumed away before they showed up.” “And another thing, I heard Peters’ mouth and throat was stuffed with paper, round his neck those stupid ‘Aim High’ lanyards!” END


ANALOG PROPERTIES OF DIGITAL CIRCUITS By Andrew Paul Grell “First, let me say good work being able to contact me.  But why on earth would I need a mask? I don’t leap over tall buildings in a single bound, you know, or wear my underwear on the outside, either. And I’ll save you the trouble of asking your next question. I don't have an origin story. I have a hypothesis about what happened. One hypothesis. Obviously neither collectively exhaustive nor, of course mutually exclusive. A sufficient but likely not necessary condition. I’m as much in the dark about the particulars as you are, Toots.” Regent Osgood was ‘cooperating’ in an off-book facility just off Center Street in Manhattan’s civil administration area, tucked between Mr. Jimmy’s Dumpling House and the Mah Jong hangout in Columbus park. The room, complete with the mandatory K-cup machine and coffee accoutrements, could have been used for conferences in any second-tier law practice. Except for the four sets grommets on the table one would assume were for power and data cables but were more suited for shackles and cuffs. Some nuts sunken into the floor were likely to bolt down chairs. President Spade’s visage hung from one champagne-colored wall, next to an American flag and a bit of heraldry bearing the motto “Simul Justus et Pecador.” Appropriate. “Would you mind telling us your hypothesis?” G-7 Morris Grady’s irritation that he had been placed in charge of a woo-woo case, an X-File episode, was clearly evident in is his voice. X-Files weren’t real, and neither was the Fringe Division. “Depends. Ever been a ranch hand? A cowboy? Or are you a city slicker? Rhetorical question, of course. You’re from Brooklyn, you went to Erasmus Hall for High School and then Fordham. So I’ll talk about the hypothesis under the rubric that I was on a U.N. sanctioned, United States supported environmental mission to Mongolia. The part they used to call Outer Mongolia. I’m a rancher with a PhD. I help other ranchers, well, ranch. My purview was to identify range and arable land that wasn’t spoiled by waste products from China’s incessant search for rare earth metals, mitigate existing contaminated deposits, and determine the effects on wild forage, fodder, and planted crop farming. We picked 30 test zones and classified each zone by contamination level and by soil abundances of various rare earth metals. One of the co-op fields, the modern version of the family-based Arad system, had a statistically significant advantage over the others. I was invited to a congratulatory harvest celebration. Seven days of eating meat cooked between saddle and horse’s back, fermented mare’s milk, and the finest vegetable produce in either Inner or Outer Mongolia…” “Mr. Osgood, what does this party have to with your, um, change?”  G-6 Loretta Mitchell was apparently in charge of keeping the wheels on the wagon. “Listen, Toots, I just laid out everything you need to know if you want to try to find a cause.” Regent lit up an American Sprit black, scanned the Feds’ faces, and blew a few smoke rings. “Mr. Osgood, there’s no smoking in the building.” “Obviously, Budrick, that’s not an operational statement. Since I’m smoking. Right here in the building. Be a good boy and grab a couple of the sugar cubes next to that fancy coffeepot. Chop chop.” Morris decided to play along and se where this would lead. He tossed the sugar in front of the visitor, who fished the lighter back out of his pocket and slid it over to the head Fed in exchange. “Light the hexahedron on fire, Bubba.” Try as he might, even with the fancy torch lighter, Morris couldn’t set it ablaze. “Sweety, be a doll and get a cup of water over here, would you?” She came back with it, following her boss’s lead. The stony guest handed the smoke to Loretta. “Rub some of that ash onto the sugar and try it now.” The cube burned with a light like a dim candle, and she tossed it into the water before she lost any fingers. Regent crushed out his smoke in the interstice between three wood knots on the old-growth table, pushed his chair toward the wall—it wasn’t bolted to the floor—and put his back to his hosts as he stood up. “I don’t think we’re finished, Mr. Osgood,” Loretta tossed out. “Of course not, Toots. If you want me, I’ll be on a bench in the little park across from Foley Square. Smoking.” The two Feds gave it enough time, they decided, to let their star think he could autohelicate. On the contrary, Regent was waiting, smoking, tossing peanuts to the family of squirrels in one of the park’s paltry trees. He had three falafels, a Snapple Peach Iced Tea for Morris and a Boylan’s Birch Beer for Loretta spread out on the bench. The pair’s facial expressions posed their shared question for them. “Really? What kind of chimera superhero would I be if I didn’t know what you folks had to drink with your lunch? When President Spade put out the tweet about the coffee trade deal with West East Timor, it took me about 12 seconds to find the coffee importer who had just made a contribution to the Spade campaign and would net about thirty million from the deal. And then another 12 seconds to flood the tweet with replies about the real story. But that’s not what you’re after, is it? Neither of you are enamored of the “best head of state” in the history of the world, are you?” “Why don’t you tell us more about what happened, now that we’ve all had our needs met? Or have we?” Loretta was not going to let Regent’s use of “Toots” go unchallenged. “Alright. The lucky range land was laced through and through with Didymium compounds. When we ran tests, it had gotten into the crops, the fodder, the livestock. Not enough to be poisonous, or even dangerous.” “Sorry, what is Didymium,” Morris asked.

“The rejected element. It’s really two elements that always wind up close to each other, but never chemically joined. Neodymium and Praesidium. It’s used to make very specialized glasses for difficult environments. There’s a lesson in that. Sometimes you think you have a thing, and then you find out it’s a different thing. We now think that Neodymium, in the presence of some other agent in the soil of that part of Mongolia, passes through the blood-brain barrier. Whatever it is that happened…” The telling of the tale was interrupted by the noise of two protests; one in front of City Hall and the other heading off the Brooklyn Bridge fifty yards away. “In any event, when I woke after almost two days asleep, and let me tell you, there is no hangover like a fermented mare’s milk hangover, I fished my tablet out of my pack and put it on the table in the room in the Yurt they had given me. I bent down to turn it on. But it beat me to the punch. It turned itself on. No hitting the home button, no PIN, no password, no biometrics. When I finally scanned the news, anything that looked like a lie was printed in orange, anything that looked true was green. I showed it to some of my team and some of the ranchers, nether group saw the color change. But neither group had reached the heights of inebriation or gluttony to which I had scaled that week.” “Nobody else had any effects?” Loretta returned to cop mode. “Bolomaa kept the stud book and was also the IT mistress as well as being the ‘school marm’ when class was in session. She was known as a hard partyer. She said the letters would dance on the screen and then say something else. Not many of the co-op members had any use for computers, though. But here’s the kicker. The goats started to steal anything with digital circuitry. Phones, laptops, PlayStations, anything. They wouldn’t give up their loot until someone came up with some chaffehay and ivy. I have some thoughts about a mechanism. But your mission is to weaponize me, isn’t it, Toots? Or at least duplicate what happened to me? Does your little boutique intelligence agency use honeypots as a tool? Perhaps we can work something out if you ditch the stiff.” There was a round of the trio valiantly attempting to tell the minds’ constructions in each other’s faces. The unanimous, but silent, agreement, was to sop up the remaining Tahina with the cut-off pita tops. “I think a deal is a good idea, Mr. Osgood.” “Funny, I know you have some issues of your own, but I never thought of you as a pimp, pal. You don’t even really know what I do; what kind of deal do you think you can make?” “We’d like to hire your superpower.” “And I would like to deal with people who know what they’re doing. How could you possibly think I would respond to money. I know every earnings report that’s exaggerated or finessed. I know every workout from every track between Belmont and Santa Anita that was fudged before it got to the Daily Racing Form. Take a powder, Pally, perhaps the dame got a higher score on the GMAT logical reasoning section than you did. Pick another bench, if you want to make sure things stay kosher. But you’re out of this loop. Welcome to Dumpsville, buddy, population you.” Agent Grady had no choice to do a lateral reverse and pick a bench with a view of his partner and the questionable character.” “Well, Regent. May I call you Regent?” “Of course, Loretta.” “What is the thing we don’t understand? It’s a little unfair of you, since you never got around to telling us.” “Analog properties of digital circuits.” “Come again?” “Heh, I wish. I talk a good game, but connubiality is off the table until I know more about what I’ve become. Did you ever plug something in and see a spark? Or turn on a wall switch and hear a little crackle? It would have been when you were little; they’ve pretty much engineered that out. You know, the special outlets where things are wet, kitchens and bathrooms. The ones with little lights and the button that says ‘TEST’? whenever a contact is made, just before, there’s a little tiny spark you wouldn’t notice. At that point, switches aren’t binary on or off. They’re in between. The spark sends out a tiny, little radio wave. I believe that what got into me allows me to receive those waves. Not from light switches, but from the trillions of flops from integrated transistor circuits. You know, your boss looks like he’s going to have a stroke. Should we let him back into the fold? Will this affect your career?” “Trust me, Reg. Let him stew. What do the radio waves tell you?” “Nothing really, it’s just clicks and pops to me. It’s what happens next that’s interesting. When I see the results of the flops as emails or Farcebook posts, I see the orange and the green. I also see red—a message that is intended for ‘good’—and blue for ill intent. Makes it easy for me, but there has to be something behind it. A field of force with an associated particle. I’m calling it the Qi particle. You know, remember the fad last century with Feng Shui? Qi is the driving force behind that.” “You said you were a chimera. What are you a combination of?” “I guess I’m a mash-up of a person and the digital world. The Qi field is persistent across time. I’m guessing that’s how I can find out about dangerous people by looking up and down their timelines. Oddly enough, and wiggle your fingers if I’m boring you, but if I know precisely how true something is, I can have no idea of how good or bad it is. The Qi field, if it exists, follows Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.” “Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise. Didn’t somebody prove that there are some true things that just cannot be proven to be true?” The digital prognosticator now looked at the agent from a new angle, possibly an angle Euclid never imagined. “Yes, Kurt Godel, Einstein’s buddy at Princeton. So, Loreta… I showed you mine…” “You might not like this.” “I don’t like colonoscopies, but I have to deal with them.” “Talk about TMI! Morris’s boss gave us a mission to find a mole. My partner doesn’t know all of the details.” “But you do?” “I do.” Morris was leaning forward on the bench, and the squirrels were scared at the program of tics and twitches that Fed displayed. “It was his idea to try to turn you into an asset.” “And he’s the subject of the investigation, but he doesn’t know it?” “Yup. Got anything for me?” “Close your eyes and count backwards from a hundred.” By the time she got to 72, DataMan had an answer. “I don’t know if he’s the mole you’re looking for. But in 2017, he shared a bit of information about an Israeli modification to their FA-18as with a counterpart in MI6 in exchange for World Cup tickets. Does that do you?” It was Loretta’s turn to invent new angles with which to view the reluctant recruit. “Listen, Reg, do you like Pina Coladas?” “Sure thing. Do you like walks in the rain?”


The view from my penthouse pales in comparison to the breathtaking majesty of the Italian countryside. God’s country. Gréve, Italy.

Abundant grapes line the countryside, defining infinite rows.

Lush hillsides roll, lazily, climbing to the clouds, where lanky, emerald firs reach towards Heaven.

Clumps of dry, brown earth peek through a green carpet, lightly dust my feet, powdering the cracks between my toes.

Only my sleek, Bruno Magli’s hint of my fast-paced lifestyle back home.

Soon, I’ll leave all traces of my City life behind, maybe except for the time before I met Collette and Noah -- that past defines my very existence.

Now, I’m teetering between New York City minutes and Gréve’s state of grace.

Balance. I need balance. Italy restores the delicacy of the dance.

It always does. The night Collette stumbled over me in the gutter altered my reality.

Not because she and her boyfriend ripped me from my nightmarish haze, but because she apologized.

Her life changed, too, because she saw me through her soulful eyes.

They were kind, nonjudgmental eyes - different.

After all, I was just another homeless vagrant who interrupted the click of her Jimmy Choos

on the New York City street.

No…

The sounds of her clacks and taps made music on the pavement, even in their pause – a rest written into what would become the symphony of my new life.

Even her companion, Noah, stopped to help, instead of hurrying her along towards expected bliss.

Another interval amidst the crescendo of my chaos.

“I’m so sorry – I didn’t see...

Noah - ” Collette requested. “I know.

Let’s help her up.

What is your name?” His sturdy six-foot frame towered over my frail and crumpled body.

His touch, gentle and so foreign to my desecrated skin, contradicted my filth, my own revulsion for myself.

“Collette, I don’t know if she can speak.

She must be freezing. It’s below zero tonight.” His clear, green eyes sparkled with emotion in the moonlight. “We’re only two blocks away from the hotel-

Listen, miss, can you walk with us?

Let us help you.”

Collette’s words seemed unreal to me; after all, this couple seemed to be just like every other young, wealthy twosome, walking through midtown after an evening of $100 filet mignons and $20 martinis.

Of course I could speak, but the shock of their kindness prevented any words from forming.

Were they really talking to me?

I had always been so alone with my thoughts.

Resolutely determining things would be different soon.

************************************************************ Thwarted by melancholy.

Dejected.

Alone.

Only Collette’s faith restored my strength.

After all, my desire to flirt with happiness eluded me for so long, until her kindness and Noah’s respect for life provided me comfort. They took me to their lodging for the evening as if I were their prodigal best friend.

I allowed myself to anticipate long forgotten riches while we walked – cleanliness, a soft bed, crisp sheets, heat - treasures that most people take for granted in their commonplace.

Could the possibility of returned simplicity, of mundane moments, ever heal my soul?

The crackling fire warmed my freezing body that night in their hotel room. This same body almost claimed by winter’s breath tempting me towards a better hell than life on the streets.

Noah’s gentle wisdom replaced my not so naïve disappointment.

His compassion fed my spirit. Collette’s humanity restored my sense of self and promised me hope.

The strangers’ eyes touched my heart.

************************************************************ “I’m Collette, and this is Noah, my fiancé.

Can you tell us your name?”

Understandably, Collette was still convinced of my muteness. It seemed strange to me, how Collette spoke to me as if I were the same as she. I was usually lucky if people stepped over me instead of on me.

But apparently, Collette was one of a kind, radiant in her beauty. Everything about my interactions with Collette and Noah were different.

“My name is Kalaya. Kalaya Jacquelynn Lavery.” I finally responded. “Wow - What a striking name.”

She continued to speak to me as if we were long, lost friends. “Thanks. But it’s no more striking than the fact that you brought me here.

That’s pretty unusual, you know, for people to take an interest in a vagabond.” I tried to stop the sarcasm from seeping through my words. Immediately, her dark eyes turned away in sadness.

“Sorry, that sounded all wrong. You’ve been very kind.” “Don’t worry about it.

It probably is kind of weird that we brought you here, but I couldn’t leave you out there.

It’s bitter outside.

I don’t want to get too personal, but do you mind if I ask if you have anyone to help you?”

Innocently asked. My initial response was to scream at her. To say, yes, sure - my family lives in a mansion on a hill, but I chose this high life, instead, just to see how the other side lives, for kicks.

But I caught my words before they carelessly tumbled from my mouth.

If for no other reason than the fact that although I did not consciously decide to become homeless, I didn’t do anything to prevent it.

Collette did not deserve my terse response. “No.

My family is gone, and since I’m not exactly inviting anyone over for dinner parties, I haven’t kept in touch with any long lost friends.”

This time, I couldn’t avoid my biting tone.

“Listen, I appreciate your interest in trying to help me, but I don’t belong here.”

The truth was, that I did not belong anywhere.

How could I explain to these nice people that at one point in my life, not too long ago, I was just like both of them?

That I am educated, well, at least by most standards?

How could I describe the agony of my life with Luke until Amelia became my purpose, only to suffer the loss of them, too?

But perhaps the most difficult to justify to Collette and Noah, complete strangers, was the fact that I discarded my own Self in hopelessness.

Dejection claimed my resilience until my very own will was starved. “Well, that settles it.

You’ll have to stay here, at least for tonight.

Noah and I are in town for a trade show, and we’ve reserved several rooms for our employees.

One of our co-workers decided to commute from Jersey, so there happens to be an extra room.

We were planning on canceling it after dinner, but now, we don’t have to.” Was she for real?

“I can’t accept such a generous offer.

You’ve already been kind enough.

A room here is too much and I can clearly never repay the debt.

Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

My refusal sounded so resolute, but in my mind, I already accepted the possibility of actually sleeping on something other than concrete and waste, if only for just one night.

“Don’t be ridiculous.

We get to write the rooms off as a business expense anyway, so it really isn’t a problem at all.

Please, let us do this small thing for you.”

Collette’s request seemed so sincere, and did it really matter?

She offered, and I would have been a fool not to accept.

So, I did.

And that night changed the course of my life. ************************************************************ Living on the streets taught me many lessons, to say the least.

Sleeping through abnormally loud noise, even chaos, remains one of the most useful tricks.

Eventually, a muffled, but persistent knocking awakened me from the deepest, most peaceful slumber I had had in three years. “Excuse me, miss.”

Knock, knock.

“Miss?

Room service here.

Miss?

Are you in there?”

Reluctantly, I cracked the door and peered out, “I’m sorry.

I didn’t order room service.”

“I know.

Miss Collette took the liberty of ordering for you.

She also asked me to deliver this note.

Good day, miss.” Miss Collette?

How often does she stay here?

Swimming in confusion, I read Collette’s letter: Dear Kalaya,

I hope you slept well last night. I had to be at the show early  this morning, but I wanted to invite you to lunch today.

Please, don’t feel obligated, but if you’d like, meet me at

noon on the corner of 11th Avenue and 34th Street.

I’ll wait

for you until 12:15. I have a proposition for you.

If you

choose not to come, I understand, and I wish you much

health and safety.

Cheers, Collette

Really, the whole situation was bizarre. I was homeless and here was this fairy godmother?

Not likely.

But still, here I slept, in this posh hotel, accepting free breakfast in bed from a beautiful, sleek, dark eyed stranger. Experience taught me that nothing in life is free, but if for nothing other than curiosity, I decided to meet Collette; but not before drenching myself in the hottest, most glorious shower I could remember. When I arrived at 11th and 34th,

Collette was already there waiting for me. “Hi, Collette.”

“Hey!

You came! I’m so glad - let’s go.

We can talk over lunch.

I’m starved.” Her rhythmic stride started to echo again in my ears.

“Wait.

Listen – this is all just not right.

I can’t -

You don’t even know me.

I’m a homeless street person, for God’s sake. I shouldn’t have come.

You should have just left me alone last night.

- I just wanted to say thank you.” “You’re welcome.

I know.

This has been out of the ordinary for me, too, but maybe it’s kismet.

Just come to lunch.

Then, you can decide never to talk to me again if you want.

I promise.” *********************************************** “What are you grinning about, Kalaya?” Collette asked with a smirk. The car ride gave us time to talk. “Was I grinning?” “Like a rockstar.” “Hmm, I didn’t realize that I had any expression at all.

I was thinking about the first night I met you and Noah.

I guess it always involuntarily makes me smile.

When I think of how short my life might have been if you and Noah hadn’t rescued me – I was ready to give up.

After three years on the streets, I had no fight left inside, but then you came along.

I’m just constantly grateful.

Everyone’s life flickers in such a brief flame – some brighter than others, but every life, every moment, incendiary.” “Noah and I didn’t do anything but offer you the opportunity that was so unfairly confiscated from your past.

You did the hard stuff.

You resurrected yourself from hell and put yourself back together.” “Great.

A real, live Humpty Dumpty.”

“You are ridiculous, Kalaya..

But actually, your feistiness and sarcasm made me see your strength of mind.

Your raw disdain tugged at my heartstrings.

Besides, after all this, I’ve decided we’re kindred spirits.

Sometimes, people just click, and it’s up to each of us to help one another.

I was just doing my part.” “Noah is a lucky man to have such a bleeding heart for a wife.

You two together will change this world, do you know that Collette?

In fact, you already have.

You saved me, after all. I used to be unable to wear my heart on my sleeve. Expressions of homeless people have to be blank, because otherwise, the fear would consume us, and make us targets for people who lost their souls.

I guess I subconsciously avoided dealing with life at all. Replacing instinct with any luxury of feeling allowed me to survive for three years.” “I can’t believe you lived on the streets of New York City for three years.” “Neither can I.

But more amazing is the fact that you and Noah never ask me questions about why.” “We always figured you’d talk when you were ready.

I asked you an adequate amount during lunch the second day we met.

Besides, you did the hard stuff – I only offered you a job.” “We sat for only twenty minutes.

All you asked me then was why I didn’t already have a home or a job.” “Your answer sufficed. You said that you had been hurt; your family was gone; and you lost your desire to come back from it all.

I saw the pain on your face and the sincerity in your eyes.

Everyone deserves a second chance, right?

I figured Noah and I would be yours. I had nothing to lose.

You told me that you finished your first year of college in 1993. You just needed another chance to make a new life. It was our privilege to give that to you.” ************************************************************ The memories flood back every time I close my eyes.

I have learned to steal rest between ungodly hours of the night and the wee hours of the morning, just before getting up for work, but I’m always tired.

If I’m not careful, they can consume me again – the memories -

tossing me back into the tempest of my past. That’s why I came to love Gréve.

It calms me.

The pain of transcending one life into the next weaves itself tightly with the fear of what could be and what was.

Light. Hope. Endings. Beginnings.

The perfectly blended rainbow transformed the blandness of my days past to reinvention.


It was truly amazing what one could find on the Internet, Trevor thought as he fussed nervously with his tie in the mirror. The last thing he thought he’d be doing at this stage of his life was getting ready for a date, yet here he was, primping and preening like a teenager. First dates are always anxiety-inducing affairs, even when you’re 38-years old, and the sad fact that Trevor had never been on one before made it all the more so for him. He regarded his reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t ugly, per se. In fact, he wasn’t much of anything. Distinctly average was perhaps the best description of his appearance. The reason for his non-existent romantic life, he knew, was neither his looks nor his personality, but rather his unique hobby. Trevor was a serial killer. Frequent homicidal urges didn’t make one a bad person, though, contrary to common conception. Trevor wasn’t evil - he’d never so much as kicked a puppy in his life. He strove diligently to be a decent, upstanding member of society. He paid his taxes, obeyed all traffic laws, gave to charity, attended mass at St. Marks twice a year at Christmas and Easter, and regularly baked his specialty - lemon cakes - for his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Wentworth, even though she had an annoying tendency to play the radio too loud when she’d forgotten her hearing aide. He was an all-round nice guy and believed his indulgence in the occasional murder-for-fun should not define him as an individual. Some men golfed in their spare time, some fished, some drank and played cards. Trevor killed. No big deal. He liked to think of it as a public service. The world was dangerously overpopulated as it was, and who hasn’t contemplated cold-blooded murder when sitting in traffic, or stuck in line for hours at the bank? His morally questionable extra-curricular activities, however, made for a life of lonesome longing. Trevor was a human being, first and foremost, with all the attendant needs and desires of one. He just wanted to be understood; to be loved not in spite of his flaws but because of them. He’d confessed all this to a therapist once and she’d nodded in sympathy. She hadn’t replied, most likely because she was bound and gagged, and somewhat preoccupied with the sight of the large knife in Trevor’s hand, at the time. That brief flash of human connection, though, had only left him wanting more. Realistically, Trevor knew he wasn’t ideal boyfriend material and he’d largely accepted his perpetual bachelorhood as an unintended consequence of his deadly deeds. Until he stumbled on the innovative new dating site that changed everything. Blindmatch.com? Sounds like a dating site for the visually impaired, Alexa thought. She’d done the whole online soul-mate search thing to death with no success, but she created an account on the site anyway. Hope springs eternal and all that. She found the concept refreshingly appealing – there were no superficial profiles or obviously-fake pictures. Blindmatch simply tracked its users' search histories and then connected individuals with similar interests. Blind dating in the 21 st Century. At the ripe old age of 34, Alexa was still mired firmly in spinsterhood. She wasn’t a ‘looker’ as her mother had been fond of reminding her, and she knew Victoria’s Secret wouldn’t be calling anytime soon. Or ever. That wasn’t the sole cause of her single status, though. The main reason, she thought, was her unique hobby. Alexa was a writer. Strictly bush-league, for now, but it was an after-hours activity she devoted herself to heart and soul. It was only through the expression of the written word that Alexa felt truly alive, in control, and able to understand the world that, to her, was otherwise a mystery. She wrote because she had to – it was as necessary as breathing – and she hoped someday to make a career of it. Writers, by nature, are a queer, reclusive bunch. Alexa was painfully shy, socially awkward in the extreme, and thus, wholly unsuited to a long-term relationship, in her own harsh view. Still, she secretly longed to meet a man who shared her passion; who truly understood her. ‘Mr. Write’ she jokingly called her fictitious knight in shining armor. Or had, until her mother had bluntly told her that making stupid puns like that was the reason she was still single as she barrelled headlong towards middle-age. The light at the end of the tunnel came in the guise of Blindmatch.com, but a week after joining, Alexa had yet to receive a single match. She wasn’t really surprised. Her online searches varied wildly depending on the story she was currently working on. Only a writer would research such a diverse array of topics as she. Alexa hoped if she waited patiently, the site would eventually pair her with someone just like herself. It happened midway through the second week, while Alexa was looking up gruesome points of fact for a new horror story she had in the works. Bing! You have (1) new match. Name: Trevor Compatibility rating: 98% The rendezvous was set for Bean There, Done That, a quaint little coffee shop downtown whose name had always delighted Alexa. It also seemed an apt description of her online love exploits to date. This time, however, would be different. She could feel it. She clearly had a lot in common with the mysterious Trevor . What could possibly go wrong? Alexa arrived early, took an out-of-the-way corner table, and waited in anxious anticipation for the arrival of her potential paramour. She’d told him in their single email exchange that he’d recognize her by the red dress she would be wearing. It seemed fitting – red was not just Alexa’s favorite color, it was also the shade of love , of passion , of… … Glorious, gushing arterial spray! Trevor thought with delight when he first clapped eyes on the plain-Jane waiting for him at the corner table, wearing the red dress that beckoned him forth like some blood-bathed beacon. What an auspicious omen! Sparks were going to fly, Trevor felt sure of it. At first, none did. Introverts are like parallel lines – ideal companions but rendered by their very nature tragically never to meet. When fate intervenes – as it had here in the form of Blindmatch.com – the results can be somewhat less than spectacular. Their initial exchanges were clumsily negotiated, nary a spark in sight. This proved immensely frustrating for both of them. They knew they had much in common, yet still they persisted in meaningless small talk in an attempt to break the ice that remained steadfastly frozen in place. It was Alexa who decided to take the initiative. While she cared not a fig for the number of Trevor’s prior sexual partners, she’d been led to believe it was customary to ask the question upfront. She decided to do it by way of a line she’d heard in a movie once. “So, what’s your body count?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant but sounding, instead, chalant as all hell. Trevor seemed not to mind. He was, in fact, astounded that the timid looking woman before him had asked the question so boldly, so openly! He carefully considered his response. His true victim tally stood at nine, but he didn’t want Alexa to think him obsessed , so he prudently rounded down. “Five,” he replied. “How about you?” Encouraged, Alexa broke out another cool-sounding movie line. “Oh, a lady never tells. But don’t worry, I have a few skeletons in my closet.” Ah, a collector. Trevor’s respect grew. The first sparks were beginning to appear; the ice was well on the melt. Alexa wanted nothing more than to quiz Trevor about his work but, as an aspiring author herself, she knew the only thing a writer liked less than being asked what they were currently working on was not being asked what they were currently working on. She decided to approach the issue obliquely. “So, when did you first discover your passion?” “It was always there, I believe,” Trevor replied, relieved to at last get a chance to speak about his life's work. “But, sadly, apart from some dabbling in my teens, I only truly embraced my calling a few years ago.” “Oh, I can so relate.” Alexa, too, had attempted writing as a youth – angst-ridden journal entries, mostly – but had only recently gotten serious about it. “It takes a measure of maturity, don’t you think?” Trevor agreed wholeheartedly. “I’m still very much an amateur, though – “ “My dear Alexa, we all are! And what a beautiful thing that is. Did you know the word derives from the Latin amare, for love? An amateur, therefore, is someone who does something purely for the love of it.” Trevor had picked up this tidbit from a linguistics professor a while back. The guy had been a font of useful information during the hours of his slow torture. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” This thrilled Alexa no end. She loved how writers picked up little things like that in the course of their work. “Oh, Trevor, that’s beautiful! I have to confess, though – “ “Yes?” "I told this to my therapist once and he just didn’t get me, you know?" she laughed self-consciously at the memory. "Don't worry, I got rid of him after that." Something else they had in common! Trevor nodded eagerly for her to continue. “Well, I sometimes fantasize about becoming famous, like the greats. Of being discovered. It sounds silly, but – “ “Not at all!” The walls of Trevor’s apartment were adorned with pictures of his idols – Manson, Gacy, Bundy. He, too, secretly dreamed of one day joining them in infamy. “I think of that often as well. Dreams are the refuge of the sane mind, after all.” Alexa could only stare dreamily at the marvelous man before her. There he sat, in the flesh – Mr. Write ! So what if he looked like an accountant? They were cut from identical cloth, which was all that mattered. Passing mere love, Alexa was well on the way to infatuation and whatever lay beyond. “Trevor?” she asked when she felt herself able to speak again. “Would you mind terribly if I asked for some tips? I’m desperate to improve in any way I can.” “I would be honored to help you, Alexa. Which part do you struggle with the most?” She had no shortage of story ideas, but for Alexa, the gap between concept and implementation was often broad and she frequently felt herself unequal to the leap. “The hardest thing for me is usually the execution.” “Ah, yes. So important, the execution. It’s the crux of the whole matter, you could say.” Trevor could sermonize on the finer points of dispatching a victim for hours, but he chose to keep it brief. “Your biggest enemy there is doubt, and her close companion: hesitation. When it comes to successful execution, Alexa, you need to be bold, to trust your instincts and, most of all – “ he leaned over the table and tapped his finger gently on her chest. “Follow your heart, my dear. It will never steer you wrong.” Had she not been sitting down, Alexa may well have fainted with desire just then. Her soul-mate search was at an end, at last. “Always remember, the pen is mightier than the sword,” Trevor added. Alexa melted in her seat. That was her favorite adage! She had it tacked to the wall above her writing desk and told him so. “Of course you do.” Trevor had expected nothing less. It was homicide 101 – disposal of the murder weapon, always vital, was so much easier when the offending objects were of benign, household origin. Why use a machete when a Mont Blanc would suffice? That was his motto. Trevor had once murdered a man with nothing more than a handheld eggbeater, a length of twine, and three toothpicks. He smiled at the pleasant recollection. Feeling completely understood for the first time in her life, Alexa had to restrain herself from leaping over and ravaging him on the spot. Trevor felt much the same – he, too, had sailed happily past infatuation and adoration was but a distant memory.

Gazing lovingly into each other's eyes, they silently thanked their lucky stars for leading them to Blindmatch.com, and - through the wonders of data mining technology, and a blatant disregard for Internet user privacy - to each other. As the delightful date neared its conclusion, both Trevor and Alexa were thinking ahead to their next meeting. As far as each was concerned, it couldn’t come soon enough. As they began their goodbyes with great reluctance, Trevor gathered up his courage and prepared to ask the big question . Had he a ring ready, he would surely have requested Alexa’s hand in marriage – and she would have surely agreed – but, as it was, his planned proposal was of far greater importance. Trevor got down on one knee, looked up at the object of us infinite affection, and asked, “Alexa, would you do me the honor of working with me?” “You mean like a collaboration?” “Yes, dear heart, that’s exactly what I mean.” “Of course!” she squealed in delight. “Trevor, I would love nothing more.” “Do you want to come over to my place tomorrow night, then?” “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away! We’ll need to think of a subject, though…” Alexa trailed off, contemplating trying something out of her comfort zone. A story set in history would make a nice change of pace. “I’ll always love the contemporary blood-‘n-guts stuff, you know? But I’m tempted to experiment a bit. Why don’t we do something... older, perhaps?” “Excellent! I have just the subject in mind,” he replied with a grin, thinking of his noisome neighbor. Something older indeed. As they parted, Trevor couldn’t quite believe his luck. Who said romance was dead? He’d have to stop at the store on his way home to pick up the ingredients for a batch of lemon cakes. He wasn’t quite sure of the exact sedative dosage required for the effective incapacitation of an octogenarian, but he knew where to come by that information. It was truly amazing what one could find on the Internet.


I shouldn’t be doing this… “I think I want to go with them…” Bertramus choked on the words as he said it. The acrid smoke from his father-in-law’s mahogany pipe scratched its way into Bertramus’ nostrils and clawed at his throat. He kept his gaze at the half-eaten plate in front of him, but he could still feel Gisella’s icy gaze from across the table. The crackling fire in the hearth behind her did nothing to warm his wife’s stare. Her father spoke first. “No. You don’t.” Puffs of smoke billowed out after every word. “You will stay here. Be responsible. And do the right thing for your family.” He thrust the wet end of the pipe at Bertramus. “You’ll stay and keep my daughter happy and our bellies full.” Bertramus didn’t have a response. His father-in-law was right, it was his duty to stay. But this was his dream, his legacy that eagerly awaited him. The opportunity would not last long, and his friends would go with or without him. Could Bertramus really stand by and watch them live out grand adventures when he just tended his father-in-law’s shop?

But could he really leave his wife, and her family? His family. Bertramus couldn’t imagine doing either. So he sat there. Saying nothing. The fire crackled and hissed in the dark silence. “I thought you were happy.” His wife’s voice cut through the fog. He still tried to avoid looking into her eyes, one glimpse at her tears and he knew he would buckle.

“I am happy. Very happy. But…” he wrung his fingers underneath the table, fraying the edges of his overcoat. More seconds passed, with nothing but a mouse-ish

sniffle from his wife. Bertramus tried to clear his throat. “It’s not forever. Only five years. At the most.” “Five years is too long. Even one year is too long!” His Father-in-Law said. “Who will run our books? Who will look after my daughter, your wife , when I die?” The embers in his pipe glowed a fierce orange. “Papa, you’re not dying,” Gisella said, forcefully. Her father gave a humph and took a long drag of smoke. His eyes strangled Bertramus with every tendril he exhaled. Gisella turned back to Bertramus. “Why do you want to abandon us? We’ll go under, you know that don’t you? We can’t keep up with the orders you’ve put in place. We don’t know the procedures, we don’t know the manufacturers. Last time you were sick for only a week, and we lost two dozen clients!”

“Enico can handle the books, I’ve been showing him how for the last few months. And I’ve already let our clients know that he will be a temporary replacement for me. And if things get too bad, I can just come back.” “You’ll be half an empire away, you won’t be able to come back in any timely manner. And what if you don’t come back at all! You’re always sick doing this ‘easy life,’ as you call it! The journey just to get to the valley would kill you. I couldn’t stand it.” Gisella turned her face away, hiding a small tear. Bertramus reached across the table to try to grab her delicate hand. “Come with me then.” He shouldn’t have said it. He knew it before the words had left his mouth, but the dam had broken, or at least cracked. There was no going back now, he resolved. His wife stared at him in shock, pulling her hand away. Gisella’s father slapped the oaken table. “See, I told you. He wants me gone. Just leave me to die alone huh? Why not just kill me right here, you coward.” His father-in-law threw a gravy soaked knife clattering across the table at him. Bertramus loved his father-in-law, and the thought of him dying alone was torturous.

“You know we can’t leave him, Bertramus.” Gisella gripped her fathers thick leathery arm. “Papa, we’re not leaving you, that would be madness.” “Tell him that then! Dream’s aint worth shit, boy, if you got no one around to share them with! When my wife died, gods rest her soul, I would have killed myself if not for Gisella. Your wife, I remind you again! And now you want to just spit on us and abandon us!” His face was menacing with the stark firelight casting shadows across every weathered crease. “Calm down Papa, you’ll go into a fit.” She patted his arm. “He’s not going to leave us.” “You are my father, you know what you’re saying isn’t the truth, you know I have love for you.” Bertramus finally looked up and matched his wife’s gaze. “And you know I love you . But I can’t just sit around and wonder what-if. I want a legacy.” “You have a legacy! The business is thriving!” His father-in-law said, throwing his hands up. “With all due respect, sir, this is your legacy. They know your name, they know your business. You built it, I’m only maintaining it.” Bertramus saw the rage etch deeper into his father-in-law’s face, and put his hands up instinctively. “I am forever indebted to you for allowing me to run your business, and to marry your daughter. But can’t you understand me wanting to make my own mark?” His wife's eyes glistened, her tears slowly drowning his dreams of the valley and the school he would help build there. She took his hand. “But you would be here.” Her hands were warm and comforting, wrapped around his own. “With me, with us. How could you need anything else?”

# I shouldn’t have come, he thought, six months too late. The road to the valley was long and arduous. He had written to his wife almost every day, explaining that the road was hard but that he was excited to show her all the things he had seen. He hadn’t received any letters back. The couriers had told him that when they delivered his letters, they had to leave it in the shop’s post box; there was never an answer at the door. He would keep writing though, keep sending bundles of letters and crude ink drawings with each courier that came. Though they came more and more infrequently as the caravan trudged deeper into the wilds. It was the only thing keeping him sane on this cursed journey.

Bertramus flipped through a small journal; thoughts he didn’t want to share with his wife, or anyone else for that matter. ‘Tonight two of our pack mules were killed and utterly torn apart by beasts so horrible I struggle to describe…’

‘Yesterday half the company had nearly died from dehydration, expelling almost every possible liquid from their body after eating some foraged berries found along the mountainside. One of our younger stewards perished.’ ‘This morning Morajim and Audemar had gotten into a fight and Audemar threatened to leave, cursing the entire venture and yearning for his city life. I felt for him. If he leaves, I believe I might go with him.’ On and on the troubles went, with each day bringing new and terrible challenges. He thought this group of adventurers and explorers he traveled with were supposed to be some of the best in the empire. However, from either poor planning, embellished credentials, or just rotten luck, it was certainly more difficult than anyone had imagined it would be. Bertramus sighed heavily and readjusted himself on the splintered wooden wagon seat. The one comfort he had. He pulled out a fresh piece of thick parchment and dipped a battered quill into an inkwell.

“To my dearest love.. Today Morajim and I discussed supply chains and some investor promises. There is so much potential for us to succeed. The wildlife here is stunning…” The quill hovered over the parchment, dripping dots across the page as the wagon bumped along. There didn’t seem to be much else to say. He folded the letter and stashed it back in his leather folio. Bertramus sighed, looking across the yawning sea of golden razor grass stretching out in front of them. The scouts slashed at it with machetes and thick leather armguards. ‘Even the grass is dangerous’, he muttered to himself. “All our nights are spent in great company, and spirits are high. People are very excited to get to the valley. We have only a few more weeks to go. There are so many interesting people traveling with us, some at the top of their fields, some fields I didn’t even know existed. We’re to pass into a forest tomorrow that should lead us to the mountains. I hope the birds there are as colorful as people have promised.” “We are a week out from the valley, the forest was dark and deep but it slowly turned to a pine forest that reminded me of your grandmother’s house we used to visit. The snow tipped mountain range stands tall over our shoulders as we follow it until we hit the pass. I’ve attached some pictures an artist who is traveling with the expedition has sketched for me. This is beautiful country. I hope I can show it to you one day.” Bertramus picked at a large blister on his foot with the tip of his quill. Yellow pus oozed out of it mixing with the black ink, and he cursed dabbing at it with a stained rag. He looked up through the pines at the hulking shadow of the mountain, always looming over them. He sighed, this sight would be watching over him for the next few years. Hopefully it will feel more like home after they have the initial fort built. He continued with another letter.

His body ached as he wrote about his improved constitution. His fingers screamed in pain as he tried to keep his lettering neat and tidy after hours upon hours of holding ropes and chopping wood. His once soft hands used to only carry the calluses from writing with a quill for hours on end. Now they were cracked and covered in blisters and grime. He didn’t even recognize them. The dark grit underneath his fingernails smiled at his misery. He couldn’t find the will to smile back. A call came from down the expedition line that they were finishing their break. He hefted up the now tattered leather pack and strained under its weight. What he wouldn’t give to be able to ride on one of the carts again; his cart had been lost during a river crossing. What he wouldn’t give to have his wife massage his hands as she once did. What he wouldn’t give for her to rub his bleeding and tired feet. What he wouldn’t give to be in his bed, with his wife, at his home. Yet the road stretched on.