I found Capt. Ahab on the first day. On the second, a crate, surprisingly undamaged, reached the shore. On both occasions, I had my trousers wet with seawater, but managed to get the stiff objects to the shore and in the shade of the palm trees. The contents of the crate were as follows: three candle-sticks; a matchbox; two or three sharpened quills; a pint of ink, black, iron-gall; the Bible; the captain’s log, of almost no entries; a knife, sharp. It was a cruel play of destiny that I should find those items, almost none of which I could trade for food, should we reach the natives of the land. I, however, decided to make the most of them and to thank the Lord I should find anything at all, since I had been bereft of my friends and my belongings. On the second day, I caught a sea turtle on the shore and roasted it on the fire. Capt. Ahab was sleeping in the shelter I had built, but I set aside a decent piece of turtle meat for him. Water was a bigger problem, but after many an hour of wandering, I managed to find a spring of fresh water and to bring a drink to Capt. Ahab in the turtle shell. He woke up on the third day, just after noon, and his moan startled me, for the scorching sun had me feel rather weary. “Water”, he murmured. I took the turtle shell to his mouth and he drank until there was nothing more to drink, and then asked for more. I gave him some fruit I had picked. Then I went to fetch more water. An hour or so later, I came back carrying the turtle shell full of water just to see Capt. Ahab clenching the knife I had found in the crate. I thought he intended to cut the meat, but the meat had gone off in the sun. Then I spotted his fake leg lying next to him, the leg he had had the carpenter made for him out of a whale bone; he was frantically eying it. I took the water to him and he promptly drank it. When the dark came, I put some more logs in the fire. I thought we should celebrate Capt. Ahab’s awakening, even under such strange and inconvenient circumstances, so I caught us another turtle and roasted the flesh so that we could dine. But while I was preparing the meal, Capt. Ahab got hold of his leg and started to hew it. I called him, but he grunted incomprehensively to himself. Then, when I tried to take him by his arm to make him sit by the fire and have supper, he took a swing at me and nearly got me with the knife, so I let him be. I put the meat and some water next to him and turned in for the night. The next morning, having added logs to the fire, I went to take a swim, for it was scorching; and when I came back to the shore, I saw that Capt. Ahab hadn’t moved since last night, that the food had gone bad and the water stale. I also saw that one of the candles had burned down. Capt. Ahab was still hewing the leg, but at some point, at night he must have had got up, took the candle and lit it with matches. We were down to two candles, while most of the matches had burned, as if he had been burning the leg the whole night. I looked at him, but he was consumed in his work. I tried to get him to eat, but he wouldn’t, and again took the swing at me. I realised I had to take the knife off him in order to get to him. I spent the day wandering up and down the beach and concluded that we must have reached an island after our three-day whale chase. I saw no man nor any trace of heathen tribes inland. I went back to the camp, deciding that we should build an even bigger fire, so that, when a ship passes, we could be seen by the crew who would salvage us. I explained that to Capt. Ahab but he didn’t listen. I read the good words of the Bible to soothe myself and prayed a bit. Then I got some fruit and dug out a turtle egg. I didn’t offer any of the food to Capt. Ahab for fear that he wouldn’t eat it and then it would spoil and draw hungry wildlife. I hadn’t spotted any wild animals, but they might be hiding, waiting until I’m asleep to attack us, driven by the scent of rotten food. I ate everything I had gathered. Capt. Ahab didn’t stop hewing. I could see the shape of the item he had the intention to make. At first glance, it looked like another knife and I feared he would use it against me, but I soon realised it was something of smooth edges, so I let him be. I thought of the good words: love Thy neighbour, so I continued to bring him water even if he wouldn’t drink it. But, during the following night, he burned yet another candle and even used some pages of the captain’s log as fuel for his own fire, as if the fire I had so neatly built gave no light. I asked him why. He grunted. Even now, after all the sad events on the forsaken island, while I write this in solitude, I can hear Capt. Ahab’s insane grunting and the furious sound of the bone being hewed. On the third night since he had started making the object, I got the glimpse of what it was. I crossed myself and whispered the Lord’s Prayer. There, in Capt. Ahab’s massive brown hands, clawed by dirty fingernails, lay the carved White Whale. I only saw it because Capt. Ahab, having finished his work, had swooned, with his chin on his own chest, and his fist opened, so that the White Whale almost fell to the ground. I stared at the thing and felt cold wind encompassing me. The whiteness of the bone pierced the eye; it looked just like the hump on the back of the White Whale that had destroyed Pequod . When I opened the Bible, my heart found the Book of Jonah and I solemnly read, whispering: “For thou hadst cast me into the deep, in the midst of the seas; and the floods compassed me about: all thy billows and thy waves passed over me. Then I said, I am cast out of thy sight; yet I will look again toward thy holy temple”. I took a candle, lit it and put it next to Capt. Ahab’s head. I prayed for him in the cold, dark, starless night. I prayed instead of him. The only light I had was of the dull fire behind me, and the good candle before me, and the word of the Lord in my hands. “Oh, the waters compassed me about, even to the soul: the depth closed me round about; the weeds were wrapped about my head”. I saw the devil’s imagery, the intricate, unholy work of whiteness staring back at me. I prayed. “I went down to the bottoms of the mountains; the earth with her bars was about me for ever: yet hast thou brought up my life from corruption, O Lord my God. When my soul fainted within me, I remembered the Lord: and my prayer came in unto thee, into thine holy temple”. The wind tried to get the book of me. Capt. Ahab’s body moved before me, his clothes ripped by the wind, his fists clenching the air, his mouth voicelessly babbling. But in the midst of my prayer, the White Whale opened its carved eyes and its foul mouth full of teeth and weed. I saw the unholy image under the candlelight, an image familiar and savage in its familiarity. Then I saw the souls of my friends trapped in the jaws of the Whale. I saw my reflection in its grin, as if it was trying to devour me, but the grin wasn’t entirely that of an animal, but also that of a man. Suddenly, Capt. Ahab opened his eyes. The knife was in his right hand and the idol in his left. His eyes were that of a mad man and his grin was of no Christian man. O, they that observe lying vanities forsake their own mercy! But I will sacrifice unto thee with the voice of thanksgiving; I will pay that that I have vowed. Salvation is of the Lord! I grabbed the candle as if it were the Lord’s sword and burned the idolatrous grin. The sea monster that had entered my captain’s soul screamed. I screamed. It fought back. The great white tail swung back and forth at me, hitting me, but I lingered. The idol roared, biting into my flesh, but I endured. The face into which I pushed the holy candle was a mask; the sound that came out of its mouth was of the devil. I pushed the candle into the mouth of the monster until it stopped moving. When I stepped back from the body, I saw that the White Whale had finally marooned and withered. The immensity of relief struck me and I fell to my knees, thanking the Lord for having guided my hand. Salvation is of the Lord, salvation is of the Lord!, I exclaimed. Capt. Ahab had tried to use the candles and the holy light to awaken the unholy leviathan, but my faith was stronger and my dear captain can now rest in peace, free of the monster that had entered him. # I put this letter into the crate and the crate back to the sea, so that when it is found, people will know that the White Whale is gone. I have enough food and water for one final sail back home. The Lord helped me build a new ship and I will set sails with the morning tide. I have my friend Quequeq with me and the remnants of the Lord’s candles and his words to guide me on my journey through the valley of death. I won’t take the quills with me, for I have no more use of them. I will, though, save some of this ink so that I can cross out the name of this ship, for it is wrong; her name is not Rachella, but Pequod; and I need to find the rest of the Capt. Ahab’s crew, for these men I found myself surrounded with I do not know, and they speak of me as if I were not amongst them. And it is obvious that I am amongst them, and that I am the only witness of the White Whale’s demise.


Content Warning: Physical and Sexual Violence, Language “Fine,” he says at last, circling the lowest number and signing his name. I hold out my hand. “Congratulations. You just bought yourself a car.” His hand is a little clammy, but he shakes on it and leans back in the chair. “You didn’t even buy me dinner first!” he jokes. I hate those jokes.

But I am a professional, so I plaster on a smile. “I’m going to step out for a minute and get everything moving for you, and I’ll come back with some paperwork. Sound good?” He nods. He’s already got his phone out, telling someone I just bought a car! The ones who put up the biggest fight are the ones who are the most excited to show off. They’re also the ones most likely to call and kick up a fuss the next day. I’ll make sure that he can’t. I step out of my office, my shoes clicking on the showroom tiles. It’s getting late. The summer sun is starting to sink and the clouds are moving in. The traffic is easing off. Any minute now, my sales manager will summon the other salespeople. They’ll circle around the red sedan. Luke will ask who has something lined up tomorrow, sigh quietly when they tell him they don’t have any appointments, and dismiss them all. All but me. It’s looking like it might be a long night. But there’s hope. If my customer fought me every step of the way because I’m a woman, he’ll probably lay down for the male finance manager.

Luke is leaning back in his chair, but he perks up when I step into the glass enclosure they call a sales desk. He grins. “Did you get him?” he asks. I hand him the sheet of paper. “Get that asshole out of my office,” I tell him. He gets it. Out of all these men, he’s the only one who seems to understand. “You didn’t even need a turnover,” he reminds me encouragingly. “And you’re gonna make some money off of this one.” I wasn’t going to ask. I have spent the last week trying to avoid getting commission breath, but I have bills and I need to eat. “If he says one more sentence to my boobs, I’m going to leave his car in neutral and let it roll into traffic,” I threaten. He shakes his head as he types, but I can hear him chuckle softly. The printer whirs. I know the sheets coming off of it are for me: a Buyer’s Order and a We Owe (and he will probably say we owe him floor mats for his trouble, even though they are already in the car and I will be putting them in myself before he leaves). I have come to love the scent of hot ink as much as I hate the combative pigs I sell to. The signatures collect themselves. I point, he signs, and he presses his phone to his ear with a shoulder. I hope this is one of those easily impressed friends who will celebrate with him and not one who thinks that car prices should be what they were thirty years ago. I should take him to the car and remind him how everything works, but I want to celebrate right now. First one in nearly two weeks, after all, and depending on what we made, I can afford to put gas in my car. My savings are nonexistent after… well, what happened thirteen days ago. I scoop up the papers and run them back to the sales desk. “Stay with your customer,” I am reminded. I nod and walk slowly to the fridge. Maybe if he has water once he gets off the phone he’ll be too busy drinking to talk. I don’t feel like answering the inevitable “Are you seeing anyone?” As long as he doesn’t put his hands on me, I can’t do much. I can’t afford to lose this deal. Thankfully he is still on the phone, and he stays engrossed in his conversation until the finance manager appears in the doorway. Tim shoots me a knowing look. Of course my customer will end his phone conversation for a man. I am relieved when they are gone. I have an hour to get everything done. There is a trade to stock in, a Buyer’s Guide to fill out, a spare key fob and owner’s manual to grab from upstairs. It is easiest to start there.

I hate coming up the stairs anymore. I hate the darkness of the half-empty room with its rows of file cabinets on one side. I have one key in each pocket, the trade on the left and the sold unit on the right. The fob is not threatening. I lace the old-fashioned metal trade key between my fingers as I fumble for the light switch. The fluorescent bulbs buzz to life. They are so bright it nauseates me, or maybe it’s the smell of the room: old papers and cardboard boxes.

And cologne. “What are you doing up here?” I ask, shoving my way past him to the newer filing cabinets. “Putting up a deal,” he says. I roll my eyes. “Since when do you work after 6?” My general sales manager frowns down at me. Jake is well over six feet tall, and the first person to make me feel small since third grade. “I just kept it from coming back,” he explains, and his voice is wearier than I’ve heard it in a while. “I don’t need the owner on my ass right now.” I recite the stock number under my breath as I dig.

He puts his arm on the filing cabinet. He is closer than I want him right now. “I bet you’re glad to be selling again.” I slam the drawer and he draws his arm back. The entire cabinet shakes. “Can we not do this right now?” I ask. “My customer’s in the box.” “You’ve got time. Is it healing up alright?” I don’t answer. I am on Drawer #2, and it’s not in here. I mumble a few choice words.

“Have you eaten anything?” It is too much, the brightness and the overpowering scents of cedar and pepper and dampness. “God damn it, Jake, I don’t have time for this!” I shout. “I’m hungry and I haven’t slept since it happened, and I don’t want to fucking be here!” “Look, you’re lucky I gave you a few days off. We actually needed you last week. Lou’s pissed at me for it and I’ve already had to talk him down from taking it out on you.” I don’t give a fuck what either of them think anymore. I pause long enough to flip him off.

He laughs. He reaches into the drawer, and his hand goes straight to the back to fish out an owner’s manual and spare key in their frosted plastic pouch. “Is this the one you sold?” I snatch it out of his hands and turn. My hair moves as I do and my neck is bare. He grabs my arm. “The bruises are healing up,” he offers. I pull away and cover it with my hand. “Don’t ever touch me again,” I tell him and storm off. The lights flicker as I go, and I hear him snickering to himself. Must be nice to find everything funny. I close the door to my office and sit at my desk. It’s windy now, a soft sound that muffles the conversation between my bosses in the showroom. He must have followed me down.

I reach into my desk, pull out the stock tag and the buyer’s guide. All my VIN numbers are ready to go. There’s a soft knock at the door. “Just me,” Luke says. “Come in,” I tell him without looking up. He sits across from me, setting his backpack in the floor. “Jake’s gone.” I don’t look up from my work. “Thank fuck.” “He was trying to help you.” I sigh and shake my head. “Well, he didn’t.” He stands as quickly as he sat. “You need to eat something,” he tells me. "You'll feel better." I am pressing the stock tag into the upper corner of the trade’s windshield when Tim calls me into his office. “We’re all done here,” he says, cheerful as ever. “I’m ready to go home,” my customer says.

I put on my big, fake smile again. “Let me show you a few things on the car and you’ll be free to go,” I tell him.

He follows me out. I open the door for him. While he adjusts the seat, I look around to make sure everyone is gone. It’s starting to drizzle. “Look,” my customer says, “I’m sorry if I was kind of a jackass. Last time I bought a car I got ripped off.” “Well, now that you know me, that’s not going to happen again,” I tell him and lean closer. “Look up. See that button?” He looks up. There’s no button. This is a base model. But his neck is bare. My teeth dig into the flesh around his Adam’s apple. My own neck still aches, and I know his hurts because he is trying so hard to scream. I remember how hard I tried, how I went limp when I gave up, just as he is doing now. He isn’t fighting near as much as I did.

Luke's right. I feel better with something in my stomach. Someone claps their hands, and I turn to look. Tim has been standing in the showroom all this time, watching, and now he has opened the door to applaud my first meal. I wipe the blood off my chin and take a bow. He laughs. “You go on home now,” he tells me. “I’ll clean it up this time. Great job today.” On the ride home, I call Jake. He answers with, “Did you eat?” “Yeah,” I say.

I can hear the smile in his voice. “Not so bad after all, right?” “You still should have asked first,” I tell him and hang up.


“What happened and why are my feet wet?” Monica thought to herself as she slowly opened her eyes in the driver seat of her car, her head resting against the steering wheel. The haze in her vision was beginning to clear but the haze in her mind was not. “What happened and why are my feet wet?” she continued to ask herself until she realized she couldn’t see anything out of the windows except dark, murky water lit up by the dying headlights of her car. Panic began to sink in as Monica realized why her feet were wet. “I’m sinking! The car is sinking! What happened?!” Monica’s thoughts raced frantically as she tried to evaluate the situation she now found herself in. Instinct and panic led her to grab the door handle and push but with no luck. The door was locked. After realizing the door was locked, and that she had not fully found her way out of the haze, she unlocked the door. Even after the door was unlocked it wouldn’t budge. It was impossible to open with the pressure of the water bearing down on the car. The panic started to rise inside Monica faster than the water level in the car. Hyperventilating, Monica screamed for help, only no one could hear her. Tears ran down her face as she looked for an option out of the sinking car. As she glanced in the rear-view mirror she saw blood streaming from a gash in her brow, coloring her tears an unnatural red. “I’m bleeding?” she thought. In this thought, she noticed the blood on the steering wheel as well. “Great, now I’m going to have to clean the blood out of my car.” Monica thought before realizing that was the least of her problems. Panic set in once again. She needed to find a way out of the car and her panic and jumbled thoughts were sealing her fate inside this sinking tomb. A single deep breath was all she could spare to collect her thoughts and it worked, for now. “The window, I’ll break the window!” Monica thought. Looking around the car, there was nothing except her purse on the floor. Monica had always been a particularly tidy person, and thus never left anything superfluous in her car. There wasn’t even trash in the cupholder, let alone something big and heavy to break a window with. Even her purse only had her wallet, a couple bits of makeup, and her phone. “Phone!” Monica exclaimed. Monica lunged at her feet for her purse to grab her cell phone from it. She fished the bag out of the rising water and grabbed her waterlogged cell phone. Panic and desperation blocked her mind from even registering the phone was unusable. Frantically she tapped on the screen and pushed every button before throwing it in a tantrum. Then the thought of using the car keys came to mind. “I can put the keys between my fingers!” Monica thought. “That should be sharp enough to break the glass.” Monica reached for the ignition and pulled out the keys. This created a problem when the headlights turned off and suddenly Monica was thrust into darkness. Blindly, she reached up for the dome light and flipped it on. It was flickering and dim, but it would work for now. With the keys between her fingers now, Monica reared back her right fist and swung it as hard as she could at the driver’s side window. Thud. Nothing came of the swing but a horrible pain in her hand. Once more she cocked back and gave it her all at the window. Thud. Bloody knuckles and even more pain was the only thing this swing accomplished. With tears streaming down her face, Monica leaned back and put her entire body into her final attempt. Thud. Monica sat and looked at her blood on the window and dropped the keys as the crimson tears came in greater volume. It felt like a lifetime, but it had barely been 30 seconds since Monica had come to. With her hand throbbing and bloody, Monica decided it was time to use her legs to kick the window open. While trying to position herself, she realized she was still buckled in. Monica clicked in the seat belt and went to take it off when she realized it was stuck. Her stomach dropped as she realized not only was she trapped in a sinking car, but she was trapped in the driver's seat as well. She began to tug and pull on the seatbelt with her bloody hand realizing it was causing her too much pain and her grip wasn’t strong enough. Down to a single hand, she grasped at the buckle and in desperation tugged at it with increasing force as she let out a scream that took all the oxygen out of her lungs. The seat belt gave way as she struggled for air and she was free, yet still trapped. She laid down across the front seats and cocked her legs back ready to kick the window out and free herself. Thud. Just like the first punch, the first kick resulted in pain. Using both heels on the second attempt, Monica kicked the window. Thud. It felt like the bones in her feet were starting to crack but the window stayed completely intact. Again, out of desperation, she kicked the window with everything inside of her. Thud. This window wasn’t going to break before her foot. Out of options, Monica watched as the water rose steadily in the car. It was up to the bottom of the steering wheel now and it was cold. It was so cold. “It’s the middle of summer, why is the water so damn cold?” she thought to herself. The car was tilting forward as the weight of the engine pulled it down into the abyss. Monica had no clue how deep the water was, she just knew it was dark, cold, and rising faster with every second she hesitated. She didn’t even know which body of water she was in; she could barely remember driving. Was she drunk? No, she hadn’t had a drink in months. Why hadn’t she had a drink in months? She thought to herself. I always go out with my friends and have a good time on the weekends and that can hardly be done stone-cold sober, thought Monica. Then finally, the realization kicked in. This was no longer a fight just for her life, this was a fight for the lives of those in the car. The lives of the two people occupying Monica’s body. Monica was solely responsible for them both. Her failure meant the death of two now, not one. She became more frantic as the water moved past her waist. She clambered into the backseat as the water started to engulf the front of the car. With no success, she tried to open the back doors and windows. Her hand was still bloodied from punching the driver-side window, she knew that wasn’t an option. Monica screamed as she laid down across the backseat and tried kicking the windows again. Thud. Her feet were hurting, and the glass wasn’t budging. She couldn’t muster another kick as the pain became too much in her fragile feet. The front seats were underwater, and the backseat was starting to submerge. At this moment, Monica heard what sounded like the crack of glass giving way. She looked at the window nearest her and saw nothing but marks from her shoes. Monica dove under the water, pulling herself towards the front to find the source of the cracking glass. She touched the driver’s side window and felt a newly formed blemish. All the pain she was in seemed to be worth it with this discovery. This was it. This was the way out. At this point, the dome light was underwater and giving Monica a minor sense of direction in the murky water. She came back to the backseat for air and quickly dove down again to the driver’s side. She was determined to kick this window out and free herself and her child. However, being underwater made her kicks more worthless than they had been before. It was like fighting in a dream. The kicks were so weak they weren’t even causing her feet pain. Monica screamed with the last attempt, muffled by the water as the air bubbles rose. Monica swam to the back and resurfaced to find herself near the rear window clinging to what little air was left in the car. The water was soon to take over the whole car and leave her with no air. Leave her with nothing but water to breathe into her lungs. With her head pressed against the back window, fighting for each breath, Monica was scared, not only for her life but the life of the child she was carrying as well. Monica had never been a religious person, but in moments of desperation, any god is a god worth pleading to. “Please God, please, let me out of this car and I swear I will do anything! I need a miracle!” Monica begged. “I need to live not for me, but for my baby! Please let the window shatter so I can swim to safety! Please do anything! Do you hear me! Help!” Monica pleaded as the water took her head underneath and she took her last breath of fresh air. The dome light faded and left darkness. God never answered.


I bit down on my coat as the breeze threw dust onto me. The window was opened slightly course, this wouldn’t do. Not today. Not any day. A fox is only as good as his coat. Only as good as the fluff on his tail. Only as good as his muzzle of teeth. As my tongue was licking the dust from my coat, I could hear Master upstairs. Every memory I ever had of master sent glee through me, up to my tail, which swayed most of my life. From childhood to adulthood, Master was my only father - the only man who had loved me as if I were a human child. I couldn’t make him mad. I’ll just go see him. His feet hit the ground harder than they usually did. I can’t mess up again. He’s gonna be mad at me, again. At the sound of creaking upstairs, my feet scuttled along the hardwood floor. The stairs seemed unending, but I smiled as I saw the light from upstairs shining in the dark stairwell. Sliding into his room, my ears turned away to the window. The angry rain drenched him in tears. Ah. He’s so cute. The bird cried out in song, but I couldn’t do anything anyway. Besides, Master doesn’t like birds. He doesn’t fancy my kind, either, but he says he ‘can’t resist me’. He’s so sweet when he’s not angry. It’s very rare for him to be nice to me anymore, though. I know I make him upset, but I don’t do it on purpose. I can’t stand to see him like that. As I thought to myself, I heard the familiar tapping of shoes on the floor. I looked up happily, but the door was open for nothing but the light. Master? I was quick to get to the door, but he wasn’t there. Even when I checked at the end of the hallway, he still wasn’t there. A rumble sounded from down the hall. My feet were snowballs on the carpet. It was fluffy. I liked it. My eyes scanned around the corner. A door was open in Master’s office. A thin beam covered the dark office, a sun in the sky of dark December. My mind went to the cold night that Master let me sleep in his room. It was too frigid for me to sleep in the living room. Bright pulses beamed from the room, taloned hands brushing their claws across the wall. “Master?” I asked, gently striding over to the doorway. Though the lights dimmed, their effects were obvious. The door led into a smaller, darker room. Shattering the quiet, a voice spoke, muffled by the distance. Step-by-step, my curiosity overtook me - enthralled me with the necessity to know what was happening. My paws trounced the floor loudly as I skipped through the room, eager to find the noise. “Here,” I discerned through the wall. “There’s….” The voice quieted. The knob was small, but it was manageable, I assumed. The sound was being distorted, every word mangled from what it was. My head was pressed firmly against the secretive door. The words were like a river that couldn’t - wouldn’t - stop. Though Master never cared before, I’m sure he would care now. Being up late was a singular matter, but being in his office was different. I thought for a short while once more. Who’s voice is that? Why is it coming from the wall? My ears twitched. I looked to the door, my paw reaching up to turn the knob. I couldn’t quite describe how it felt. It was an unsure mix of chaos and excitement but had an undertone of doubt. Maybe I could call it scary? That seemed to fit nicely. For, above all, it was like reaching into a tub of spiders. I knew that something bad was going to happen. I just had no idea when it would happen. When I opened the door? When I saw what was inside? As I nudged the door forward, it was smooth, gliding inward without struggle. Walking through, my claw taps sounded as raindrops on the floor. Hardwood, maybe? My eyes traced the room, but nothing unusual appeared. Bookshelves. A television. It seemed like a door to another house. Maybe a smaller apartment of some sort. As I turned to hurry back to my room, the unmistakable thunder of footsteps sounded through a hallway. From where , I wasn’t sure. The only thing I was sure about is that I needed to leave. I was backed up against a strange wall in the home of somebody I didn’t know. Footsteps clambered by the door beside me. Under the door, I would see feet standing behind the door, but they didn’t move. Soon, there was nothing I could hear besides breathing from behind the door. I did the only thing my mind thought of: run. I practically slid when I got to the hardwood floor again, but I made it into a different room. Nestled beside a wooden desk, a grey couch sat beside a large window on the left wall. It stuck with me because I’d never seen a window that big before. It was immense. Before hearing the door open down the hall, I noticed something else particularly strange. Eyeing a litterbox in the corner of the room, I saw two doors - right beside each other - in the middle of the right wall. Thinking that it couldn’t have gotten more strange, I turned to leave. The crimson in my fur faded to white as an older man stood in the doorway. My paws were stuck to the floor. His hand trailed along the light switch, flicking it on. The entire room lightened, and I could see him more clearly. He smiled, laughing darkly. “Just a cute one, aren’t we?” he asked, looking down at me. Never in my life had I ever felt more alone. The world itself had been sectioned into two. My life, which was fraught with amusement and happiness, had been bathed in ice with his words. It was as if his breath exuded icy vapor. “So small are those with the biggest hearts, are they not?” He stepped forward, but I was statuesque before him. “So cute. So small.” My eyes watered as his footsteps carried him closer. Soon, he was inches from me. “You do have the choice of which entrance to go through.” He sighed. His hand curved, pointing upward towards the right wall, two doors standing tall beside each other. Tears threatened to fall. What door? His eyes came back to me. “Are we not going to speak?” he asked. Stuck between answering him and fearing him, I was silent. “Well. Remember, Red. The world can only go so far. It extends beyond what you can see, but where is the end of existence?” My head cocked instinctively, tilting sideways. Curiosity coming through me in waves, I opened my mouth to speak, but words never came out. He had a smile as I was going to speak, but it left his face instantaneously. “Red. You never speak to me anymore. A man without his cat is a man without a purpose. What truly is a man beyond his years but lost to the world?” I raised my head to look at him. “If a man is beyond what is known, is he still gone? Does he still know himself, then?” His voice echoed softly off of the walls. “But I’m not a cat, and you’re definitely not Master,” I spoke abruptly, surprising us both. He glanced down slowly. “So you do want to talk to your old man after all these years. I’ve missed you, Red.” I wanted to take it all back. Wishing the word never left my mouth, my heart beat like a moth’s wings. He knelt down, but his charismatic personality seemed to wear down my fear. I was more entranced with the way he spoke - the way he acted. He seemed like a character from a movie, perhaps Science Fiction. “ ‘If you’re going to change, then move the moon. If not, then don’t extinguish the sun and bring darkness into the lives of those around you.’ My father always told me that. I find it a very important lesson in life. Always do what you can in the world. If you can’t, don’t let yourself ruin the lives of others. That’s what I always took from that, anyway.” What a random thing to say. I liked it, though. Master would always say things like that to me. Albeit, in a less humourous way, but he still instilled knowledge into me -things I would never forget. So suddenly, the world had changed. Change was constant, though, wasn’t it? Still, Master would be furious if he knew I disobeyed him. I didn’t know that I would end up there. It all happened so quickly. “So yes, young Red. You have the choice, though this you know already.” His footsteps rattled the floorboards. With every creak, my heart was quick to beat. A low rumble in my chest as he turned himself around. His arm fell down like the petals of a rose, bringing my attention to the doors on both sides of him. “Here, you’ll find what you’ve been missing. Though, there never was a time when I could live without you, my dearest Red. We shall all get through this life apart, but knowing that our heart are joined.” My whiskers twitched. “Who are you?” I asked. His head dipped down to me. He smiled, huffing out a breath. “The sweet tune of my cute, little Red. I always did love your voice.” My paws crept my body over to the doors, though my mind was still processing everything thus far. “But I’m not Red,” my lips quivered. His gaze never broke from me. Eyes dreaming softly as he stood awake. “A man that destroys the moon takes the light from his own times of darkness. Does that desire lie within my Red?” My heart throbbed painfully in my body. “Have you the will to take joy from me? From us ?” As he leaned down to me, the door on the left began to shake. His head quickly darted to it. “For choices are of things we make . Chances are of things we take. ” His expression left his face. “I do hope you make the best one.” The doors growled. Soft thunder purred behind them as they drifted forward. I couldn’t see the door on the left, but standing where I was, the door on the right was visible. My maw closed. Every doubt that waned in and out in my mind was withdrawn. The door opened up to a large field of savanna grass. I had been taught by Master about ferrets and servals, but the true sight of it was new. A picturesque, yet foreign, place. His eyes saw where the right door led, but his expression was plain. He looked into the moon-lit field as if it were ordinary. Looking back to me, he feigned a smile. “Before you go,” he said, “You need to know a few things.” My head retracted. “Where am I going? Where am I? These questions have reason to be answered.” He forced a smile. “I’m not to say more than I’ve said already.” He turned to look into the right door, eyes opening slightly. “I will say no more than….you being here is not a mistake.” The wind spat leaves against the foggy glass. My breath wasn’t much more than frost. “Though. .there …is where you belong. The world. A better world,” he paused, “ this world…is not for your kind.” My muzzle lifted up to him. “But what about Master?” Within the second that it took my eyes to shutter, the eyes that looked back into mine where gone. Left behind were two doors. It was more frightening in the fact that I was alone. Yet behind the unknown was surely either death or pain. A chasmic dark surrounded all but the doorways, a lulling trill echoing through them. My ears arose as I entered the right door, the savanna grass that my eyes were fixed on becoming more crisp in my view. Prickling between my toes, the blades were soft. Along the edge of what I could see, a dropoff fell down to a body of water. Teeth protruded from the surface. Beasts of bone lining the edge of the rocky cliff. A marula sang alone in under the moon, whispering in the wind. My fur, which was cipped with the air, trailed along my tail. Arching my back, I stretched, watching the firebugs ease through the wind. But it was the voice that caught me. The lulling tone which came not from an direction, but from the wind itself. “A fox which lies beside himself has no lover Lonliness.” The voice of feathers trailed across my ear. My head turned to all directions, but the only thing visible past the moon-lit marshgrass was the heavenly lavender in the horizon, subverted by tangerine under the violet sun. The wildflowers were shimmering , but they weren’t attracting . The petals swayed, hissing out dream dust into the wind. “They never wake,” the voice said. It was a very distinct tone. The voice of youth, but of a brumal heart. The voice ached its thought, wounded by every word. “They rely on the sun to live. Though it shines upon the joyous moments, it turns away, leaving them to starve.” My snout lowered to the lavender petals sinking in the dirt. “They breathe their last words to God, then die in the frigid shadows.” My back tensed. Somebody was near me. My eyes drifted slowly to the sky, but were caught by orbs that returned by glare. A slender form blocked the violet moon. It poured over her face like water, splashing its light upon my fur. Her face was lifeless, though I wasn’t focused on her. “Where’s Master?” I questioned, my words breaking off as shards of ice. I had only a few words left before my emotions crawled from the warm depths of my heart. “Master is gone. Whether Michael explained it to you, or you are unbeknownst to the truth, you have no master, now.” The heart pulsating in my body, slowing to a faint murmer. “ Here , there is no Time. There is no Life or Death.” The talons of Darkness drew themselves across the grass, fingers thrashing under the moon. “Beyond what you see, there is no Color or Darkness. This is everything. You are nothing but a voice in the wind. Beyond. Beyond.” Her lips curved upward. “I dreamed that one day I would find you. Not you , specifically , but somebody that would think to step out into the same moonlight, and drink the moon itself. Let the flavor drift across their aching tongue, and savor the nectar of Selene.” The subtle tapping from inside me weakened to dormancy. My throat inhaled a searing breath, but the world was still before me. “Why am I here?” I asked with a silent heart. The young woman held a whisker in her hand, extending it for me to see. “Red. You aren’t to stay here forever. This is a place with no Tomorrow. You can’t live here. Nothing exists here. You just are here.” The world itself was repetitious in its brisk dance around my head. My teeth were bared. “Why isn’t anybody answering my questions?” My head fell down to the earth, but my paws struggled against the course wheat. Rising up to the best of my ability, I looked to her eyes, but she was beyond sight. Beyond the ability of my eyes to see her. Beyond the distance where my nose could smell her. Just beyond. Etheral voices sounded from the distance. As the stars moved in the sky, the flash blinded me, and my head sank to the ground. A world that was so strange had become distant again in the dark. Weeping trills slipped softly like waves through the void. My nose twitching at the scent of cinammon, I rose myself again. Weakly turning to look into the depths, the door shimmered - a lavender haze danced around the doorway, gleaming like a cloud of comsic dust. Through narrowed eyes, I looked to the ground. The floor of Reality itself began to shatter. A monstrous cry crackled through the black depths on which I stood. My heart beating faster than hummingbird’s, my life was at the mercy of the doorway. As if an angel was looking upon my every move, the doorway became closer. Inch-by-inch, the sights beyond the entrance blurred, the world twisting to kaleidoscope vision. Light blue glowing birds soared around the abyss. Their beaks were twisted slightly, their bodies the size of dolphins. As their tails dragged across the gasious floor, contrails of ghostly dust casted thin clouds behind them. My paws, pressing down on the dust that comprised the floor, propelled me into the doorway. One paw pushing against hardwood floor, my other pulled myself up. My tail just narrowly missed a “bird” flying by the outer side of the doorway.I rolled myself over, crawling to the center of the room. As I looked around with dread, the world felt different. Bookshelves stood by the lights. Beside the lamp, in the corner of the room, Master sat looking to me. I flipped my entire body, paws thudding against the floor. Leaning upward, I thundered across the room, rubbing on his legs. Relief bathed me in itself. Intially, his expression was vague, uninterested. But as he reached out to pet me, he spoke. “How do you like it here, Red?” My blood cold at his words, I stiffened. “You’re such a good kitty. You’ve always been such a good kitty.”


My parents were miserable people to begin with. When the door crashed open only half an hour into their book club meeting, I prepared myself for a long evening. “Can you believe it?” Mom said to me. I half listened, dozing in a love seat by the television. “They kicked us out of book club.” I blinked my eyes and straightened up a little bit. We moved to the kitchen where I spiked my Coke with a generous amount of rum. I needed this to get through my mother’s ramblings. She was the kind to keep the news on at high volumes all day at the cost of my sanity. Dad was no better. He shot his mouth off about the president every chance he’d get but kept his mouth shut in front of our neighbors, the Democrats. All southern sweetness there. “How did you manage that?” I said. “Susan told us to show our vaccine cards,” Dad piped up, hanging up his coat in the other room. “We said we didn’t need them. If God wants us to die, then he wants us to die. Well, Susan didn’t like that one bit and banned us until we realigned ourselves to the views of the club. Imagine that after all the help we gave them over the years.” “So just get the vaccine,” I said halfheartedly. “Then you can enjoy book club again.” “Hard to enjoy it when everyone in the room is a bunch of foolhardy Dems who cheated the election. They’re no friends of ours.” I’d long given up on both of them. This conversation needed a lot more than rum to get through. My parents were the only people who could get kicked out of a book club over a stupid vaccine. They’d known Susan for nearly a decade. She was my second grade teacher. Throwing her away like that seemed cold and heartless. I tried not to pay attention to my parents’ shenanigans. It was better that way. Whenever they pushed my buttons I thought to myself, “Just a couple more months and you can pay that security deposit. Just a couple more months.” What was so difficult to process for them? I got my shots soon as I could. How could I not when I watched people die every day? Anger coursed through me as I thumped my head furiously to the pillow. Anger was my old friend throughout my childhood and now in my adulthood. I wanted to force my parents to take the vaccine, to see how it would save their life, to help repair their fractured relationships with their friends. Sleep never came easily anymore. I stared at the ceiling in the dark for most of the night, dreading the upcoming alarm. The lines blurred between sleep and wakefulness so I couldn’t tell the difference. When the alarm came, I was still as exhausted when my head hit the pillow. I donned my scrubs, noted the dark circles around my eyes in the mirror, and headed out. “Get this down his throat,” said Sunita, throwing me a long plastic tube across the young man lying in the gurney in front of us. He was a big guy, football player type, gasping for breath like a goldfish. He was strapped to the side of the gurney, looking wildly at every corner of the room. I stabbed the patient with a sedative and tossed the needle away as the tube hit me in the face. The man on the gurney, Mr. Sunderson, twenty-six, father of two, would die if I didn’t force this tube down his throat. Sunita held Sunderson down as I fed the tube through his throat. He stopped struggling and when he was consistently breathing, we relaxed for a brief moment before going on to the next patient. Nursing never used to be like this. St. Agnes was flooded with coronavirus patients. With Mr. Sunderson being rolled to the ICU, he filled the last bed St. Agnes had available on a stroke of morbid luck. An elderly woman named Dolores died alone the night before, lungs shattered beyond repair. Like the vast majority of the coronavirus patients at St. Agnes, Dolores wasn’t vaccinated. Neither was Sunderson. Twelve hour shifts, longer on some days, hustling to get one patient his prescription, bustling to help a flat lining patient before it was too late, keeping my sanity long enough to scarf something from the vending machine. Sunita was the only reason I could stay sane during these long shifts. With as little support the government gave us, running out of basic supplies like needles and ventilators, Sunita kept her head up and pressed on when so many others quit. She was in love with the work. “How do you do it?” I asked her over a hurried cafeteria lunch. Sunita shrugged. “The pandemic won’t last forever.” “People are still dying. I’ve seen more people die here in the last two months than most doctors see in their careers. When is it going to stop?” Sunita had no answer for that. I had a feeling she thought the same thing from time to time. She doesn’t have to go home to her loved ones who won’t take a vaccine because they think the government is trying to control them. She doesn’t have to live in fear of passing the virus to someone in her life.

I came home to snide comments and remarks from my parents. I never talked back not out of a consciousness of being disrespectful, but because I didn’t have the energy and didn’t want to get kicked out before I had the money for the security deposit. The damn TV blared as I hung up my coat. Mom snorted, “They think masks protect them. Come on. They’re still getting themselves killed.” By they, she means the Democrats. My parents went out to restaurants, went to their club meetings, all without wearing masks or showing any notion there was a pandemic going on. True, there were fewer deaths now, and some states were reopening. By summer, the governor said Tennessee was going to be fully functioning again. Most people were slinking back into their usual routines by summer. I wanted to think Sunita was right that the pandemic was ending. I didn’t bother twiddling with the radio anymore on the way to work. Even on the music stations the endless talk of the pandemic persisted, claiming the pandemic was fake, that we have nothing to worry about. If they had lived my life, they wouldn’t be so resistant. As May turned to June that year, the Delta variant swept through. The same day the Delta variant was broadcast on the news, an ambulance brought Dad into the emergency room. Sunita and I did our best to keep Dad up and running. He was in bad shape. Gulping for air like it was the last breath he’d ever take, lungs worse than Dolores’s had been. We told him everything would be alright though we knew it wouldn’t. “Gene,” said Sunita. Sunita’s voice was far away and hazy. I pretended I hadn’t heard her. I feverishly checked Dad’s oxygen levels and kept him breathing normally.

“Gene.” This time, I was brought back to reality. Sunita’s lip trembled. “He’s not going to make it. He’s lost.” “Damnit, Sunita. This is my father and you will do everything in your power to keep him alive!” I spoke with such authority I couldn’t believe it of myself. I never spoke as if I was in charge, like everything was on the line. Despite of what I thought of Dad’s choices, he was still my dad, and I still loved him. I had to do whatever I could for him. We pushed his gurney into one of the few free ICU units available and continued monitoring him. The fear in Sunita’s voice when she said my father wasn’t going to make it tingled through my spine. It was the first time I saw her frightened, not the apprehension on a surgeon’s face as they’re operating but true despair. Sunita, the warrior of the medical field. We did the best we could for him and put him in a unit to relax. Dad was dying, only able to breathe through a ventilator, helpless against his own mortality. Mom watched her husband die of something she pretended for so long did not exist behind a sheet of glass. I, who fought on the front lines against the invisible enemy, couldn’t helping thinking I might have given the virus to him. How many days had I come home from sometimes sixteen hour days and passed by my parents raving over the president’s actions against the virus? I was frustrated and angry with my parents. I wanted to show them reason, to make them believe the coronavirus was real. Every time I told them to get vaccinated, to keep themselves and others safe, I was doing it for them. But my efforts were futile. I put on all the protective equipment, gloves, smock, mask, face shield, and went into the unit where Dad lay on the bed, trembling, barely breathing. This wasn’t how I imagined being with my father in his final moments. 	I looked like a robot in a dated science fiction film. He wouldn’t see my face, only my eyes. I pulled the curtain back and took the seat next to Dad. He was sweating, breathing irregular, ventilator over his mouth and nose, helpless to the course of nature that put him in this predicament.

He took off the ventilator for a second. “Son.” I smiled at him for the first time since I was twelve. He took me out for a baseball game for my twelfth birthday. He bought us hot dogs and let me have a sip of his beer when no one was looking. I choked on it and called him disgusting. “Dad.” My voice faltered and my hands shook as if controlled by an internal earthquake. “I want to take the vaccine. Please.” Everything inside me broke. All the years I resisted his Trumpian politics, all the times I wanted to hit him for being so stupid, all the the times I wanted to make him see. All that melted away when I stared into his frightened face. People hate doctors until they get sick and tell them, “Cure me! Save me!” They’re believers then. “Dad, it’s—it’s too late.” “There’s nothing you can do?” He said it calmly. I shook my head once. Dad put the ventilator back over his face and laid back in his bed. I hated being right. The worst part of this was I might have given the virus to him. What else could I have said to him? Then, he gave me a look only a son would recognize. It was a look that said, “I’m proud of you.” He resigned himself to his fate. My father died a few hours later. When the heart rate monitor flat lined, I stumbled out of the room and made for the nearest exit. I passed Mom’s worried expression as she read a magazine. I cursed the morning sunshine blinding me as I rushed to the smoke area. I didn’t notice until I already collapsed against the pillar that Sunita followed me. I hid my sobs with my hands, but Sunita’s coconut hands were already wrapped around me. “I’m quitting,” I said in between sobs. “I can’t do this anymore, Sunita. Why do they keep doing this to us?” “They?” “They! These sick people who won’t protect themselves. The government, the doctors, the—the—the everybody!” Sunita gave me a wad of dirty napkins. I blew my nose for what seemed like days. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through. My mother died when I was really young. But I do know talking to someone does help.” Sunita handed me a folded scrap of paper. Inside was a phone number. “He’s a professional. He helps and he really cares. Try it.” I nodded. I was grateful for the gesture.

“This is my last day on the job too,” Sunita went on. “What!” “Not so loud, Gene. I’m being transferred temporarily to Mississippi. There’s hardly any staff there and the Covid is worse there than here. So I volunteered. It’ll be good on my resume for when I become a doctor.” Of all the nurses I worked with, Sunita was the most genuine. Though I didn’t say it to her, I think she would be an amazing doctor. We gave each other one last hug before separating. I tried to put a lot of unsaid things into that hug. Perhaps Sunita got the message because she grinned. As one career closes, another flourishes. I went to my car, started the engine, and realized I didn’t know where I would go. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein trying to assemble all the pieces to create new meaning. I looked back at St. Agnes, thinking for a moment to go back. It wasn’t too late. I took the scribbled phone number out of my pocket. This number was my ticket to do something else with my life. I didn’t know what it would be. The only thing I knew was there’s nothing for me at this hospital except for the doctors preparing my father for the hearse.


Jessica and I went to the same college - Illinois State University. Both of us came from the Village of Savoy, some 94 kilometres south east of I.S.U. But we only came to know each other as freshers at the university. Here’s how we met. As freshers, I used to see her in my class but we had never talked. One evening, I was strolling outside campus when I saw her accosted by two fellows. From the altercations, I could tell that it wasn’t a friendly encounter. As I drew near, the bully donning Low Fade haircut held her by the ponytail while the other hand was cuddling her waist coarsely. The other goon with Faux Hawk haircut was trying to kiss her forcibly as he held her hands. She was fighting and screaming. “Hey you,” I shouted as I rushed toward them. “Stop it!” Faux Hawk stopped and confronted me. “Who are you?” He asked me The two were more heavily built and taller than I. I am five-eight but could rely on my rusty martial arts expertise if they attacked. I had taken three years of martial arts classes when I was at high school. “She is my classmate,” I responded. “Then why don’t you wait for her in class until we’re done with her?” Faux Hawk paused. “And why don’t you mind your business before we make you our business?” Low Fade thundered, leaving Jessica and charging at me. Before I could respond, he swiftly slapped me hard on the left cheek. I staggered sideways. I hadn’t seen it coming but I am not the fighting type either. I took a few steps back. I prefer diplomatic conflict resolution if it can be achieved. That is not to say I am a weakling. “Hey! I can see you’re spoiling for a fight but I didn’t come to fight,” I said. “Why don’t we just say that nothing happened and let her go?” “I didn’t know you were The Coward of the County ,” Faux Hawk said approaching me menacingly. You just want to free her without a fight? He added as he swung a right hook at my face. This time I sidestepped the blow. I kicked him hard on the chin sending him sprawling. He cursed. His chum furiously attacked. I gave him a lightning roundhouse kick that saw him on the ground too. Jessica was standing a slight distance away, agape. “We can fight now,” I challenged them. “I’ve changed my mind.” Low Fade stood up and swung a blow. I kicked him between his legs. He wailed and crouched. Faux Hawk rushed at me in a murderous rage. I kicked him in the solar plexus and he doubled up. I gave him another kick in the face – I must have broken his a tooth or two because I could feel a crack - that sent him flying. He spit blood. I could see they were not eager to proceed. “Scram!” I said. “You will pay for this someday,” Low Fade said as he helped Faux Hawk up. “I’ve never been whomped by a fresher and you are not going to be the first.” “I just did it and you’re welcome again, buddy,” I said. “I’m game. They hobbled away. I took Jessica’s hand and led her to the opposite direction. She was still shaking. “That was swift,” she said. “Thanks for saving me. I owe you one.” “It was my pleasure,” I said. “My name is Kevin Anderson. Needless to say, you’re my classmate” “I’m glad to meet you, Kevin. Mine is Jessica Olson.” “I’m happy to meet you, too. Who were those?” “They are our college mates – third year.” “Are they your friends?” “Friends? Hell, no. I believe they are bullies, sexual molesters. The one you kicked last is called Billy. He’s been stalking me ever since I turned down his overtures.” “Now you’re welcome to count on me. You can have me as your big brother on the campus.” “I don’t know what I would have done without your interception. My past few weeks have been hell. Thanks, again. I accept you.” “Thanks.” We went out and had coffee together. We talked about our romantic lives, our aspirations, backgrounds, blah, blah, blah. She told me that she was in a long distance relationship. That she was committed to the relationship although it was shaky. Her boyfriend was always suspicious and could pay her impromptu visits, just to keep her on check. Not finding her with anyone or tell-tale signs in her room did little to allay his suspicions. She kept the relationship anyway, on the premise that reason would prevail someday. I told her that my relationship had ended a year earlier over irreconcilable differences. It had been so painful for me. I had decided to keep romantic relationships on the sidelines for the time being because I didn’t want to hurt again. And so our friendship began. We had a few things in common and in fact shared a lot. We studied the same course at the university, went on study excursions together, partied and dined out together frequently. We hung out together during our leisure time. And that was quite often. But neither of us hindered the other’s personal engagements. Although we were pretty close, our friendship was all along platonic. In our third year, one of our lecturers was leaving to pursue other personal ambitions. He was very popular, so the whole department and the student fraternity decided to host a farewell party for him. Jessica had informed me that she had invited her boyfriend, Jimmy, to the party and she would be delighted to introduce us.  “Are you sure he will take it well?” I had asked her. “You have always defended me against sexual harassment,” she had said. “I don’t see why he would be so naïve to think of you as something else.” “You told me he’s always jealous,” I had said, “I hope he has grown up.” “He has no choice. After all he’s not here to protect me against the numerous marauding harassers. The least I would expect of him is to thank you,” she had said, chuckling. “Well, I look forward to meeting my kid sister’s lover,” I had said, nonchalantly. The farewell party was held at Plato’s Pavilion on the campus. By 7.00 p.m., we had secured a table and three seats. Jessica and I were enjoying our drinks as we listened to music churning out from the recently purchased state-of-the-art music system. We chatted as we awaited the arrival of Jessica’s guest and the official opening of the ceremony. The D.J. was playing "With You" by Mariah Carey. The attendees were exuberant and a good number were on the floor dancing. People were still having fun waiting for the emcee to introduce the event. Then at 8 o’clock, our visitor arrived. A young man standing at six-two, donning a leather jacket and denim jeans, approached Jessica from behind. He cuddled her and when she turned her head kissed her passionately. The number playing then was “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga. “Good to see you, Jimmy,” she said after they were done. “This is my classmate and guardian, Kevin,” she added, pointing at me. “Kevin, this is my boyfriend, Jimmy.” “I’m pleased to meet you, Jimmy,” I said, extending my hand, which was ignored. “So you’re my famous competitor,” Jimmy said, sneering at me. Then turned to Jessica, “Babe, what are the little things you’ve been doing together? I even see you’re so close.” “What are you driving at?” Jessica asked. “Are you trying to create a scene? “You have already created a scene by sticking too close to this hunk,” Jimmy retorted, then turned to me, "What do you say, lover boy?" “Stop it…” Jessica attempted to say. “Stop what?” Jimmy interjected as he picked up Jessica’s wine glass and splashed the contents on my face. “It’s over, Jimmy; it’s over with you,” Jessica said to Jimmy, red with rage. “I should leave you two to sort your issues,” I offered, wiping my face. “You’re not leaving,” it was more of a command than a statement from Jessica. “You’re my date tonight. Stay. As for you, superhero,” she was addressing Jimmy, “leave now or I call security. You’re persona non grata and I don’t want to have anything with a skunk like you ever again.” She was still seething with anger. “We shall see about that,” Jimmy said and walked away. “I’m so sorry about that, big brother,” Jessica said to me. “I told you I have a bum for a boyfriend. Thank goodness it’s over with him.” “It’s unfortunate,” I said. And so, Jessica’s date aborted and we were left to do our little things together . After the party, we had our own extension and went out on a drinking spree. It wasn’t until the wee hours of Saturday that we retired to my flat – our first time in my flat together since we knew each other. It wasn’t until Sunday evening that she left, and then only because we had classes on Monday. She had to use one of my tracksuits because she hadn’t carried a change of clothes. “Are you still my big brother? She had asked before we parted. “You bet,” I had said. “Talk of siblings becoming romantic,” she said, jestingly. “It was my little sister’s idea.” “Adam said, ‘It was Eve.’” * Our graduation was colourful. We hugged and said goodbyes. I took a job as a research assistant in Missouri while she was offered a teaching job in the Village of Savoy. We communicated regularly through e-mail and phone. Our communications were manly chitchats. I didn’t have a girlfriend yet because I had sort of become wary of a break-up. Jessica told me that she never heard again of Jimmy and she didn’t care. Although our relation had been platonic, maybe with a tinge of romance, I was seriously thinking of cementing it to a romantic one. She hadn’t mentioned any new catch, so I was almost sure that she was still single. When my contract ended a year later, I returned to Illinois and was happy to reunite with my * little sister *. I was also in time to honour my real little sister Emma’s invite to their corporate-end-of-year party. Emma worked for Latham, Bird & Morgan LLP, a local legal firm. Emma had said I could come along with a friend. Who was better suited than my other little sister? I called Jessica when I arrived in the Village of Savoy and we arranged to meet the following evening, a Tuesday. They were on long holidays. We met on the Tuesday evening over a drink. We discussed many inconsequential issues. Then I asked if she would be available to accompany me to my real sister’s party on the coming weekend. To my surprise, she flatly declined. “You see Kevin,” she had said, “we have been communicating but there are a few things I haven’t told you.” “I’m all ears.” “Ever since we parted ways, I have attended only one party. That party ended disastrously and I swore to never attend any other party.” “What happened? Did you overdrink?” “More than that; I still feel uncomfortable discussing it. I will tell you some day when the time’s right.” “But this is not just another party,” I had reasoned. “This is my real kid sister’s party and I have no one else to accompany me.” “Okay, let’s make a deal.” “Let’s hear it.” “I will attend the party on condition that you also attend my event.” “What event?” “We shall discuss it later too.” “Deal,” I said, still in the dark. * The party was held at the Bird & Morgan LLP’s boardroom. It was jam-packed. There were all kinds of foods and drinks and the music was good. We had eaten to our fill and were enjoying drinks and music. At about 7.30 p.m., I asked Jessica to dance. The number playing was "Just The Two Of Us" by Will Smith. We had just danced halfway through "Somebody Else's Lover" by Juliette Claire when a thirty-something man, wearing a maroon sleeveless jacket, a white shirt and a black bowtie approached us. He raised his nonexistent hat and said, “Hellos,” looking intently at Jessica. Then he left as fast as he had appeared. “Who was that?” I asked Jessica. Jessica was trembling like an aspen leaf. “Let’s leave. Please take me home.” “Anything I need to know?” “Please take me home. I’ll tell you in bed.” We went straight to my flat. We took a shower and retired to bed. “Are you feeling better now,” I asked. “I’m good.” “Can we then talk about the bowtie fellow?” “Absolutely; his name is Alex if I am not wrong. As I intimated, the one we’ve just been to was the first party I have attended in a long time. When we parted, I was invited to a similar party. Then this sweet-talking guy approaches me and we sit together. He tells me how beautiful I am, how he would like to marry a girl like me, blah, blah, blah.” She proceeded to tell me how Alex covertly spiked his drink and she passed out. He went ahead and took her to his home. Fortunately, he was either intoxicated or high on drugs or both. So, instead of taking her to his bedroom, he took her to his parent’s bedroom! “According to his mother,” Jessica said, “Alex arrived home at midnight carrying me on his shoulder like a log. He was clearly too drunk. She and her husband were already in bed but her husband had gone to the toilet leaving the lights on. She was wide awake when Alex entered carrying what looked like a dead body. She screamed. Alex must have realized his mistake because he dropped his cargo and fled.” Alex’s father had returned to find the unfolding drama. He called police and Jessica was taken to hospital. Alex was arrested the following day and locked up. Tests on whether Jessica was drugged were inconclusive. So no charges were preferred against Alex and he was freed on the third day. “After that incident, I developed cold feet about parties. Now you know.” “Wow! That was an experience. Now, can we talk about your event?” “Let’s talk about it in the morning - please. My head will be clear then” “Your wish is my command.” We slept until midday. It was a weekday but neither of us had any commitments. “Good morning, sweetheart!” I greeted Jessica when we woke up. “It was a lovely night,” she said. “Indeed it was fabulous. If your head is clear, you might want to tell me about your event.” “Oh, yes. I would have told you ages ago but I didn’t know how. But I still have to tell you, one way or another anyway. You remember Billy, the guy whose dental formula you rearrange at the university?” “You mean one of the goons who were molesting you?” “Yes, that one; we buried the hatchet and he proposed. The wedding will be January third,” she said. "What! Are you pulling my leg?” “No. I’m serious. Will you grace the event?”


Walking this earth, wondering why all the suffering, why all the hurt – what is the point? Where are the answers to this life of constant good, to be contrasted with any type of negative, whether it be a thought to make you spiral into a bad mood, or a person who was rude to you which turned your mood from happy to annoyed? What is this constant contrast in this life us humans are enduring? Why do we even let people ruin our moods? What is the point to all of this? The world is overcome with negativity. We struggle with the people around us who don’t know how to be happy or grateful, while being one of those people. Go to bed, wake up, go to work, get home, go to bed, just to repeat. And the wonder is ‘what is the point of this life?’. Sure some people have more and seem happier, but are they really? Deep down are they actually happy and peaceful with this life? Being human is hard; it’s full of emotions that aren’t easy. There is illness, death, anger, heartache, fear, loss and evil in this world that does co-exist with the opposite, but the negative feels more powerful, more evident in our lives.

As humans, we are born into a family, into a part of the world we will either love or loathe. We make tough decisions and risks throughout our lives looking for that peace and happiness, while striving for success, which for most people means money. Most humans have children, which is a beautiful experience also blanketed with extreme worry; extreme worry because the love is so extreme. Again, why do we mostly feel the opposite of love as stronger? Why are us humans like this? Negativity is easy; positivity is hard. As a human, we keep walking this earth in search of the peace and happiness, with little pockets of pure joy, whether it be a trip, a new puppy, birth of a child, a promotion. But it never lasts does it? We are always brought down, nothing good lasts forever. Most of us love our parents, and they die. Some of us lose loved ones to tragic accidents.  Why??? Why is life so full of hardships and heartache that seem to overpower the good? Why do we constantly feel this struggle? Why does the good not last forever? Why do the best people always seem to struggle the most? Why is there so much addiction? Why is everyone not kind to one another? What is the point of this life? WHAT IS THE ACTUAL POINT?

I wonder this daily as I read about and watch people struggle, hard workers, lazy people, positive people, rich people; it doesn’t matter, we all suffer throughout our lives. So what is the point of a human experience? To suffer? To worry? To stress? Most days that feels like the point, except for those moments which seem rare in our existence.

The answer is at the mountains. Sure, the ocean is great. But the mountains…. Sit in front of a mountain, for example, the Rocky Mountains. The energy is alive, the energy is powerful, the energy envelops you. Give your struggle to the mountains and the mountains will give back exactly what you need. The answer is there for you. The mountains give you the answer to the point of being human. You can’t even put the answer into words because you just feel the mountains. Negative energy is impossible to feel in the presence of a mountain. You feel extreme peace, the kind that washes over your whole being and gives you all the answers. You feel the point of being human, which is love, the kind of love you can’t put into words, the kind of love that is always surrounding us but we take for granted. The mountains remind us of this love. Your body just surrenders to the mountains, without the intention, it just happens, and the point of life enters your soul. You sit and you stare at the mountain, forced to close your eyes, as the mountain heals you. The power of the mountain washes over you and reminds you of the constant beauty that is around us. It reminds you of the power of energy as this majestic being just stands in front of you giving you all that it has, giving you all the answers and all the love that is needed. You soak it up. What happens when you leave the mountain? It stays with you, for a long time. It’s like the mountain pressed a reset button and you can see the point of life now. You feel love in everything that you do and see. You can even see and feel love in the pain and suffering. You see and feel love in unkind people and your perspective changes. It changes from resentment to understanding. The mundane is now the life that you get to live and enjoy; you can see love in the cup of coffee you pour, you can feel the gratitude for that mountain that is now carrying you through this life and keeping your perspective strong and in a place of love. Only the mountains can do that. Only the mountains can give you the answers while showing you and cleansing your soul back to when you were a child and everything was an adventure, and everything was beautiful and full of joy.

Eventually you have to walk away from the mountain and carry that feeling with you in every aspect of your life. That is the way to live – to feel that mountain love inside of every cell of your body. To carry it with you, in your mundane routines, but now those routines are beautiful, and you are grateful for them. You see life with a different lens. It was a gift that you were even drawn to that mountain and were able to give it your struggles, just for the mountain to transform you. Now you can even see beauty in the suffering and know the whole point of this life is love; a love that you just felt that cannot be described in words. It’s a feeling, a knowing, a transformation; a feeling and power that you can now spread to the people and world around you. Stand tall dear mountains, we are ever so grateful for your powerful gift.


I have relived this day a thousand times, and it always starts the same way: with the hiss of the coffee machine piercing the silence. At 5.45AM in summer the kitchen was already light. Since returning to work after maternity leave, I’d been getting up increasingly earlier each morning, in an attempt to grab a moment of stillness before the day began and everyone else’s needs started pulling at me. Sun filtered through the curtains, illuminating the living room and the debris left from our children sweeping through. Beside the couch was Thomas’s play mat with the colored balls hanging motionless. There were the shoes kicked in a corner by my stepson, the script my stepdaughter had been learning piled on the coffee table. Down the hallway in the bedrooms, they were all quiet still. Greg in the last moment of sleep before his alarm went off at 6.15AM. Our room was dark and breezy with blackout curtains and a standing fan aimed at the bed. Opposite us was Ethan’s room, his floor a sea of electric cords trailing to his phone and TV and Xbox and laptop. “What color do you want your room painted?” I had asked him, when we moved in here four years ago. He was twelve then, and I wanted him to feel like it was a good thing his dad was remarrying. “Black,” he said, without hesitation. I had hesitated. Sometimes I wondered if my own child would be such an uncomplicated person one day. I half wanted him to barge through life the same confident way his brother did, half dreaded the thought of a son who discussed nothing more complex than sports games and You Tube video’s. I had selected a slate gray instead, unable to bring myself to cover the walls of my new home in black paint. Upon seeing it, Ethan looked straight at the queen-sized bed and big screen TV and grinned. “Cool,” he said, and as far as I knew he was happy. Charlotte, my stepdaughter, had the smallest room. Her choice. She was an anxious child even then at nine and I had given her first pick of the three children’s bedrooms, back before Thomas was even thought of, hoping to help her feel comfortable. “This one, it’s so cozy,” she’d said, hugging herself as she stood in the little room which overlooked the garden. Her color of choice was a soft hazy purple. I’d hung curtains printed with stars and a light shade strung with glass beads which reflected the sun. If I wasn’t an adult with a husband I was expected to share with, I’d have wanted that room too. And then in the room beside ours, my baby in his cot, sleeping beneath his mobile of fabric clouds. My baby. It still seemed unreal sometimes. He was seven months old and I was thirty-nine. For years I didn’t want a baby until one day I did. “I might not even be able to get pregnant anymore,” I had told Greg. Two months later I was in my bathroom, staring at a test. Relief filling me, as if I had just escaped a tsunami or a volcano, outrunning nature. I had imagined it would never happen for me, this most every day of things. I added sugar to my coffee and stirred it in. My phone beeped on the bench. I glanced down at it and saw the reminder popped up. Charlotte rehearsal 7.45AM I had been wary when she joined the Drama Club at school, secretly worried she would suffer stage fright at the last minute, but it turned out pretending to be another person was easier for her than being herself. Up on stage she shone. The big end of year show coming up involved rehearsal every morning before school that week, as well as two evenings. We had her alternate weeks, each Friday evening she moved between us and her mother and stepfather. Ethan used to do the same, but the week Thomas was born he’d moved in full time with us, after an argument with his stepfather. It wasn’t the baby homecoming I’d imagined, with Greg pacing around outside on phone calls to his ex-wife, but I’d figured Ethan would cool off and go back to the normal routine. It hadn’t happened. He told me he was sick of moving back and forward, and he was sick of his stepfather bossing him around. Bossing him around was something I’d never done, instead walking a line somewhere between fun big sister and caring aunt. It was the reason I’d always gotten on well with him. It was also the reason I felt I couldn’t tell him to pick his shit up when he left it lying around. I swiped away the reminder and the next popped up. Conference today. Venue: Golf Club. I pulled up the schedule on my phone and ran over it, even though I could have quoted it in my sleep, and possibly had some nights. The PA who was organizing it had quit the week I came back from leave, and I’d been roped into taking over. Before I had finished my coffee, a wail came from Thomas’s room. He was pulling himself up on the bars of his cot, and when he saw me, his face scrunched up in a smile, the pure kind of love no one else had ever shown me. “Hi, Tommy, hey sweetie.” I picked him up and pressed my face into his neck. Each morning, when I stood with him in my arms, it felt like my whole life had been building up to this, just to be here for this moment. In the kitchen I held Thomas on one hip and watched the microwave as his bottle warmed. I never realized how much of life with children would be spent watching the clock. Waiting for something to start or finish or be ready. Greg walked out, hair damp from the shower. “Morning,” he said. He sat beside me at the table and scooted his chair close to kiss the baby and then me. For a quiet minute we sat together, our son between us. I had worried Greg might not find our own baby special, having already been through it twice, but he’d filmed our sons first smiles as eagerly as he watched Ethan shooting hoops or Charlotte singing on stage. “It’s not like I love each kid less than the one before,” he’d said. But I was his second wife, and maybe that was why it played on my mind sometimes. Charlotte appeared next. She dropped into a chair and gazed down at her phone. “Rehearsal has been moved, it’s starting at 7.30AM now,” she said. “Can you drop her?” Greg asked me, getting himself a coffee. “Charlotte, is your brother up?” “Yeah, he’s in the shower,” she said, leaning over to tickle Thomas’s chin as I put him down in the highchair beside her. I’d worried she and Ethan would be jealous of the baby, or simply not interested, but they both loved him. Charlotte in the same way she loved playing with her dolls not so long ago, Ethan in a protective yet slightly distant way. “Is he alright?” he would ask me, if the baby coughed or whimpered. I spooned pureed apples into a bowl and wrapped a bib around Thomas’s neck. He felt warm as my hand brushed him and I paused, touched his cheek, his forehead. “He feels hot. Greg, do you think he looks flushed?” “He’s fine,” Greg said, without looking. Greg often told me he worried less than me because Thomas was his third baby, and after the first you realize they're built to survive. Sometimes though, I wondered if there was something in our genetic code which meant males only noticed the bigger things. The way I knew Ethan would probably jump in front of a speeding car for his baby brother, but Charlotte was the one who would notice if he pulled his hat off while we were out. Ethan came out half dressed, pulling his t shirt over his shoulders. Greg tousled his wet hair as he passed, even though Ethan stood about two inches taller than him. I’d always loved how much he loved his children. It was what made thoughts of a baby of our own start creeping into my head, when I watched him with them. Ethan’s eyes met mine as he passed me on the way to the fridge. “Hi, Sara,” he greeted me, like he always did. But there was a question in him too, in the way he glanced at me again. Two days before, I’d arrived home after picking Thomas up early from daycare and walked out to the back garden to find him and two of his friends smoking a joint. “Uh, hey,” Ethan had said, casually stubbing the joint out. “Didn’t think you’d be home yet.” “Clearly not,” I said. And then we stood in silence, neither knowing what to say. I still hadn’t told Greg, and it was weighing on me. And on Ethan too, I knew. But there was always something else happening we needed to talk about. Mostly, I hated the thought of how disappointed he’d be. “Alright, kid, you want a ride?” Greg asked Ethan. He nodded, mumbled something around a mouthful of food. I watched them leave the house together. I’d always known, since I first met Ethan when he was only ten years old, that the day would come he’d want to live with his dad. “You ready in five?” I asked Charlotte, shoving plates into the dishwasher. “I’ve got to get across town after I drop you.” My phone was vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out, turned the dishwasher on. A message from the speaker I’d organized to say her flight was delayed. “Shit, damn,” I said, wiping the baby’s face with a cloth before hoisting him out. The carefully constructed day ahead teetered. I ran over the schedule in my head, wondering what I could shuffle around. “Here,” Charlotte said, waving the nappy bag at me as we headed out. The car already felt warm in the dim interior of the garage. I strapped Thomas into his seat and put my phone in its holder. “I’m so nervous,” Charlotte said. “I don’t even know my lines yet.” She twisted her skirt in her hands. She got like this every time she had a show coming up. One night we had to pull over on the way there because she kept thinking she was going to throw up. “You’ll be fine, you always are,” I said, hitting my manager’s number and putting the phone on speaker. I pulled out into our street, still quiet, and turned toward the main road where traffic was building up. By the time I dropped Charlotte at school and headed for Thomas’s daycare, I’d already rearranged the schedule. My manager would go first, our delayed speaker would take his spot before lunch. I already felt calmer, the way everything slotted smoothly back in to a new order. No one would even notice how smoothly it all went, they would only know if there was a hitch; an empty slot, a late lunch, a cold coffee urn. My phone rang again as I headed down the motorway, away from the city. I glanced down at the number as I answered, the phone still in its holder. “Hello, Sara? It’s Nicola. Can we talk?” The voice of my husband’s ex-wife bounced around my car. I could picture her as she spoke. She was as tall as Greg, always perfectly dressed, and I was slightly intimidated by her in many ways. Maybe that was why I had wanted to have a baby. Because otherwise, she would share something with him in a way I never could. “Yeah, but I’m driving right now,” I said. “It’s about Ethan,” she said. I was suspicious yet curious. Usually, anything to do with their children was discussed between her and Greg. “Ok, sure,” I said. It occurred to me she must have found out about the pot smoking and I felt a surge of regret at not telling Greg already. A deep part of me aware I hadn’t because I felt like Ethan already soaked up so much of his time and attention. She sighed into the phone, sounding irritated, as if I'd already given the wrong answer. “I need to sort out this situation with Ethan. He can’t just avoid coming to his own mother’s house. I have to meet him at a café it I want to see him, it’s ridiculous.” “I know, he just thinks it’s best if he avoids Mark for now.” “For now,” she repeated. “He’s avoided him for seven months. He's like his father, never lets anything go. I want him to come around for dinner this weekend, so we can all sit down and talk.” I turned off down the road which led to the golf club. Cars and houses quickly gave way to flat grassy fields and rows of trees. “Have you spoken to Greg?” I asked her. “I don’t really get in the middle of –“ “Oh, stop,” she said. “My son lives with you. Don’t pretend you’re not in the middle of everything.” “But I’m not his mother,” I said, because I wanted to reassure her. Realising then that she had something to fear too. “I can’t tell him what to do.” I turned off the speaker and picked up the phone as I pulled into the carpark. The golf club stretched ahead of me, long and low. Trees towered behind it, creating a shaded garden area where we could take our breaks. “Exactly, you’re not his mother, that’s why you might be able to actually convince him of something,” Nicola said. “I can’t even get him to take his shoes to his room.” I parked away from the trees. When I was here looking at the venue, I parked underneath them and came out to a car spotted with bird poo. “I know Greg’s not going to be any help with this,” Nicola said. I got out the car with the phone against my ear still, thinking of the night Ethan turned up at our house. He’d ran through the rain and was soaked and shaking with cold and indignation. “I’m not ever going back there,” he said. Greg had snapped into action, sending Ethan to shower and dry off, putting a pizza in the oven to heat up for him, messaging Nicola to let her know he was here. I was on the couch nursing my newborn son, and saw in Greg the sheen of victory. He was happy for this, to have his son disown the imposter father. I stroked our baby’s head and held him to my breast, and I couldn’t even imagine a day when this would happen to me, that my son would run from my house. “Alright, I’ll talk to him,” I said. I dropped the phone into my bag, held my hand out behind me with the remote to lock the car. Walked toward the golf club, where the first arrivals were heading for the entrance. X I have relived this day a thousand times, and every time I imagine this is what happens next:  I stop there. I turn, look back to the car glinting in the sun. And I see him, the top of his dark head just visible. Open the door and my baby boy is there in his car seat, asleep.

A shadow passes over me, like some great predatory bird swooping low, and I glimpse the bottomless horror I almost fell into. “I can’t believe it,” I say to him. “I forgot to drop you at daycare!” I pick him up, feeling the weight of him, safe in my arms. The whole happy life full of laundry and car rides and conversations I didn’t want to have and ones I did, the small joys which were everything and the worries which I understand now were small too – it all comes rushing back to me. The shadow moves past me, and it’s just another day in my life.


That’s the thing about this city, there's more to it than meets the eye. I was born into one of the richest families in Manhattan. I come from a long line of people who worked boring office jobs to make their way to the top of Corporate America with not a single creative bone in their body. I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life; I’ve been to every museum it has to offer, gone to every charity ball or unnecessary banquet with my family, seen more than 10 Broadway shows, have visited the statue of liberty, and been to the twin towers. I’ve gotten everything I have ever wanted and more but at the end of the day it all feels meaningless. I live in my own little bubble, I don’t even feel like a real New Yorker, I’ve never even stepped foot on a subway. My whole life everything has been done for me and I have been sheltered from everything. I’ve only ever attended private school with other rich kids who have made being wealthy their entire personalities, I was never allowed to join sports or any other fun activities that I wanted to because my parents thought all my energy should go toward my education and following in my dad's footsteps, go to the same college he did, study the same thing he did and then eventually take over his company. Which is something I am not interested in, but no one seems to care. The only thing they allow me to do is ballet but that’s only because all the daughters of the rich snotty families are also ballet dancers, they think being in ballet with them will mean I finally make nice with them. That’s not going to happen, I don’t want to be friends with them, or always have everything done for me and have no independence. I want to be my own person and not have my last name or how much money is in my bank account be my identity. I am more than that, I want to be more than that.

I have a passion for dancing, but not ballet dancing. I love hip-hop dancing, which is something my parents would freak out about if they knew. I always watch videos on YouTube of the newest hip hop moves and try to teach them to myself as best I can, but as long as I live in this house, under the Valenzuela roof I will never be able to pursue my passion. I can’t have my family attached to my hip because they are only weighing me down. But once I graduate high school, I won’t let them hold me back anymore. Ever since I found the school of my dreams, The Elite Artists Academy, where the best dancers, singers, and other artists of the country go, I’ve had a plan mapped out. Graduate high school, move out and get my own apartment go to school and graduate from the Elite Artists Academy, become a professional hip hop dancer, maybe do some music videos, dance on tour with a famous singer, and eventually settle down and start a family, hopefully with a fellow dancer. But of course, my family doesn’t know that, they would only try to hold me back.

Today’s my 18th birthday and rather than letting my parents ruin my day with activities that I don’t want to do, I am making sure to leave before sunrise. I'm going to explore all the parts of New York that I’ve always wanted to see. Right now, I am getting ready to leave and am trying not to wake up my parents.

I’m going to take the subway for the first time today, get a map, and find a way to visit all the places I want to go only using the subway. Hopefully, I don’t get lost.

I bought my subway pass and got a directory of all the trains and where they take me, my parents must be waking up right about now, it sure feels good not to be there to smell my dad’s morning breath. I have to catch the J train to get to this coffee shop I’ve heard amazing things about in Brooklyn, they’re supposed to have the best bagels. I’m not used to waking up this early but it's worth it if I get to spend my birthday how I want to and now how my parents want to. Maybe I can take a nap while the train gets to my stop.

Train rides sure are long. I took a nap, and the train is still going. Oh no! Of course, this happened, apparently, this train makes multiple stops not just the one in Brooklyn, I slept through mine and now it's taking me to Rochester which is the last stop. I have no idea what to do, Rochester wasn’t on my itinerary and I don’t know anyone from around there. I’m kind of freaking out.

I’m crying with frustration when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Wow. Oh wow. It was the most attractive boy I had ever seen in my life. He asked me what was wrong, and I explained my situation, maybe with too many details. He asked me why I was crying, and I proceeded to tell him my life story including my plans to become a hip-hop dancer. To my surprise, we shared the same passion for dancing. It was a breath of fresh air meeting someone whose dreams didn't involve working in an office building. I had never met anyone like Evan, he was funny, kind, didn’t dress like he was going to a company board meeting, and unlike most people, I knew he had a personality.

I was never the type to be bold when it came to boys but at this moment, I decided to take the risk. I asked him to spend the day with me, kind of be my tour guide and take me to all the must-see places in New York. And he gave me the best birthday present ever and said yes.

We got off at the last stop and the first thing we did was go to the donut shop he knew about and I tried some of the best donuts I have ever tried in my life, the gourmet donut shop in my neighborhood has nothing on this place. From there we went to many different amazing places that I had never seen before, but my favorite we visited was the Dancer’s Fight Club.

The Dancer’s Fight Club was a secret dance club where hip-hop dance crews and solo dancers went to compete in practice, compete in dance battles or just dance for fun and have a good time. The minute I walked in there it was love at first sight. All those talented people being able to express themselves freely and doing what they love without judgment, being part of a supportive community, it’s everything I've ever wanted. But my parents would never let me come to a place like this, especially considering how far it is from my house and from everything they value. I would love a place like this near my house, so I decided that to provide the manager with the funds to open another location in my neighborhood, as a secret of course.

So, Lily and Harper, the managers of the Dancer’s Fight Club are going to open their new location, and when I can I’m going to help them open more and more new locations so that every dancer in this city who needs a place to express themselves feel safe and supported has one. And every day after school when my parents think I’m at my school’s math club I’ll be at the fight club, practicing and becoming the best dancer I can be to get into the Elite Dancer’s Academy.

No matter how extravagant my birthday parties have been or how many expensive presents I've gotten, this has been the best birthday ever.