The antique store was packed with forgotten and discarded treasures, but it was the antique mirror that whispered to Sarah. ‘ Me. You want me .’ She hadn’t come looking for anything in particular, she had no idea why she’d stopped at all. But once her gaze fell on the tall mirror, she wasn’t interested in seeing anything else. It stood in the window of the shop, with various other pieces that might have been found in a long-ago bedroom. But Sarah only had eyes for the mirror. The sinuous embrace of a dark, mahogany frame enveloped the silvered glass, its contours undulating like the graceful curves of an old-time movie starlet. The unadorned frame connected seamlessly to the base through two sleek swivel joints. Below, a drawer crafted from the same rich wood hovered above four petite wheels, poised to carry reflections across the floor with silent grace. Sarah had never been one for mirrors. She barely glanced at the one in the bathroom before she went out into the world. She worked from home and only rarely had to worry about how she looked for online meetings. So she found it curious that she was considering buying a large mirror. “What’s the story with the mirror?” she asked the young man behind the counter. He pushed a lock of sand-colored hair out of his eyes. “It used to belong to my great-grandmother. We’re moving next year, trying to reduce the amount of stuff we have to pack, you know?” He looked to be in his late twenties. Sarah nodded silently. “What’re you asking for it?” “Twenty-five seem fair to you?” “It does, but…” Sarah glanced at her little car parked on the street nearby. ‘ You want this ,’ a voice whispered in the back of her consciousness. “You live here in the city?” The young man asked. Sarah nodded. “About three miles away. I really like it, but I don’t think it would fit in my car to get it home.” He nodded toward a black truck parked across the street. “Throw in another twenty and I’ll deliver it tomorrow.” He seemed eager to be rid of the mirror, but Sarah attributed it to the move he’d told her about. “Can you turn it so I can see the front? Your window ripples a little…” The young man nodded and stood up. He bent to grasp one side of the frame to turn it, jumped a little, and then stumbled.

“Must’ve stood up too quick,” he said. With the mirror fully exposed, and without a window to interfere, Sarah was able to see it was pristine and unblemished. She dug into her pocket and pulled out cash. “Got a piece of paper and a pen? I’ll give you my address.” The next morning, the young man arrived with a friend and the mirror. They brought it into Sarah’s bedroom, as she’d asked, and set it in the corner she pointed at. “Good luck,” the young man muttered as he and his friend left. Curious about such an odd comment, Sarah admired her new mirror for a moment, then returned to the other room to get back to work - an article on growing watermelons. Sometime later, her focus was interrupted by the sound of something dragging across the floor of her bedroom. “What the hell?” She picked up an aluminum baseball bat she kept in the corner and headed for the other room. At first glance, there was no explanation for the sound. Sarah went all through the apartment, checking closets, cupboards, and the bathroom for hidden intruders, but found herself most definitely alone. She tried to get back to her writing, but it was pointless - her concentration had been upended like a cart full of chestnuts. She gave up on watermelons and went into the kitchen to make dinner instead, uttering a small prayer that the storm outside wouldn’t knock out the electricity. As she was putting the finishing touches on the pan of lasagna, she heard the distinctive and brassy tones of a trumpet from her bedroom. She stood for a moment, transfixed by both the music and the mystery of why it was playing at all. It wasn’t her alarm, and her phone was on the counter nearby. Perhaps she’d left the window open. Certain that was the explanation, Sarah put the lasagna into the oven, slid her phone into her back pocket, and went to close her bedroom window.

No sooner had she stepped one foot into the room, than the trumpet stopped. Her window was closed, and she could see no one in the park below. Not that she expected to find anyone foolish enough to be outside in the downpour and lightning. She turned away from the window with a small shake of her head and went back into her office, thinking perhaps if she could edit the last page, she might find her flow again. She was surprised to hear the oven timer chime forty-five minutes later. Where had the time gone? She’d reread the last page she wrote, and now…the article was complete. Just like that. She’d had work sessions before when she’d been hyper-focused and written more words than she expected but they’d been few and far between. “If I could write like that more often, I might be able to get a manuscript accepted,” she mumbled to herself as she walked past her room to the kitchen.

After dinner, she chatted happily with her uncle on the phone, took a shower, and read until she felt herself nodding off over the book. Sarah ensured her door was locked, and went to bed. As night fell, her subconscious unveiled cryptic scenes: donning a black dress and pearls to the backdrop of brassy music. The sole semblance of familiarity — the mirror. But the woman in the reflection was not Sarah. She was brunette too, and of a similar build, but the resemblance went no further.

The woman in the reflection locked gazes with Sarah, smiled, and said, “Hiya, Doll.” Startled, Sarah snapped awake, her gaze immediately drawn to the newly acquired mirror. In that fleeting moment, a surreal glow emanated from the glass, casting doubt on the reality of her awakening. More curious than afraid, she pushed the covers aside and slid out of bed. She stepped slowly toward the mirror, bewildered as the reflection mirrored her every move with uncanny precision—yet the woman staring back at her was the same enigmatic figure from her dream. “What the hell is this?” Sarah whispered as she stopped in front of the mirror. “Hiya, Doll,” the woman in the glass chirped. Her dark hair cascaded in waves, framing her face with a mix of curls that flirted over her head and tumbled gracefully to her shoulders. The vivid sparkle in her bright green eyes accompanied a smile carrying a hint of mischief and a touch of cocky charm.

Sarah felt a cold breeze chase across her skin. Her eyes widened as far as they possibly could before she blinked once. Twice. “I’m still dreaming…” “Nope, ‘fraid not, Sweetcheeks.” “How is this possible?” Sarah reached toward the glass, but the woman inside did not. “I don’t know how my Packard runs, but it does,” the not-reflection replied. “You aren’t me, but you’re inside my mirror. Who are you?” Sarah’s brow furrowed. “Alice.” Sarah was silent for a moment as she considered possible explanations for this seemingly impossible experience. Then she said, “If I’m not dreaming, and not hallucinating, then you’re…a ghost?” “More of a spirit,” Alice waggled her hand back and forth. “But either way, you’re not screaming, so that’s good. I seem to scare the others.” “You’ve shown yourself to other people?” “Sure, I winked at Andrew the other day and he almost fell over, remember?” “Andrew?” Sarah asked. “Oh! The young man who sold me the mirror. I wondered why he stumbled.” “I would’ve hoped that my descendants were made of stronger stuff, but neither he nor his wife wanted to share their home. Seems a little ungrateful, if you ask me.” The puzzle started to come together in Sarah’s mind. “You’re his great-grandmother.” Alice made a face. “You make me sound so old.” Sarah reached out and wheeled the mirror closer to the bed, and sat cross-legged on the end. “How did you end up in there? What’s the last thing you remember doing?” Alice sat more primly on the reflected bed on her side of the glass. “Howard and I were getting ready to attend the funeral of one of his drivers when the baby woke up. The sitter hadn’t shown yet, so Howard volunteered to tend to her. He walked out of the room, and the next thing I knew, the window was exploding. I was on the floor with bits of glass everywhere. The baby was screaming, there were gunshots and tires squealing, and my side was burning.” “You were shot?” Alice nodded. “The last thing I remember seeing was the reflection of Howard rushing into the room with little Maggie in his arms.” “Do you remember your last name?” “Hill,” Alice replied simply. Sarah stood up. “I’ll be right back. I want to check something.” She wasn’t surprised to see Alice still sitting on the end of the reflected bed. Sarah settled into a cross-legged position, opening her laptop with a purpose. With a few keystrokes, she searched the digital realm, and in the span of a few heartbeats, the answers to her inquiries materialized on the screen. “It says here that Howard was a …” “A bootlegger, I know,” Alice replied with a nod.

“Howard Hill was suspected to have stolen a significant amount from his mafia bosses,” Sarah read. “An act that was paid for with the premature death of his wife, Alice. She was shot to death by unknown gunmen while preparing to attend the funeral of Socks Lotoro. The murder of Hill’s wife sparked the beginning of a months-long war within the local Syndicate, ending only with the assassination of Howard himself.” “Wow…” Sarah blinked as she set the laptop aside. “None of that seems to be news to you.” “I’ve been in here a long time, Sweetie. Like I said, I don’t know how, I only know that this is the way things are now. But you’re different,” Alice cocked her head a little. “You aren’t afraid.” “Should I be?” “Nah,” Alice flicked a hand. “You’re stronger than the others, that’s for sure. They all wanted to get rid of the mirror.” “And you?” Alice nodded. After a moment she asked, “Why’re you so different from them? Why aren’t you afraid?” Sarah shrugged one shoulder and looked toward the darkened window as lightning traced across the sky. “I’ve always enjoyed reading about things that can’t possibly exist. I remember having a conversation with my uncle when I was ten, trying to convince him unicorns were real. If there are sea creatures that can live at the bottom of the ocean and translucent frogs in the rainforest, why should unicorns and Windigo be so far-fetched? By extension,” she gestured toward the mirror. “Why should a spirit trapped inside a mirror be so hard to believe?” “You’re pretty smart, ya know that?” Alice said with a smile. “Did I hear you say earlier you were a writer?” “Not a very successful one. I have some success with non-fiction, but that’s about it.” “You ever try writing a mobster story?” Alice grinned at her. “I always knew what Howard was doing, and I could tell you tales that would knock your socks off.” Sarah thought for a few moments. “If I wrote a story with the mob boss being a woman, it might be different enough to stand out.” “You should probably change the names to be safer, too. But you’d better get something to drink, and something to take notes with, Sweetcheeks, ‘cause I’ve got stories galore…” One Year Later … As Sarah sat before her mirror, her fingers gently tracing the wooden frame, she marveled at the journey she’d taken since the day she’d stopped at that antique store. The once dynamic and lively woman in the mirror had become a cherished companion, a muse that cradled the echoes of a bygone era. In the quiet of her study, where she’d moved Alice’s mirror, Sarah took a deep breath and glanced at the desk, where the multi-book contract awaited her signature. She felt a surge of gratitude for the spirit that had guided her through the labyrinth of history, mobsters, and untold stories. Sarah picked up her pen and signed the document she hoped would catapult her into the literary spotlight. As ink met paper, a profound sense of closure wrapped around her. The novels, born from the collaboration of two women separated by time yet bound by destiny, would find their way into the hands of readers over the next few years. She imagined them engrossed in the tales of greed, desperation, and resilience, blissfully unaware of the unique partnership that had given birth to the stories. Sarah turned to the mirror. Alice had shared so many of Howard’s exploits, and those of the men he worked with, that she’d been able to write first drafts of five separate manuscripts. Sarah had pushed through long hours at her desk, transcribing Alice’s memories as fast as her fingers could fly over her laptop. Of course, she’d changed the tales enough to suit her main character, a steely and determined woman at the head of a crime syndicate.

The night she’d finished the first draft of the fifth book, the lightning had split the sky over and over again. Sarah had slouched in her chair, triumphantly declaring the draft complete. Alice had smiled sadly out of her glass prison. “It’s time for me to move on.” “What? No! I still need you!” Sarah reached toward the mirror with a desperate hand. “You’ll be okay now. You know what you have to do. Those stories are gonna make you famous one day, but don’t tell anyone I told ya so,” Alice had winked conspiratorily. “But…” Alice’s reflection had grown a little fuzzy around the edges. “Someone else needs me more, Sweetcheeks. One of my other descendants just had a baby, and she’s got a hole in her heart. If anyone needs whispers of encouragement, it’s that little girl. You’ll be fine.” “Other descendants?” “One of your extended relations, actually,” Alice grinned. “Remember, Doll, you can do anything you set your mind to.” She glanced toward the window of the study, fading now. “You make the family name proud, you hear me?” “Family name?” Alice only smiled and gave Sarah a wink as she faded completely from view. In the days that followed Alice’s crossing over, Sarah had done some digging and discovered that she was indeed related to the famous mobster Howard Hill. It was hard not to tell anyone, but Sarah had settled for procuring portraits of Alice and Howard. With a satisfied sigh, she whispered her thanks to Alice’s portrait. A profound stillness settled over the study as Sarah wheeled the now-ordinary mirror back to her bedroom.

As she exited the room, Alice’s portrait rippled with a final, approving smile—a tale told, a destiny rewritten, and a bond everlasting.


I have not spoken to another human being in twenty-five years. I was at that time, the best astral projectionist on the planet, able to extend my consciousness an almost unlimited distance away from my physical body, and so I was chosen to search for extraterrestrial life, living or extinct, in a place where men cannot go. It was the most pressing question on the human mind and what fools we were, for as long as my body lies preserved unconscious in a lab I am unable to return to it. I cannot even write in the Martian sand and report the futility of my findings, if I could I would write this... IF THERE ARE NO MEN ON MARS THEN I AM NOT A MAN            It was believed there might be surface water on Mars due to photographs of runoff that appeared to be salt crystals. But somehow my government knew (perhaps from my predecessors) that a planetary ecosystem, intelligent life included, had had its entire run beyond the age of our own civilization all the way to extinction. They could have known from this information alone what to expect, but I wasn’t given any geological training except that I knew a rock from my own head and now I’m not so sure.            Magazines showed a beautiful pink landscape with bubble-headed children toiling outside a future enclosed settlement. There was something called a “water seeker”, an imaginary animal that probes the soil with its long snout and closes its ears over its body at night. The real Mars is so dead one might say it’s a place where rocks go to die. Imagine the driest place on Earth, the Atacama Desert in Chile where the rovers were tested, if the most lifeless square mile of that desert was global. I spent a year exploring curiously, able to pass through any surface but unable to see through the darkness inside it, unable to sleep through the long Martian nights. In time I explored the polar regions, where it is too cold for rocks as much as that puzzled me. I figured there must have been an ice age when a great deal of the planet was covered in ice sheets. But the temperature is always 80 degrees below zero, one would think moisture never rises unless there is such a thing as negative moisture. One would think it would have to be warmer to have more ice, but this was the least of my revelations.            It was also believed that certain mountain formations resembled pyramids. There was a group of three (one big mountain and two little ones) that reminded them of the pyramid complex at Giza if one used a lot of imagination, so that is where I was sent first. From the orbital photos they did seem to rise from an empty plain with only the rubble that had fallen from their own slopes, and they did seem to have the right proportions with the “divine ratio”, but as I stood there they looked disappointingly like ordinary mountains. I passed through them searching for any internal chambers, trying to discern if they were connected to the bedrock, a job that could have been done by sending a backhoe or even the ability for me to brush some dirt aside with my hand. (Not only has a backhoe not been sent in all these years, they have not sent a probe of any kind to those mountains.) I can only assume the theory they were so convinced of has been abandoned.            After searching the nearby crater for any signs of quarrying, I started to wonder if there was any visible difference between a million-year-old pyramid and a natural mountain. If the ones at Giza were a million years old we might think they were natural hills. (But that would mean the Egyptians didn’t build them but found them and quarried them off just as their descendants did, which would mean they were not tombs in the first place.)            I was instructed to project myself back in time 100 million years, to a time when there might have been life in this desert and the pyramids might have been in use. Projection is like having a waking dream where someone at your bedside is telling you what to do, so I did my best to transition to that time. Someone in the past would have perceived me as a ghost or something they imagined.            Mars 100 million years ago looks much like it does today. The mountains did look a bit more like pyramids albeit on a gigantic scale; the sides were cleaner, the ground was smoother as if someone had swept with a broom a thoroughfare wide enough for a million people to assemble around the complex. But there were no signs of life, and in this form I can gravitate instantly to the thoughts of a single individual, even someone who has been buried in the ground. Archaeology as I understand it reveals mostly human waste and there was none. There was no trash, no homes for the laborers who built these structures, no discarded material from their stoneworking, no channels in the ground for plumbing, no signs of agriculture, there were no graves.            I would come to explore five of these locations within an area of 100 square miles, each of them slightly different but just as deserted. The massive cul-de-sac around the complex did not lead anywhere, I perceived only a distant memory of its occupancy and it was then I started to doubt if it was only what I was seeing that made me think there was a memory. Perhaps it wasn’t a cul-de-sac and they weren’t pyramids, but it did remind me of something I’d seen before.            As a child I remember seeing a movie version of Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles that wasn’t very good, it might even have been a school production. The scenes with the Martians were filmed through a lens to make them indistinct; instead of the shining cities described in the novel there were only cones, spheres and geometric shapes filmed in a patch of desert. Movie props probably made of foam covered in gritty-looking reddish earth. This reminded me of that, like a mirage.            Then as I knelt to the ground it occurred to me this was a landscape scoured by a natural disaster. A storm that moves boulders farther than the eye can see (or perhaps destroys them with lightning?), and I came to the realization I should have made in the first place: A civilization far older than ours, more advanced, on a dying planet. Which means they either died with it…  or settled somewhere else at a time when there was no human life.            We ourselves are able to travel to other worlds right now, we just choose not to because the Earth is divided among too many rivals and agendas. So a spacefaring civilization more ancient and perhaps wiser was still faced with destruction from planetary forces?            I went back even further, one billion years which is so vast an amount of time to my human brain I could barely hold myself there. It was like moving and thinking through soup, but the pyramid did have an entrance and a dark chamber for sleeping at this time, sleeping through storms. For how long I wondered. They could have projected as I do from their sleeping chambers to explore the nearest planet before they left. I perceived something like an ark transporting them to a new place, but then my logic disabled me.            For them to be pyramid-builders who came to Earth in ancient times and inspired our own pyramid-building was not possible. An architectural style doesn’t outlast the entire span of evolution including five mass extinctions, observing from a time when they were the only predators to a time when they were hunted themselves and then watch the predators die out. No, an architectural fad belongs in a book on the history of architecture, each generation making changes all the way to the styles of the Atomic Age. Was it even knowable that Earth had been visited so long ago? There are no fossils that old except for bacteria. The Appalachians where I grew up are a billion years old; what would a human body or a vehicle be reduced to in all that time?            So my thoughts returned to the possibility of a hoax. What if someone had wanted people to think there was life here? It’s an age-old prospect from the imaginary “canals” to Orson Welles’ radio broadcast. Our knowledge is still mostly telescope-based, even though we probably have the ability to place a few props knowing no one would come along to discern them in decades. Astral projection was not recognized by science in my time, my handlers didn’t identify themselves as NASA or anything else. What was the alternative? That the Martians obliterated all signs of themselves leaving only the most base monoliths behind to keep them from becoming our gods?            Just then as I turned to leave the sleeping chamber, I perceived I saw a man or something like a man standing at the gaping triangular entrance for only a millisecond; a man with a padlock in place of a mouth. Perhaps it was only something that made me think of a padlock, pierced through his nose like a portable respirator. But in a moment I was sure there was no one there, and I returned to the present day. --            Little did I know my doubtful statements would result in me never hearing the voice of my handlers again. From time to time I thought I heard something , orderlies whispering around my body perhaps. I had no way of knowing which doubts were the problem, my theory that this was staged or that Martians were our progenitors, and so my global wanderings began.            I thought of how time travel makes the concept of history meaningless. An advanced race shouldn’t have to be present for disasters or even their own past; not if they gravitate to a time of paradise and live there in perpetuity observing all eons. The only remnants visible to us would be from the time they chose to abandon their original form, like discarded library books they no longer care to go back and erase. The job of the scorched-earth policy, leaving nothing visible to confuse us might have fallen to a janitor or the last Martian standing. I imagined a heat beam fired from orbit or wherever they went to, unless… we ourselves did it? I started looking for traces of glass or other signs of a burn area having no knowledge of archaeology.            Deep down my list of things to investigate, of less importance than the top ten attractions on Mars was something I never expected to bring up. The lander that was sent in 1995 took panoramic images of the landscape that included an oddly-shaped rock someone thought might be a fallen statue, and another that slightly resembled a human skull, and another that looked like a bear swinging its arms or whatever people imagined it to be. They seemed to think a lander that touched down at a random location, facing a random direction, happened to capture this unlikely moment. It was a sort of idolatry as they poured over every photo leaving no stone unspeculated. But I didn’t have to go to that random spot when I could find more bizarre formations no rover has ever seen.            So I willed myself to gander at thousands of potential objects until the day I came to a giant rock slab a hundred meters across, which had sprouting like a tree from its far corner a figure like a deformed person with one arm hideously bent at the wrist and the other arm pointing at the Sun like a statue of a discus thrower. I looked at it wondering how the wind could possibly have sculpted it into this shape.            What is it that first makes something an idol? Does a person speaking to it automatically make it one? There’s another story by Bradbury I knew only in name, “And the Rock Cried Out”. And why shouldn’t it? Introspection is a healthy measure when one is completely alone, yes? So I began speaking to this inanimate object, for how else was I to glean its wisdom?            “Inhabitants of this planet settling on Earth so far in the past doesn’t just precede our natural history but theological history.” I voiced the foremost thought on my mind. “One Billion BC unless I’m mistaken must predate the War of Heaven. What would they have found on Earth at that time? And why was it deemed not necessary for us to know about them? Unless… they were our gods.”            The formation stood there in the wind as I continued.            “What makes a god different from an idol?” I finally asked.            Its grotesque pose never altered nor did it once turn its stone head to look at me.            “The difference is who is on the losing side.” the rock cried out.            I squinted in the sun neither bowing in admonition to my psychosis nor ignoring it.            “Not only gods but facts themselves vanish if no one believes in them.” it continued. “Your quarreling with yourself is not necessary; you are still abiding by considerations that are no longer real. You should be an acolyte of your beliefs, there is no one here to doubt them. These are your own words.”            “Yes I am aware of that.” I responded. “I have crossed vast distances of space and time in search of answers to those questions.”            “I will tell you whatever you wish, but only if you take it as your imagination.” it replied in a sly, stony voice.            I considered this strange condition for a moment.            “Very well, I’ll take whatever you say as my imagination.” I conceded. “The man I saw in the past, was he the last of his kind?”            I had no way to interpret its silence.            “You must have seen a reflection of yourself.” it answered.            “Yes, that’s what I thought. I am in the same position as him, which means vicariously he is the same as me.”            “It is as you say.” it gave a non-committal answer.            “And what are you?” I demanded next.            “I am your *Ngggh* .” it made an unpronounceable sound that pealed like a bell in my ears.            “You are my what?” I repeated.            “But that is not the question you have come here to ask.” it said.            I thought for a moment.            “How do I get out of this predicament?” I posed.            “You already know the answer. In time they will send someone else.”            “Yes, there is a manned mission projected for 2009.” I admitted. “That is quite a few years from now, but I will sense him wherever he lands. But what if I fail to convince him to tell others about me or he thinks I am just a delusion? Murder him in his dreams and take his place?”            I had just answered my own question.            “I didn’t think that was possible.” I flummoxed. “What do you know about that?”            “Pass through me…” it beckoned with its twisted hand, and I obeyed. --            I am not the man I was, for he shared things with me no man knows. Of course it wasn’t my first choice to subdue an unsuspecting spacefarer chosen by his people. A fool who wanders a trackless wasteland to my resting place should know better, for a man who lies to himself receives bad information. He becomes his own god. But it wasn’t my first choice, I still have *ngghs!* to tell me… My thoughts jumped like a scratched disk skipping over what I was going to say.            But I did not wish to wait for so long. Projection requires a voice from someone in the outside world and there are risks. I wished to go back and talk to the silent man first.            So I returned to the pyramid a billion years in the past. I stood in the doorway transitioning through weeks, months, decades so that someone would think I was a monument. I probed thought itself past the limitations of my surroundings for another presence, peeling them back like layers to reveal the hand that built them. And there beyond the rationality of colors, one half of the sky black and the other white, there he was as if I had disturbed him.            He was hairless, his face pursed by some irreconcilable conundrum, and indeed his mouth was a padlock. It was my own from ages ago, and I was not in a position to help him.            From the time before I first set foot on this planet there have been two possibilities we are led to believe, both supported by prevalent institutions with countless scholars and reasons, one black and one white, both competing for our loyalty. And if we try to find out which it is, we end up riding a line that stretches to infinity because the revelations are too important for us to know. On that both sides are in agreement, and those two truths are *Ngh!* and *NGGGH!* … I mean they are… they’re unattainable to us.            And so I wait, no longer able to see the colors of this landscape since my perception was broken. I am waiting for the first man on Mars, waiting to know him, but I have looked as far into the future as I am able to go and they still have never sent one.


The cluster of skyscrapers that define the city’s skyline loom impassively across the river, sparkling glass teeth sprouting from concrete gums under the red tongue of a late autumn sunset. Sometimes I marvel at the fullness of this city life—opportunities always available in the unknown, absolute freedom in every unfamiliar face, space to pursue passion without personal persecution. Other times I despair at its emptiness—anonymity dismissing family legacy, unpredictability abolishing comfort, novelty closing the door on community. I sit on a memorial bench placarded with a stranger’s name overlooking the valley and trace an absent finger over the peak of my burgeoning belly while I ponder to which life to condemn you. I tossed my tasseled cap into a bright summer sky nearly ten years ago with 22 other graduates. We started as a tiny flock of tots thrown together on the first day of Kindergarten by parents who had raised hell together in the very same parking lots and school hallways we later grew to frequent. Generation-old friendships and genetically-inherited feuds set the hierarchical stage for our relationships before we were even capable of reciting the alphabet. If we go home, I’ll be dialed into the babbling parental party line that has eyes and ears in every square foot of the county. You won’t be able to lie about your late night trips to the trestle bridge, the underage drinking that you’ll do there, or the boyfriends (or girlfriends) that you’ll probably settle on at some point. You’ll be watched over; you’ll be safe—even when you’re trying to be sneaky.

We were so proud of our coy capabilities. I’ll be at Angela’s tonight, just the girls, her parents will be home. We later learned exactly how much our parents did know. E verything. We met Angela’s parents for wings every Friday until Frank passed. You won’t get to reinvent yourself after middle school; you’ll have to make do with the people who know you all too well at your awkward adolescent worst. It’ll make dating dreadfully difficult, which is not exclusive to rural romance, but it is uniquely perplexing. When we got to the tenth grade, Paul Parsons, who was a scrawny, semi-mean nose-picker, suddenly grew three feet and became disarmingly charming. Our moms were close and desperate for us to fall in love, so naturally we resisted. In the eleventh grade, my first boyfriend Jake Johnson broke up with me because he was in love with Angela. She turned him down out of loyalty. Then the three of us carpooled to Minnie Hansen’s bush party that weekend as if we weren’t all reeling from being freshly heart-stomped. In the twelfth grade, prom was a tangled web that rivalled even the wildest television soaps. I ended up on Beau Parker’s arm to avoid Paul’s, even though Beau really wanted to go with Minnie, who was matching ties Jake, who ended up spending the summer sleeping with Angela, who later ended up marrying Beau. I still can’t decide if that was tragically hick or small-town special. In the end, graduation was an extraordinary high. After years of navigating debilitating teenage turmoil, we finally stood at the top in collective we-run-this-town triumph. Braces removed, acne under control, immaturity surely behind us—these were my people; the world was ours for the taking. I was a natural product of my age, brimming with the optimistic philosophy of eternal friendship that is required of all high school seniors in June. I hope you will be too. That summer, my mom stopped me on the way out the door for a weekend at the lake, and I braced myself for an embarrassing lecture on the new boyfriend waiting in the truck (who was, disappointingly for mom, not Paul). But all she said, with a note of nostalgia, was, “Enjoy it. This time. These people. This is it.” I thought it was a weird thing for her to say—these were my people after all. They were all I’d ever known. Sure enough, she was right, and the high faded. Some managed to maintain steadfast friendships whether across town or time zones. Some floated for a while on a breeze of good intentions before drifting into separate spheres of adulthood. I packed up to pursue higher education in the city, equal parts eager to grow my horizons and determined to remain rooted. Time and distance had other plans. Removed and free, surrounded by novelty, diversity, and independence, my homesick ache quickly devolved into active disdain for the limitations that had collared me and condescension for the people who still allowed themselves to be leashed. Growing into new friends and hobbies, my contempt then dulled into passive surveillance of the small town life that I actively avoided. Finally, caught up in career-building and flights of first dates, my aloof monitoring faded to a peaceful ignorance only occasionally disrupted by unsolicited online bulletins.

These days they’re no more than an online network of profiles labelled as friends (or ‘People You May Know’). Their names appear alongside small, predictable bursts of updates that I may or may not deign to double tap—Minnie in Bali, Beau coaching basketball, swollen Angela welling up over the glittering pink shower of a burst balloon, Paul on his knee offering a decent diamond that could have been mine to Jake’s little sister. They’re the people that I chased in the schoolyard and sat next to in church and drank my first beer with. They’re the people whose parents patched up my scraped knees and drove me to soccer games and gave me my first job. They’re the people I hugged and hurt, crossed and kissed, loved and left. I miss them. I want you to know them. I want them to love you like their parents loved me. I want to be sitting on Frank’s memorial bench. It is truly a privilege to hold a place in a small town lineage, to be a core member of a community where people know your name, your parent’s names, and your grandparent’s names. I hope you’ll forgive me for giving up this life to give you that one.


Speak No More By K.P. Atchley Young King Kabir took off his new crown and handed it to one of the many assistants walking with him from the throne room. “That’s heavy,” he observed genially. “Yes, your highness,” muttered the little toad walking next to him. Kabir glanced at him briefly and raised his voice. “Pichai?” “He will be here momentarily, your highness,” said the obsequious little man, bowing and making himself even shorter than he already was. “Fine. Do I have any more public appearances?” “Only the state dinner, your highness.” A third voice joined their conversation. “There is time enough for you to visit the queen mother, milord.” “Oh, hey, Pichai, thank you.” “Mother?” Kabir said as he entered his mother’s rooms. The doors were closed behind him by the royal guards. “In here, my son.” She was seated on a soft couch and she opened her arms to him as he walked in. He gave her a hug and collapsed next to her. “Are you tired?” she asked, a smile in her voice. He grinned and glanced up at her. “A little yes. But I am looking forward to it.” “As am I,” she said. There was a knock on the door. “Come.” To Kabir, she said, “I thought you might come. I asked for some mead and something to eat.” “How did you know I would be hungry?” he marveled, and she laughed. Ameesha, his mother’s old dresser, had brought in the food tray. She was now her all round general factotum. Her face might have been beautiful, but for the fact that her lips were fused together. Only a line denoted where they were. When Kabir had been quite young, he had asked his mother how Ameesha ate, and his mother had told him that she had a hole in her neck for food. He had been consumed by curiosity to see it, but without success. And then one day, when he had been about ten, he had been playing in the small ballroom which had huge statues of winged mythical creatures. He had climbed onto the statue of a gryphon and had been about to fall off, when Ameesha, who had been searching for him, found him. She caught him, but staggered under her weight. He had caught hold of her dress and they both fell. The dress tore just a bit and he had seen the hole in her neck. But by then, he had been old enough to pretend that he had seen nothing. Kabir turned to look at her. “Hi Ameesha. Did you come to the coronation?” Abruptly, her face began to change. A mist covered it, and Ameesha let out a subvocal scream, the reverberations of which could be felt. The sense of power filled the air, as if a thunderstorm was about to erupt inside the cozy office of his mother. And just as suddenly, it all disappeared. To his utter shock, Ameesha’s face had completely changed. The line of her lips had become real lips. She said, “Queen Nilofer, it is done.” The expression on her face was cruel, and Kabir’s heart sped up. Ameesha said, “It seems the child is now safe from my machinations. You owe me, my queen, for all these years.” The queen mother was pale, seated up, back straight, her face tight. “Ameesha, what do you want?” “I want nothing,” she responded viciously. “You have got what you wanted, you and that accursed court advisor, Qurshee.” “We only did what we had to do to protect the realm. If you had only …” her voice trailed away, and Kabir really looked at his mother. Did she look guilty, of all things? “What is going on here?” he asked sharply. “Oh, little boy, ask your mother,” said Ameesha, rude beyond measure. Kabir, normally an easy going young man, felt red cross his gaze. “I am your king, and I will take your respect,” he said icily. “My King,” Ameesha fell to her knees and said, “I am sorry, my King. There is nothing for me to say. Please give me leave to withdraw.” “You may go,” Kabir said and they watched in silence as Ameesha stepped backwards to the door and exited. “What was that all about?” he asked softly, yet with steel in his voice. “Listen then, my son.” Twenty three years prior, Queen Consort Nilofer stood up and began to dress. The court advisor, or magician by another name, Qurshee, stood up on the other side of the bed and clothed himself with a wave of his hand. “Thank you.” They both spoke at the same time. Nilofer let a small smile cross her face. “In this one thing, I suppose we are united.” “In service to the realm, and to the king, yes.” Qurshee was a tall man, identical in almost all ways to his king, his brother, save one. Nilofer left the room without any further comment, and walked down the silent corridors in the dark. She had lived in this palace for almost fourteen years, since she had turned fourteen. At the advanced age of twice fourteen, she was desperate to get with child. Would this be the answer? A wave of dizziness overtook her, and she paused, leaning against the wall, breath coming hard. Someone was watching her. Nilofer closed her eyes to identify the source of her unease, but her magic was of the healing variety, ill suited to discovering if she had been followed and better suited to discovering if she had indeed quickened. Joy suffused her. She had indeed quickened. She pulled the tendril of healing magic back into her heart, a smile breaking out on her sweating face. Again, that twinge of unease buffeted her. Magic-less, ordinary methods would have to do. She opened her eyes and looked around. At that hour of night, it was quiet. A single candle burned further down the corridor, barely enough to make out details of the space. There was no one around, yet Nilofer knew she was being watched. She slowly continued her walk and finally entered her room through a hidden door. She went right into the King’s bedroom, where he awaited her, lying awake in bed, wasting away from some unknown disease. “Is it done?” he asked, his voice soft, all of his hopes on his face. “Yes, it is done,” she said. She smiled at him, and he gasped, his hope turning to joy. “Are you … did it …” his voice trailed away as he coughed, still smiling. “My king!” She quickly poured out a draught from the porcelain jug sitting on the nightstand. She crawled across the bed, and shoved a pillow gently under his head, holding it while letting him grasp the cup with shaking hands. When he was done, he breathed slowly, but he still smiled. “Tell me, wife of mine, queen of the realm, are we to have a royal heir soon?” Nilofer smiled. “I congratulate you, king of the realm, on your soon to be fatherhood.” Queen Nilofer had taken over the king’s office when he had fallen ill almost two years prior. That day, she was reviewing a treaty with the neighboring land that was up for renewal. The court’s advisor was late. The desk before her was haphazardly full of parchment, the odd and rare book, an earring tree that had a chain, and a few rings on it. It was a rewards tree, that the king used to reward those who pleased him. Strange custom, but Nilofer had ceased to be surprised by it. There was a knock. “Come.” “You’re late,” Nilofer said, frowning at the parchment in her hand. “I’m sorry, my queen. Here is your tea.” “Oh, sorry Ameesha, I didn’t realize it was you. Thank you.” She accepted the tea and took a quick sip. “I brought you some nettle leaf tea, my queen. I thought it would be good for you right now.” Nilofer coughed, the sip going the wrong way. Gasping for breath, she put down the cup and stared at the woman in front of her. Dimly she registered the door to her office opening and closing silently, the court advisor, not doubt. “Ameesha, what did you say?” “You know what I said. You betrayed the king, with his brother, no less. What kind of harlot are you?” Nilofer’s mouth opened and closed. For a moment, she couldn’t say anything. Then reason returned. “How dare you?” Ameesha laughed and stared at her unabashedly. “Dare? You speak to me of daring? You are not fit to be our queen. This isn’t about me. It’s about you, and if you think I will be quiet, you are very much mistaken, you harlot. The next king or queen cannot be the court advisor’s bastard.” Nilofer’s rage knew no bounds, but she was an old hand at dealing with things that did not go her way. Her whole life, practically nothing had gone her way. Practice made her swallow her ire and think logically. “What do you want?” “For what? To keep silent? Nothing. Because I will not keep silent.” “The court advisor will be he here any moment. I was waiting for him to review this treaty,” Nilofer said softly. “Why would you think that the next king or queen would be his bastard?” It was always critical to get to know a blackmailer’s motivation. Sometimes, it didn’t do any good, but if she was to get past this, and make Ameesha powerless, Nilofer needed to know why. “You can’t make a bastard the king,” Ameesha said in outrage. “Or queen.” So the woman wasn’t necessarily objecting to the utilitarian relationship between herself and the court advisor, Nilofer thought. The woman was excited about the gossip that had landed in her hands. “I will make you my lady in waiting. You will have assistants of your own,” Nilofer said. “Here.” She took the gold necklace on the earring tree and threw it to Ameesha, who caught it with a greedy look. Nilofer didn’t stop. “Here.” She pulled a ring with a large stone in it from the earring tree and tossed it to Ameesha. From the drawer in the desk, she grabbed and thew five gold coins. “Happy?” Ameesha had a smile on her face that had both joy and greed in it. Before she could gather her thoughts, Nilofer said, “There is more coming. But you will need to keep your own counsel and stay quiet. So, say one thing for me. Tell me that your lips are sealed.” “My lips are sealed,” came the immediate response. Nilofer wiggled her fingers, and Quershee strolled up, gesturing at Ameesha whose face was now covered by a black cloud. It dispersed slowly and where her lips had been, was now only a line with no opening. “Mmmmmmmm,” she screamed. “Your lips are sealed by your own words,” Nilofer said brutally. “Until the child is safe from your machinations, may your lips be sealed. If you think I will brook a threat to the safety of my child, you are an idiot.” The End


Poncho sat, crisscrossed applesauce, on the carpet, slamming two toy trucks against one another repeatedly. He had been doing this for hours without getting bored. He liked the sound they made. He liked the anticipation of the moment of impact. He wondered how long it would take before one or both broke. He didn’t want it to happen, but he was surprised it hadn’t and was curious if it might. He enjoyed breaking things and seeing if he could put them back together. He noticed that this did not make his dad very happy, but he couldn’t help himself. He liked creating messes and then seeing how effectively he could clean them up. He paused as his father came in through the front door, briefcase in one hand and phone in the other, speaking softly to the invisible person on the other end, “Trust me, I’m trying. Look, it isn’t as easy as you think…” his dad stopped. Frozen. He glanced at Poncho and quickly put the phone behind his back. As if trying to hide it. As if to disguise the fact that it was really there. Poncho couldn’t raise his eyebrow just yet, but if he could, he would have. He had seen the phone. Did his father not know that? “Hey buddy,” his father said in a voice that was too loud and a smile that was too big, “I didn’t see you there…” Poncho stared and said nothing. He had realized at a very early age that if he said nothing, people were bound to say more. To speak faster. To reveal secrets. “Are you here by yourself? Where’s your sister?” his dad asked, realizing suddenly that his young son was seemingly in a house by himself. “Reyna’s in her room. Talking to boys,” Poncho said the last part with a smile. He watched for his father’s reaction but there was none. His dad just nodded, looking around some more. What he was looking for, Poncho didn’t know, but he was disappointed that nothing came from the, “talking with boys,” comment. That usually sent his dad into a frenzy, where he’d storm into Reyna’s room and take away her phone which caused an even bigger scene and from there it spiraled into beautiful chaos. “Ok, well,” his dad said, “…I’m going to go to my room…take a nap…you good?” Poncho nodded. “Who are you talking to?” Poncho asked. “Huh?” his dad said, finally looking at Poncho. Poncho could see that his dad was upset, maybe even scared. And as much as Poncho liked to make a scene, he didn’t like seeing his dad afraid. It made him afraid. “Nothing,” Poncho said, deciding to just forget the phone. Most adults, he noticed, didn’t talk about what they wanted to talk about. They skirted around things or didn’t mention it at all. They ignored until they couldn’t. His dad nodded, visibly relieved. He gave Poncho an awkward pat on the head and walked to his room. As the door closed, Poncho could hear his dad’s muffled voice. Poncho knew he should stay put. He should just keep banging his trucks together. But what he should do and what he wanted to do were two different things. And being a child, a young child, despite the fact that he was a very smart child, what he wanted to do usually won. He crept toward his father’s door, the sound of his dad’s voice getting clearer as Poncho got closer. He sat, crouched near the door, ready to flee in case he heard his father start to leave the room. “Of course I love you, baby,” his dad whispered. Baby? Poncho thought. Why was his dad speaking to a baby? “You know there’s no one else. Why would you say that?” his dad asked, his voice growing more desperate. Poncho was confused. There was a baby. And his dad was telling the baby that there was no one else. But his dad was lying. There were others. There was Poncho and Reyna. Why was he lying to the baby? “I do want you,” his dad continued, “More than anything. More than anyone. You know why this is hard for me. I thought you understood.” Poncho sat stunned. His dad wanted this baby. More than anything. More than anyone. More than him? And was that why it was hard? Poncho closed his eyes, fighting back tears. It was hard for his dad because of Poncho and Reyna. Clearly Poncho and Reyna were obstacles to his dad’s happiness. Poncho leaned his head against the wall and sighed. He knew that his dad was tired. Constantly tired. Working all day and taking care of Poncho and Reyna in the evening. Reyna was 15 so she kind of took care of herself but she still needed to be fed and driven places. But then recently, his dad seemed good. Awake and happy and energetic. And Poncho thought that maybe work was better. Or maybe his dad was eating better. He had heard that could change things in a person. But he was wrong about everything. His dad was happy because of this new baby. Which still somewhat confused Poncho who had heard that babies were a “handful.” If that were true, why did his dad want this baby so much? Was it that great of a baby? Was it better behaved? Maybe the baby didn’t break things. That was probably it. “I’ll tell them,” his dad said, “I promise. I’ll tell them tonight…you want to come tomorrow? Well, I don’t know…” Poncho could feel his heart pounding. What was his dad going to tell them? Was there going to be a new baby? Or was his dad going to abandon them? What then? Poncho couldn’t imagine Reyna taking care of him. And he didn’t want her to. He wanted his dad. Maybe if he promised to be better. Maybe if he swore he would never break anything ever again. It would be hard, but he would do it. Poncho stood and took a deep breath. He was going to go in. He was going to tell his father that he knew and that he could change. His dad didn’t have to leave. Didn’t have to get a new baby. Poncho jumped as Reyna came out of her room. “What are you doing?” she asked, seeming to know that he was up to no good. Poncho said nothing, hoping his expression portrayed innocence. She glared and he knew he failed. “Poncho, what…” she stopped talking when she got close to the door and could hear her father’s voice. “Baby, I promise,” his dad said, “I already said I’ll tell them tonight. I’m not sure what else I can say to make you trust me.” Poncho looked at his sister, watching her eyes get wide. He grabbed her hand and she looked down at him. “I know,” he said. “You know?” she asked, “You know what?” “About the baby,” Poncho said slowly so his sister could understand. “The what?” Reyna asked. Right then, their father came out, causing all three to scream in surprise. “I wasn’t listening!” Poncho shouted, which he immediately regretted. He knew that anyone who said they weren’t listening was probably listening and he knew that his dad knew that too. But it looked like his dad didn’t hear him because his dad and Reyna were staring at each other. Well, his dad was staring, and Reyna was glaring. “Did you hear?” his dad asked Reyna. “I heard enough, I think,” Reyna responded, arms crossed, looking like she was shooting daggers at their father’s face. “Why do you want a new baby?” Poncho asked. He figured the worst was already out there so why not ask? His dad looked at him confused, “What?” “The baby,” Poncho said, feeling frustrated. Why must adults avoid the truth? “The baby,” Poncho repeated, “I heard you talking to the baby.” “Yea, dad,” Reyna said through laughter which confused Poncho even more because he could tell his sister was upset. So why was she laughing? “Tell us about your new baby,” she continued. Their dad looked at both of them. Poncho could tell his dad was afraid and though he didn’t like it and he wanted to say or do something to break the impossibly heavy tension, he stood there and waited. “It’s…she’s…” his dad stuttered which scared Poncho even more. His dad was usually so clear, so confident. And twice in one day he’d witnessed his dad afraid, unsure, and Poncho didn’t like the way this felt. He could feel his sister growing more agitated and he reached for her arm. She jumped a little and looked down at him. She must have seen something in his face because her gaze softened, and she relaxed her shoulders just a bit. She turned back to their dad, eyes still narrowed but less angry. “Spit it out dad,” Reyna said. “I’m…seeing someone,” their dad said softly, “And I want you to meet her.” “You want us to meet the baby?” Poncho asked. “No, no, buddy. There is no baby,” his dad said, “Baby, is…it’s something adults say sometimes when they like each other.” Poncho stared. There was no baby. Like with everything, this was just another example of adults being confusing. Of not saying what they mean. So, his dad was speaking to…a woman? “Is she going to be our new mom?” Poncho asked and looked up when his sister scoffed. Reyna huffed and kept looking at their father, and Poncho couldn’t quite understand the look in her eyes. There was a lot going on there. He could see that she was angry and sad and scared and he didn’t really understand why. Wasn’t it a good thing if they were going to get a mom? “She doesn’t want that,” their dad said, “And she knows that. But…At least meet her. Give her a chance?” “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Reyna asked and Poncho noticed the change in her voice. She was looking at the floor and Poncho could see the tears forming in her eyes. “I didn’t…I was scared of how you would react,” their dad said, “I know how close you were to your mom and I…I miss her everyday, but Jocelyn. That’s her name. Jocelyn is a wonderful person. And I think you’ll see that when you meet. No one will ever replace your mother, Reyna.” Poncho looked at his sister. It was different for him. He had never met their mother. Not really. He was too little when she died. And he could only remember certain things. The way her hair fell across her right shoulder. The smell of peppermint whenever she walked into a room. But he also wasn’t sure if he actually remembered these things or if he remembered because of the stories his dad and sister would tell him. But Reyna knew their mother and loved her fiercely. And now, for the longest time it had just been the three of them and someone new would change everything. And his sister didn’t respond well to change. He had heard her say so many times. “I…I guess I can meet her,” Reyna mumbled. It wasn’t the greatest response, but it was something. It was the best response their father was going to get. Their father nodded and smiled. Smiled in a way that Poncho hadn’t seen in a long time. “Great! Great. I’ll tell her,” their dad said, “You guys will see. She’s great.” “Great,” Reyna mumbled. “Great,” Poncho chimed in, wanting to be included. The three of them stood awkwardly for a few moments. Their dad smiling. Reyna looking sullen but accepting. Poncho looking between the two of them to see who would move first. “Well…I’m gonna go in my room,” Reyna said. “Ok, yea,” their dad said nodding vigorously and then, “…I love you, mija.” Reyna stopped in front of her door and looked at their dad, “I love you too.” She rolled her eyes at her dad’s smile and walked into her room, closing the door firmly behind her. Poncho and his dad looked at each other. “Did you really think I was talking to a baby?” his dad asked. Poncho nodded. His dad laughed. Poncho walked over to where his two toy trucks lay and went back to slamming them together. “You’re going to break those, if you keep doing that,” his dad called. Poncho nodded. He knew that. He knew that the trucks would probably break, but he also knew he could put them back together. It was his gift.


TW: Death Mention, Brief Mentions of Implied Gambling/Debt Accrual --- Lady Ophelia was regarded as a prim woman, dressed in modest attire, and her hair pulled neatly into a bun at the base of her neck. Gold spectacles rested on a hawk-like nose while her lips remained in a disapproving sneer like she smelled a rotting corpse throughout each day. The town’s children played daring games, challenging one another to see who could get closest to the Lady’s gated mansion. Iron-wrought fence lined the exterior, extending some twenty feet in the air, while a gate remained shut regardless if she was home. There was no question the Lady despised children and all things related, so when the townsfolk spotted the old woman heading to the train station, cane in hand to retrieve a child, the news spread like wildfire. The Lady stopped in the middle of the station and peered through the crowd of people, searching and scrutinizing, before spotting a pair standing by a massive stone pillar.

“Mister Stein, I presume.” She stopped before the tall man. Her voice carried and held presence, reveling in her authority and established reputation. Mister Stein nodded to the woman and removed his hat, folded his arm over his chest, and bowed deeply from the hips. “Cecil,” he returned, “A pleasure-” “Oh, pish-posh. Is this the child?” Mister Stein halted, his words cut off sharply. Politely, he cleared his throat and stood straight. The child standing beside him was young, hardly more than ten, a grubby leather suitcase settled by their feet. The child peered at Lady Ophelia with wide eyes, shiny and glistening with unfallen tears, before wiping a hand across their nose. The Lady grimaced in distaste. “Yes, this is her. I am sorry for your loss.” “Yes, well, death comes to us all. We don’t get to decide when.” The Lady sniffed. “Is this it then? Only one suitcase?” “Aye, ma’am, just the one,” Mr. Stein confirmed. “Puh, of course. Well, I suppose we will have to make to the shops. That tiny thing couldn’t possibly carry enough clothing to cover the next month.”

Mister Stein gently pushed the child’s back, nudging them forward. The child stumbled with surprise, catching themselves quickly before turning and grabbing their suitcase, stepping over to the Lady. “What is your name, child?” “Eleanor, ma’am. They call me Nellie.” “Who’s they,” the Lady questioned. Nellie faltered and looked back at Mister Stein.

“Um, everyone, ma’am.” Lady Ophelia looked at Cecil with an irritated face.

“Of course. Well, come along then. Say your farewells; we’ve much to do.”

Nellie did not offer much in a farewell to the man. A quick glance between both adults was all she needed, as Nellie raised their hand in a wave before following after the Lady. As they walked, townsfolk parted like the sea while Ophelia led the way through the bustling streets, watching and staring incredulously at a child trailing after such a formidable woman. Children gawked as she stumbled past, trying her best to keep pace with the Lady. “Um, ma’am-” Nellie started. “No dawdling! Pick it up now, we are almost there.” Endless questions died on Nellie’s tongue as she ran after the Lady, lugging the suitcase. The pair stopped in front of a massive shop decorated with ornate woodworking and painted an ostentatious shade of canary yellow. The roof was blue and the shutters were white. A sign hung from the house, “The Rose Petal Tailor” painted on its front, with a rose flower carved into the wood and painted red and green. The red was already chipping away.

Following Ophelia into the shop, Nellie’s eyes widened into saucers. Clothes of every possible fashion were hung along the walls with stands in the center of the space, filled with delicately placed mannequins adorned in sparkling dresses and freshly ironed suits. Men and women flitted about, perusing the racks and shelves of clothing, investigating all the shop offered its clientele. A bell tinkled above them when the door opened and closed. Beneath their feet were thin, worn rugs, muffling the clonk of high-heeled shoes against the aged hardwood floor. From around the corner, a well-endowed woman with a rouged face emerged, dresses thrown over one arm and her hair in a frazzled state of disarray. “My Lady Ophelia, darling, what a pleasure! I did not expect you for another two weeks! Your order isn’t quite ready yet, I’m afraid.” “Yes, nice to see you, as well, Catelyn. I’m not here for the order. I’m here for the girl.” Catelyn peered around Ophelia to see Nellie standing nervously. The woman’s face brightened in delight and quickly tossed the clothes into the arms of another worker running throughout the store. “What a darling she is! She can’t possibly be yours; you’ve always hated children!” Ophelia stiffened as Catelyn approached and leaned for a better view of Nellie. The older woman glanced at the girl briefly before clearing her throat, averting her gaze. Stepping to the side, Ophelia granted the shop owner a better view of the young girl and took to looking over a nearby display of fabrics and embellishments. “What’s your name, dear,” Catelyn asked. “Eleanor, ma’am, but everyone calls me Nellie.” The woman squealed with delight.

“What an adorable name! Ophelia, dear, you must let me dress her! These rags cannot possibly be the only things she has to wear.” “That is why we are here, Catelyn. The suitcase is all the child brought. Dress her in whatever you like. Put the amount on my tab as usual.” Dropping her suitcase, Nellie was plucked away from Ophelia’s side and hauled off to a nearby dressing room. Pulling the curtain back, Catelyn ushered the girl inside and demanded she strip. With the curtain shifted back quickly, Nellie was left alone in the room with naught but her thoughts and feelings. Shivering in the cool air of the shop, she slowly opened the curtain and peeked out through the hole she made. Catelyn was nowhere in sight, but within view was the Lady. Nellie’s eyes widened when she saw the suitcase in her hands.

“Oh no…” She must’ve dropped it when pulled away by the shopkeep. Catelyn re-emerged and in her arms were bundles of blouses, skirts, dresses, jumpers, and all manner of socially appropriate outfits for a ten-year-old child to wear. Her view was blocked as Nellie stepped away to grant Catelyn room in the changing area, she could only hope Ophelia wouldn’t rifle through her belongings. She couldn’t possibly, right? Across the store, Ophelia rested the suitcase on a nearby table. It was locked shut with some stiff metal snaps and was surprisingly lighter than she’d thought. Carefully, she pushed the snaps up with small ‘thunks’ as the lid of the case opened. Inside was a single shirt and a single skirt. Anger flooded through the older woman at the lack of clothing the child brought with her, finding it disgraceful for such a young thing to be without any proper attire. The shirt and skirt were torn and grimy, with the edges fraying from wear. How old were these? Puh! She lifted the cloth with distaste, blinking in surprise at what was hidden beneath the clothing.

A small book was there, without a cover, bound in leather and worn along the edges. The pages were yellowed with time. Ophelia lifted the book out of the case and opened it. “To my Dear Eleanor, a light among the darkness of this family. Keep this book and all things it carries close. Never let your parents find it.” Handwriting so familiar, Ophelia brushed the tips of her wrinkled fingers over the words before turning the page. With each flip, the woman was reminded of endless memories. Black and white pictures were plastered to the inside, while dried flowers decorated the pages. Calligraphy wrote small notes and captions as the same ink crafted swirling designs along the borders of each page to fill empty space. Some of the pictures were of a young man in suits and a woman in modest dresses, both with kind faces, as Eleanor remained cradled in the woman’s arms. Ophelia paused at these pictures briefly, drinking in remnants of a family she once knew and now, no longer had. With each moment of remembrance, Ophelia flipped through quicker, avoiding any pages with the woman plastered inside. Other pictures of Eleanor as a babe, both alone, and with an old man settled in his lap, were also throughout many of the pages. They wore flower crowns woven from dandelions and wildflowers, leaves dusting their clothes. The man wore suspenders and leather brown shoes, a cap on his head, his face aged, and hair scattered with salt and pepper. Many years had passed since Ophelia last saw her brother’s face, stolen from the world over an unpaid debt. How simple the solution was if only his pride didn’t prevent him from asking for help. The Lady sniffed quietly as she perused the book, flipping through the pages carefully and taking in the images of each picture, of each recorded memory, rereading the little notes written beside them.

“Ophelia, darling, we’re ready with the first arrangement!” “Send her out, then, Catelyn!” The old woman turned to face the closed curtain before it was drawn back and the seamstress led Eleanor out into the room. She was dressed in a simple floral skirt long enough to meet her knees, a plain white shirt, and a mauve-colored flat which matched the flower print. Ophelia’s brows lifted approvingly and gestured with a finger for the girl to spin. Obediently, Nellie turned in a full circle, peering at the Lady once a turn had been completed, seeking out any semblance of validation. “Good. She’ll wear the outfit out. Pack whatever else you have brought out and have Jorge deliver it when he returns. Anything unwanted after we try it at home, we shall return as usual.” “Of course, ma’am! Go on, dear, I’ll get the rest of your clothes packed up.” Nellie thanked Catelyn and stepped over to Lady Ophelia. Her fingers kneaded together, clasping and unclasping with nervous energy. The girl peered towards her suitcase before meeting Ophelia’s eye. “You opened it,” she murmured. “Yes. I did not anticipate finding this in your belongings.” Ophelia held the photo album out to Nellie with a pointed expression. “I did not realize you were so close to my late brother.” The girl looked away, fingers now gripping her skirt. She shuffled, anxious, reaching out to take the book from the old woman. It was heavy and familiar in her hands, worn at the edges from the many times she’d opened it and peered at the memories. Ophelia was in some of the pictures, with barely a smile on her face, but the man was always smiling. She remembered her Grandfather with love and adoration, but Ophelia… Her great-aunt was a faded memory with little to hold onto. She was an abrasive woman, hard to be close to, and made her intimidating nature well known.

“I miss him,” she whispered, “I miss Ma and Da, too.” A long pause stretched between the pair before a hand came to rest on top of her head. Nellie froze, flinching at the sudden touch.

“I do too.” The hand vanished, leaving a strange emptiness, as Ophelia turned and stepped away from Eleanor. Blinking, Nellie carefully put the photo album back into her suitcase and snapped it shut, hauling it off the table and bringing it with her to where Ophelia waited at the front of the store.

“Come, Eleanor,” the Lady cast her a look, “Let us return home.” Nellie paused and glanced at Catelyn who beamed brightly at her. Quickly, she scrambled after the woman, the bell tinkling as the door opened.

Home, Nellie smiled to herself, the suitcase lighter than when she first stepped off the train in this new town.


The drain had been blocked for two hours, but after the third she’d managed to clear it. She fell back, stood up over the basin and waited. It had congealed but finally it caught suction, slurping away. The cleaning fluid she’d used tempted her sinuses, but her eyes were already starting to dry. When she was sure it was all gone, she stripped and stood under a warm stream. In the shower, the residue was scrubbed off of her body. It clung to the creases in her hands and the beds of her nails, but it came away. Exiting the bathroom, she bagged the soiled garments in preparation for later disposal, slammed the door on the stench and escaped into the bedroom. She dried off and then doused the air with new spicy smells. The lit candles emptied her mind, and the lotion soothed her muscles and she lingered just for a moment longer to enjoy the air and relish in her accomplishment. When she opened her eyes again, she shifted her focus and recalled the task that laid ahead of her; the task of tonight. Then turning, she snuffled out each flame with her fingers. She was ready. With a newfound energy, she pranced about, pushing furniture against one side of the wall. And then at the other, she zipped up and slipped off dresses to a playlist of drums. Footwear, however, was a problem; it was always a problem. She considered going barefoot. But then she remembered that the downstairs floor in this new place was laminate. Slippery. Shoes; she decided. The jewellery box was then ransacked. She untangled her infamous pair of gold infinities and fed them through her earlobes. Her signature look. When she was done shoving the furniture back in place having worked up a tear of perspiration, she headed to the lower floor. The air con, in no time, cooled her damp forehead. She watched MasterChef whilst reaching for cupboards and selecting equipment. But food of that magnitude, of that calibre terrified her. She skidded around the kitchen islands; her feet clattered in the heels that had won the toss. A deer on ice. But it was getting late now, it was almost time. The smoke alarm was set off by burning. A dishcloth was found, balled up and flung. And when it was silent again, she went to collect the wine. The glasses were set down with a bit too much pressure. The red was poured and the leftovers; necked. The splashes of red on the pale counter triggered the thought that perhaps a darker dress would have been better for tonight. But it was almost time. She stood back and panned the scene. The kitchen had become hers, her creation. And she decided; it was good. Her iPhone pinged. The phone was grabbed, unlocked, and read. 15 minutes. The lasagne started to puff in the hot oven. It rose, then fell and the cheese bubbled, erupting molten gold all over the Pyrex. The steam from the oven almost blinded her. She cursed the mist, sucking scolded skin. Then the lettuce was shredded, and the carrots grated. She pushed the wine glasses in closer. Dinner was for two. Everything was in place. For the task ahead. At the mirror above the mantlepiece, she twisted her hair into a chignon. Her faithful infinities glittered back at her reflection. And as she was mouthing her mantras, the bell was pressed. He was young. Younger than hoped, younger than expected. He stared at her for too long when she received the bouquet. He stared at her back, her hair, her hands when she cut the stems. Snap. Snap. He complimented her earrings. The knot was unusual. He asked what it meant. She shrugged knowingly; the loops jostled on her collarbone. He took a sip from his glass sitting at the island. The wine is good; he held it up swirling the liquid inside. He waited for her response, but she had become engaged. He stood up. She stopped sawing. A strand of hair fell loose beside her infinity. She asked if he wanted another glass. He told her no. The knife was placed back on the board. He slid beside her and reminded her they had not yet exchanged names. Whatever she told him now wouldn’t matter later anyway. And when she gave him what he wanted, she looked at him for the first time. His face was one that she could study and still not know what he looked like a moment later. He was pleased with her name; his shoulders slacked, relaxed. He sat back down. The wine flowed. And then the room started to swell with his voice and his laughter. The knife felt weighty. Her fingers curled tighter around it. He asked if she'd heard his joke. But she hadn’t. When the lasagne arrived, he lunged at it like a famished dog. She watched his head of thick wavy hair duck and dive, the cutlery chimed as he ate. And she just sauntered around him, a smile fixed on her painted lips. But then he swallowed and cleared his throat; So…. She was asked what she did for a living. The question caught her off guard and she froze, poised above him. And then she remembered why she didn’t usually agree to the young ones. They asked too many questions. He wasn’t pleased this time. But then he was immediately grinning at the sight of dessert. He mentioned that apple pie, one mouthful, was his favourite, another mouthful. I know; she said simply. She had made it her job to know. He glanced up at her, surprised. She speaks; he laughed incredulously; what happened to your playing hard to get game? The game’s changed. Ooo; his tone was mocking, She thought about it. When he lifted the next spoonful, she would do it. Quick. But he was unpredictable; he was not like the others. The plate had already been licked clean. Dinner was good; he complimented with a burp. And then he asked where the toilet was. Her face shot up over the countertop. She had been loading the dishwasher, fingers selecting her tool. A stool was pushed back, and she saw his brown loafers fly past the island. She grabbed the one she had just cleaned and stalked after him. He was asked where he was going. Don’t worry, I won’t look around; he assured her. The corridor was long and dark, but he managed to find the WC. She slowed behind him to keep her balance. Her heel click was hollow, the floor here was much smoother than the kitchen. The WC was the size of a shoe cupboard. He turned around and, seeing her watching, he laughed. Are you coming in with me? She refused politely and waited until she heard the lock slide. And then she aligned herself flat against the wall and flexed her fingers. Sliding it out from behind her, she raised her clasped hand above her ear, twisting her chin towards the door. He had played right into her hands. Another lamb. Another slaughter. It was a smaller space, but she was going to work with it. It would be swift and she hoped cleaner. Three hours; the last one had set a new record. The lavatory chain was pulled. Then the tap started to gush. But there was a thinner noise coming from inside. He was whistling. It was getting late now. But she had learned not to look at the clock. The whistling was increasing; the tap was whining. Her raised arm started to quiver; it had remembered this position. From thousands of times before. But this time, it didn’t want to remember. Not again. But, yes again! Again, and again. Nothing and no one could stop it, the endless loop. But she was getting older. And slower. She was getting careless. Suddenly, the lock. She straightened up, cracked her neck. Then the adrenaline was pouring through her, the shine of the metal just outside of her blind spot. The tip was an arrow; a directive, Strike there, and there, and… The door shifted and she revolved. The arrow launched but got caught. And the thwack of her head cut the life from her pained scream. The knife was flipped across the floor in a cartwheel of steel, gold filigree and red. And he was emerging from the bathroom, shaking. He had been armed with ammonia but hadn’t needed it. She’d done it to herself. But he stood over the splatter and waited. And then when he was sure she was gone, he stumbled away without looking back. He spied the knife she’d tried to stab him with ahead and avoided it, but his shoe crunched on something else. It was only when he stopped to catch his breath outside under a streetlight, he saw it pierced to his sole. It had been a delicate thing. It had been twisted. Like the number eight. But now it was broken, a bloodied ensemble. He recognised it was hers but did not recognise what it had and now symbolised. His escape was a privilege. Her life had ended. And the loop had been broken. He resolved, as he hurried away, to take up online dating instead. “Entering her house leads to death… The man who visits her is doomed…” -Proverbs 2:18-19-


Henry had waited all afternoon for his aunt to take the children away. Now she had, but the hour was late and his mind remained on the clock as he hurried upstairs. Behind him, from down in the dining room, his grandmother called for him to bring down two more tablecloths from the linen closet. "Can you just wait a minute?" he grumbled. After a full day of scrubbing floors and washing windows, following one order after another, he just wanted to be clear of it all and to do the one last job that remained, and then to sit on his bed alone for a few minutes. The house would be full soon, and hot, and noisy, for the whole evening, and he wanted the peace of his room, if only for an hour or less. His grandmother called after him again, and he grumbled again, sure she had not heard him either time. He missed her annoyed reply as he closed the bedroom door behind him. Making his way to the closet across the room he tripped over one of the children's toys. He grumbled again, this time about the constant use of his room as their play area anytime his aunt brought the children for a visit. Today they had arrived just before noon so the aunt could help prepare the house for the Christmas party. It was now nearly five o'clock. The party was to begin in barely ninety minutes. They had stayed all day, the aunt and her three boys, and now Henry waded through the mess the boys had made of his room. He inadvertently kicked several more toys, the sighs from his nostrils sounding more frustrated each time. He reached his closet door and when pulling it open he heard it smack yet another object on the floor in front of it. Something heavy this time. He looked down and saw a large plastic truck meant for a boy of maybe eight or perhaps younger. Without thinking he wound up his foot and with a swift kick launched the truck across the room. Pieces of it flew in several directions when the thing smashed into the wall. Henry found no joy in watching it fall broken to the bed. After staring at it with enraged eyes for a long moment, and with fists clenched tightly against his sides, he turned and looked down, at the high tide of toys, none of which belonged to him, that covered much of the floor of his room. Near his feet lay a toy soldier in battle dress. He raised a foot and stomped the soldier once, with enough force to flatten it and send the head flying off into a corner. His other foot then came down on a house made of plastic building blocks. The sound of it crumbling was close enough to glass shattering that Henry paused for a moment to listen for anyone who might have heard it downstairs. Nothing. Satisfied, he began stomping all about the room, moving from corner to corner until the eruption spent itself. Standing again just inside the door to the room, he moved back across it to the closet. From the high shelf he pulled down three boxes. With a sweep of one arm he cleared broken toy bits from the bed and set the boxes down in a perfect row. From the closet he took three rolls of wrapping paper, some tape, and three bows--one silver, one gold, one striped with Christmas red and green. On the high shelf of the closet was a plain shroud that Henry pulled down, revealing three toys behind it. One at a time he took them down and set one next to each of the boxes. For Maurice, his aunt's youngest boy, Henry had chosen a wooden airplane made for Henry by his grandfather, who had flown fighters during the war. It had been a gift Henry received on his eighth birthday, the year his parents died and he moved here to the house where his mother had grown up, to the room where she had slept all her life and where Henry spent the first few months of his. For Charles, the middle boy, Henry had chosen a baseball glove Henry's hand had outgrown several years before. It was still in pristine condition. It, too, had been a gift, from a great-uncle who had once tried out for the major leagues but was never quite good enough for that level. Henry never had anyone to toss baseball with, so the glove had remained in the closet so long that Henry could not recall the last time he had used it. For Sidney, the oldest of the three boys, Henry had chosen a book of bird and butterfly photographs, with some drawings made in it by Henry's great-grandmother. She had been a teacher of science and nature at the women's college, and her drawings won her several prizes around the state. When Henry was eleven he found it in the bottom of a storage chest. His grandmother had been sure the book had been thrown away, and since no one could lay claim to it anymore, the book has been given to Henry. When none of the birds in the backyard ever seemed to match the birds in the book, Henry tucked it away and forgot about it. Henry took the lids off all three boxes. He measured out pieces of wrapping paper and laid each by the box it was meant to cover. The small bows were set on the paper, and then rearranged for the best color coordination. He picked up the tape and began to roll off small strips to cut for wrapping. He had just cut the first piece when his bedroom door was thrown open. "Henry! I asked you for two tablecloths! We're waiting for them downstairs. What are you doing?" From where he knelt on the floor next to the bed Henry looked up to see his grandmother standing in the doorway. Before he could answer her, she looked around at the toy carnage that covered the floor and cut off his reply. "Henry, what on earth happened in here?" "I just came up to-" "All of these toys are broken! How did this happen?" Henry looked around at everything he had done. His grandmother lightly kicked away a few pieces of toys closest to where she stood. "Did the boys leave these like this?" Henry stood up and assumed the same stance as his grandmother, and looked at her with utmost sincerity. "Yes." She put her hands on her hips and twisted her mouth sternly. "I can't believe they left this mess for you to clean up." "I know." "Is that what you were doing?" Henry looked at the bed and made a wholehearted gesture with his hands toward the gifts. His grandmother's shoulders dropped as the tension left her voice. "Oh, dear! You're wrapping gifts for them, and look at the present they left for you!" With a frustrated sigh Henry replied, "Yeah." He shrugged his shoulders, with a magnanimous expression on his face. "You sweet boy! Don't you finish cleaning this. Do your wrapping. I'll fetch the tablecloths." "But I can-" "Those boys will be back in a bit. I'll make sure they take care of this." Henry bit his bottom lip and looked around the room again. His grandmother came to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "And that they apologize to you!" "That's okay, Grandma. I can clean-" She touched his chin and lifted his face so their eyes met. "Those boys don't deserve what you're doing for them in here, I can say that for sure." She hugged him. Henry did not return the embrace. She never noticed. She was looking over his shoulder at the gifts lined up on the bed. She pulled away from him. "Are you giving away these, to your cousins?" "Yeah." "But why, Henry? You loved these! I remember when you got all of them. Why would you give these away?" "I... I don't know. It's family stuff. It's all for kids. They're kids. I didn't know what to buy them. I don't know what little boys want." "But you're a boy, Henry. You can think of-" "I'm not a boy anymore, like them. I don't know what they want, what they play with." His grandmother looked around at all the shattered items on the floor. "Well, they like to play with... this." Henry looked around the floor, too. He had nothing left to say. "I'm sure they'll get plenty of presents from their mother and father, Henry. Keep your things. I want you to keep those things here in the house." She hugged him again. He didn't hug her back. She did not notice this time, either. When she left the room she pulled the door closed behind her without looking back. Henry sat on the bed and enjoyed the peace of his room for the hour or less he had left until the house filled up for the rest of the evening. Downstairs Henry slipped in and out among the throng of aunts and uncles and distant relatives he had not seen since the previous Christmas and would not see again until the next one. At various times he heard the names of his three younger cousins, called out by an annoyed grown-up. Drinks were spilled. "Maurice, look what you've done!" A wadded tissue was launched onto someone's dinner plat. "Charles, that's rude. Say you're sorry." On and on the evening went. When gifts were opened Henry disappeared into the kitchen with his package of new socks and his small stack of school notebooks. He heard the names of his three cousins called again. Then the voice of the uncle who was playing Santa Claus. "And these are from... Henry! There you are boys! Merry Christmas!" "From Henry? Oh, what a sweet boy!" His grandmother's voice was rising above the murmurs in the other room. "I told him he didn't have to do this!" He heard her call out for him, asking where he had gone. No one answered. He heard the boys tearing the paper from the boxes. "Open it! Open it!" he heard from his aunt, the boys' mother. He didn't know which boy had gotten his box open first. He had put extra amounts of tape on all three, to keep the lids secured extra tightly. He heard the ripping of tape, finally, and then the crashing of broken toy pieces hitting the floor. Then the same sound repeated, and repeated again. The other room fell silent, and it seemed even quieter as he moved up the back stairs and headed toward his room. "What are those?" a clueless grown-up asked. No answer came. After more silence, his grandmother's voice shouted "Henry! Henry where are you?" On his bed, in the peace of his room, he lay with his head resting on an old baseball glove, like a pillow. An old wooden airplane was set next to him, and he was looking quite contentedly in a book, at drawings of butterflies.


Sir George knelt down alongside the hedgerow. His hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword, pressing it down to raise the tip preventing it from digging into the morning dew covered ground. The first sliver of the sun started to emerge from the horizon. His companion, Apprentice Yorri, squatted next to him. “Sir?” Yorri said softly. “Yes Yorri?” “Are you sure about this?” “Not in the slightest,” the knight said, looking at his squire with a grin. The look did not reassure Yorri, who’s brow started to dampen with perspiration. George reached into the hedgerow and removed leaves and carefully broke branches, slowly making a small hole to look through. He did his best to create a cone shape to it, giving him the largest field of view, with the smallest possible opening on the other side. The knight moved himself closer to the view hole and pressed his face against the foliage. Through the opening he had a clear view to the field beyond. A knot tied in his guts as he saw confirmation of the scout’s initial reports. About fifty yards away, as best George could estimate, stood a row of brown tents, embers lightly glowed in fire pits, horses and carts stood around the perimeter, and armed soldiers walked about. George leaned back, Yorri’s furrowed brow confirmed to George that the color left his face. Then Yorri’s curiosity pulled him to look through the opening as well. He didn’t look for as long as the knight before leaning back with a similar reaction as his master. “H-how many do you think?” Yorri asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Hard to say,” George replied, he said the words as flatly as he could to mask his own trepidation. “Guess,” Yorri said, “they’ll want that at least back at camp.” George looked at Yorri, his brow raised, a flash of his usual more lighthearted self visiting for a moment. “What? I’m right,” Yorri said, his voice getting a little louder before he realized it. He shrunk into his shoulders for a moment as they both held their breaths fearing the call of a sentry alerting the not far off war camp to their presence. None came. “I know you are,” George said softly, “so, maybe eight thousand, if I’m being a pessimist.” “And if you were being an optimist?” Yorri asked, hoping for some kind of comfort. “Seven thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine if we manage to capture a sentry to bring back with us.” Yorri contemplated knocking out the knight, dragging him to the enemy’s camp, and bartering for his own passage away from the coming battle. Though the impulse passed quickly. “So I take it you have a plan for capturing this sentry?” Yorri asked. “Why would I? We haven’t found one yet.” The squire stiffened his features at the reply, though knew arguing wouldn’t change it. They knelt within shouting distance of an enemy army and until a few moments ago didn’t have any concrete information about it. As if on cue from the other side of the hedgerow the pair heard the sound of armor articulating over itself that coincided with the movement of someone walking. The pair hiding looked at each other, George smirked, and Yorri rolled his eyes. The approaching soul moved slowly, with mostly regular steps. George assumed that the nearing soldier kept his focus more on the uneven ground of the field as he walked. With a heavy and silent breath George leaned again toward the small opening he made in the hedgerow. He could just make out the patrolling sentry at the edge of his field of vision. The carefully moving and well equipped soldier slowly neared their position. The knight started to do the mental calculations, both Yorri and him were lightly armed to ease their movement and make less sound. The sentry had the advantage there. They outnumbered him. Though Yorri knew the basics, up until this point had never fought outside of sparring. Without knowing more about how this soldier fought he couldn’t make an estimation of how a fight with him would fare. At the moment their best advantage remained in stealth and surprise to take their foe. He leaned back on his heels from the viewing spot. Yorri’s expression remained mostly the same, though his eyes looked at George for some reassurance. George carefully shifted closer to the younger man. He wrapped an arm around his shoulder pulling him closer to barely whisper into his ear. “It’s just one, he’s got some armor but that’s no worry. We want him alive so he’s helping us there.” “The p-plan,” Yorri barely managed to press past his lips. “When the-” he started, though cut himself off as he heard the sentry on the other side of the hedge cough loudly then spit. Their prey approached quickly, and would be past them before too long. George needed to think faster. “-sentry passes by the opening, reach out, grab him, belt’s good, ankle’s best.” Yorri’s face lost what little color remained. “Pull hard, let me do the rest.” George released his arm from around Yorri’s shoulder and leaned back on his heels slightly. “S-sir-” Yorri started before Geroge’s hand shot up and covered his mouth with his palm. The knight held them both still, listening. The sound of the careful footsteps of the patrolling sentry were gone, a deadly silence hung in the air. Beads of sweat started to roll down the sides of George’s face, catching in the stubble on his cheek left unattended due to their early morning departure from their own camp. The knight never liked to start the day without shaving, though the surprise task this morning robbed him of his usual ritual. Eventually they heard movement from beyond the hedgerow again, though not the careful steps of the sentry patrolling. The branches rustled seemingly under the inspection of a gloved hand. George’s free hand moved to his own lips, his index finger extending to carefully press against them signaling silence. The squire nodded, and George removed his hand from Yorri’s mouth. They carefully moved, Yorri closer to the opening and George just to his side. The former remained low, and the latter stood up slowly. The knight’s hand again firmly placed on the pommel of his sword, making sure it didn’t knock anything and betray their location. The sound of steps returned, though slower and more spaced. George correctly assumed the sentry’s focus now targeted the hedge and not the ground. With each step closer to them George felt his heart beat in his temples. He knew in a few steps their target would pass in front of their viewing space. Yorri would need to be quick, or their advantage would quickly be gone. After a few more steps the sound stopped, George swallowed hard. His ears straining, he heard the soft sound of a gloved hand tightening over a hilt of a sword. “Now!” George commanded as softly as he could. Yorri shot his hand through the opening, it jammed into the sentry. He first contacted a plate of the soldier’s armor, the pain of the impact rang through him, but Yorri’s hand still searched frantically for something to grip a hold of.

“What the-” the sentry started. Yorris’ fingers quickly found something softer, “belt’s good,” he repeated in his head as he locked his fingers around the soldier’s belt and pulled hard. Before the sentry could finish his reactive question he felt the pull on his belt, off guard he started to fall off balance. Just as the soldier started to understand the situation George pushed himself through the hedge enough to extend his arms out and around the sentry. He locked them around the man’s neck and likewise pulled him back through the hegde. The three of them all tumbled backward, Yorri landing on his back, George on his side, and the sentry onto Yorri. A frantic movement of arms and limbs danced next to him as George quickly moved to rip off the man’s helmet. Yorri whelped under the weight of the sentry pressing him into the damp morning ground. The sentry wheezed to recover his voice from the fall and as he felt the strap of his helmet digging into the underside of his chin. With enough force the leather ripped from the rivet that attached it to the helmet. A large red imprint on the soldier’s skin showed the force required. George tossed the freed helmet aside with his left hand, and his right arm hooked around the sentry’s neck, holding it in his elbow. The knight squeezed his arm hard and brought his left hand back to grip his right wrist. With a heavy pull the sentry rolled off of Yorri, who took in a deep gasp of air, and landed on his back on top of George. The sentry gripped and clawed at the knight’s arm around his throat but still in shock and now losing air didn’t find meaningful purchase. In maybe a minute the struggling stopped, and George could feel the sentry’s body relaxing. Once he felt all movement stop he released his hold around the man’s neck. Quickly he pushed him off from on top of him. “Yorri, Yorri you dead?” The squire slowly started to pull himself up to sit, “not yet.” His voice said coarsely, his breathing more regular now. “Good,” George said before immediately moving to check their prisoner for signs of life. He leaned his cheek right above the man’s mouth, George felt shallow breaths in regular intervals against his stubbled skin. “Yorri grab the helmet, stick it back on our friend here, and help me carry him.” George commanded, his tone still quiet, but laced with the remaining adrenaline from the encounter. The squire rolled himself slightly to the side to turn his legs to the side before leaning forward to get up on fours. He scrambled to grab the helmet George tore from the sentry and did as instructed. They each hooked an arm under their prisoner’s armpits and pulled him up. Immediately they started moving back the way they originally came. The sun fully free from the horizon singled the advancing time of day, even though their whole morning to this point felt as if only a few minutes passed. “Some plan Sir,” Yorri said, through heavy breaths carrying their heavy load. “I think I broke my hand.” George gave spaced out chuckles in time with his own heavy breaths. “Where was that in my plan?”