Have you ever felt yourself losing control, going onto autopilot and just watching the world pass you by? That's how it starts, or at least that's how it started for me. I am writing this as a warning to hopefully help prevent, or save, the few who are lucky enough to see it. Looking back i can see the patterns, the triggers, the replaced. It all started with "Have you seen.." or "Have you heard..". That was my vice, TV shows and movies. Always plugged in, it started as an escape for me, a way to stay out of my head and keep myself busy. It's almost funny now. I first noticed the change when watching a new TV show, there were times I would just notice moments slip by, then I noticed I had watched episodes, seasons, even full series without realising it. How many hours had I lost? Or was it days by this point? Or more. That doesn't matter now. Just as everybody else I paid it no attention as it grew stronger, the loss of my control, you might say my grip on reality. Until one day it was too late. I was stuck. Stuck in a world of my own watching my life happen around me. It is hard to explain if you aren't going through it, I was on autopilot watching from behind my eyes. No matter how hard I tried to scream or fight I just couldn't break through that window. I was lost. I was replaced. For me it was televised media, it's not the same for everyone though. Another I have seen is social media, that can be worse. There are even some who are swallowed by it. You may have friends you knew once upon a time who seem to have everything going, but actually they are also replaced, trapped. Just look at Facebook, your friend from school, Karen, she has uploaded the umpteenth picture of her now 3 year old baby. There is no baby. She is filling your feed to keep you scrolling, mindlessly scrolling. Just adding to the numbers of those who have been taken over. I struggled at first, screaming and banging on that window not being able to break through, fighting every day. Feeling powerless just watching this person live my life. Sleep in *MY* bed, work at *MY* job, ignore *MY* friends and family. It broke me, I thought there was nothing I could do, nothing but watch them turn more people into these things with "Have you seen...", "Have you heard...". I saw my life crumbling around me as I was forgotten as the person I was.. I am. Living the same routine day, passing through life with no impact, no purpose. One day I finally snapped, I lost it, I had enough of seeing people being pushed away or becoming another mindless replacement and I knew there was something I had to do to escape. Take control of *MY* life. I wish I could say I made it through straight away, but that would be too easy. I spent day after day attacking that wall, screaming for someone to notice me. Anyone. It was months before I had any impact. Cracks in the window. I was able to take some control, my first big stride to freedom. It took form as a moment of affection. Just a small change to a loved one. But it was better than nothing. To me it was everything. It gave me the strength to keep going, the knowledge that I could fight. I could win. I am sure you've already guessed I am much further than that now, I am writing this after all. But I am not free yet. I still have lots of work to do. I am writing this with the little time of freedom I have, posting it on your social media feed, to them it will be another thing to scroll through mindlessly. But if you can read this, from behind that window, if you can see my words. Don't lose hope. Fight. Take back *YOUR* life. I believe in you, good luck.


Regret is something people always seem to carry with them. Whether it was because of some decision they never took or one that only led them down the wrong path. It always seems to be constant in a person’s life, a state of existence that requires no change. So why is it, when it comes to the end of your days, when that same existence begins to slowly die down, do people finally begin to unload all their regret for anyone to hear? The story always seems to be the same, really. Without emotion or belief, they all begin to cry out to the same tune ‘*if* I had just done this’ or ‘*if* I just had more time’. Always if. Always without promise or resolve. Always just a tape, placed on repeat. The need to change what’s within or even press pause for a few moments having been lost, never to be found. Or at least, that’s how it usually went. I would be making my usual rounds. The hallways heavy with the sound of sorrow. Regret, dripping from the doors they came from like tears that left the grieving families eyes. Yet, within that mess of cries, like each day I came across it, one person’s tales stood out more than anything else. Much like a diamond in the rough. A man who I had come so used to passing, collecting what he had laid out for me in the form of drifting words and lazy tales that in one striking moment I found myself so unprepared. “you don’t have to stay by the door…” It came as a bit of a shock really. Having become so used to listening from afar, to wander by his door, collecting the shiny gems that spilled from within his mouth. To be called in, even if it was my job to care for patients, seemed strangely different. As if this very room had become one that I wished not to enter, to only observe from its doorway without any need for further contact. Standing there though, I began to think. Think what may happen *if* I didn’t take this chance, *if* I were to ignore his statement and just keep going on with my day. Frankly the thought began to sicken me. To think I might join those I despised so much, to find regret within my own actions, provided a push that sent me forward and through the door. I used to hear him talk while I did my rounds. Usually to himself, speaking of days long gone. Most of the tales, if you even want to call them that, were of his parents. Sometimes, I would catch bits and pieces, nothing important really. Though on occasions, the stories would seem to keep at a pattern, growing stronger with each retelling, forming a tale of the past that, as I walked by, would be quick to listen to. Through these tales I would begin to hear of his life. Hearing of the stories on how his father was a drinker, a man of Irish blood, falling upon his own needs and soon finding his feelings down the long neck of whatever bottle he held within his grasp. Other times it was of his mother and how she used to sing to him, something he spoke about in longing now more than ever, after having ignored it for so long as a child. After a while I would find myself waiting, expecting really, for the tales to drift from his room. To pick them up as I passed by, revealing to me something new and interesting about him, something that I knew would brighten my day. Slowly beginning to want more as time went on, my pickups taking longer and longer. My interest willing me to remain, to listen and observe of the tales he left behind. The tales had begun to change for me after a while. What once was a pastime, something I collected like the endless tools and towels during my rounds, had begun to shine through everything else. A tiny treasure really, one that I held onto without regret, without second thought to what may happen without their presence. The room was brighter than I expected, the curtains hanging open and the windows swung free to allow in a natural breeze. His sheets freshly replaced; the air filled with lavender. The refresher mixing with the smell of the world outside, as if trying its best to combine and hide away the sickness that clung just outside of the doorway. And yet, with all these distractions, they did little to hide the man that lay before me. A complete opposite of the rooms sparkling image. The man was dying. Sickness having claimed its right to take his body, leaving him bedridden and closer to death with each passing day. This was of a story so common, heard so many times that most would find themselves yawning at the retelling of it. And yet, as I stared at the man before me, thinking over to the thousands of others I had found in a similar situation, I couldn’t help but feel…empty. Its as if this man’s presence before me, one I saw drifting away so quickly, had already begun to create a void. A void I knew would never be filled; a void placed there because I found myself wondering what I would do without his tales. Finding myself so lost within my sorrow, the cheery room before me slowly beginning to corrode. Every calming scent reminding me of the death it hid. Every pleasant image, the calm sheets and fluffed up pillows used only to hide the dying body that lay before it. "…I know I'm dying; you don't have to feel bad about it" The man's words, once more pulling me away from where I was. His calmness, especially towards death - something I had grown so quickly to detest in this moment, made me feel almost ridiculous for finding such pain from the death he drew ever so close to. So instead, as I stood there watching him hold on for as long as his body allowed, I decided to do it with him. To stand by his side, to sit and talk and to listen most especially. To watch his body as it faded away, the strength he had held onto slowly crumbling before me. Watching so quietly at the end, a smile so pleasantly placed upon his lips as if none of this truly mattered. It was only then, once the silence truly began to set in, did I begin to cry. The tears streaming down my face, breaking whatever silent oath I had made for myself to never feel for a patient, to never truly care for what they did. But it was also in that moment, as the tears continued to fall that I began to notice the little red book that hid so well within his hands. A notebook that as I slowly slid away from his hands, I noticed my name written across. Careful to open such a thing now, my eyes beginning to dry while the first few words showed through. Tales old and new, ones that I remembered so fondly and ones I was excited to explore. Flipping through the pages, glancing across the words written down so fondly, until I came across the final words, one that drew me to pause for only a moment before I began to crumble once more, finally letting everything go, my tears and stammers filling the halls ‘...to the nurse who listened’  if you made it to the end of this story then i congratulate you.


Dear Hollie,  You were fine that weekend, we played and walked and cuddled like every day. I told you I loved you like I did every single day and you looked at me the way you always did, with eyes that held enough love for a thousand lifetimes and I knew you were saying “I love you too Mama”. You slept between us like you did each night, snuggled up tightly between Mummy and Daddy. To think that night would be our last, I had no idea. Did you HollieBear? Did you know something wasn’t right? When I got up the next morning I knew something was off. I rang your Daddy, but he said you seemed fine when he left for work. You wouldn’t eat your breakfast, which immediately caused alarm, because you loved your food more than anything. So, I decided to keep an eye on you for the rest of the day, hoping it was just an upset tummy, nothing to worry about. Hours past and you still didn’t eat or drink anything. My sweet babygirl, I know now you must have been hurting but you still gave me all the cuddles and snuggles you could. You still looked up at me with those beautiful brown eyes, those eyes that had loved me for nine years and would always love me. “I love you baby” I repeated as I sat and rubbed your head, pets were your weakness, I know you could never resist. Instead you would insist on more and more pets until my hand went numb, but I didn’t care. You are my baby and I wanted nothing more than to give you what you wanted. Daddy came home after 5pm, still you barked at the sound of his car and wagged your fluffy tail with excitement as he walked through the door. He knew something wasn’t right, you just weren’t yourself that day my love. Then you needed to go outside so he let you out and that was the moment things got bad. As soon as you stepped foot outside you were sick, blood was everywhere. In that moment of chaos, I realised how much of a good girl you were, you knew you would be sick but still waited until you were outdoors. That’s my HollieBear, always a good girl. The sight of the blood sent fear throughout my entire body, a million thoughts racing through my head, but I rang the vet and they wanted you right away. So, we gathered up some blankets and your favourite teddy bear; I remember as soon as we opened the front door you bounced about with excitement, you thought it was time for a walk. It made me happy to see you bounce about and I thought, everything will be okay. Into the car we went and drove to the vet. I sat in the back with you, rubbing your tummy and scratching your ears, I must have told you I loved you a thousand times on that journey. You gave me kisses and rested your head on my shoulder. Everything will be okay. But then you were sick again, all over me and the car, and you looked at me with such disappointment, but I didn’t care babygirl, I only wanted you to be okay. You didn’t need to feel bad, you couldn’t help it. I tried to reassure you “you’re still a good girl Hollie”, but I felt your unease. You lived to please and make me happy and I know you could sense my unhappiness then, but that was only because I was worried about you baby. We waited outside for the vet to arrive, Mummy and Daddy were both nervous, but you, you were just as playful as ever. Jumping and bouncing about, trying to make us happy; and you did. We forgot you weren’t well for a while. We forgot why we were at the vet. That was part of your magic, you made all the bad things melt away. The vet examined you and we told her everything you’d eaten the past few days, nothing out of the ordinary. She wanted to keep you overnight and get some tests and x-rays done. Of course, I didn’t want to leave you, I never wanted to leave you. You had been by my side since I was sixteen years old, you were always with me, but I knew it was for the best. So, I kissed and kissed and kissed your gorgeous face, I told you I loved you and that everything would be okay. I gave the vet your teddy bear so you wouldn’t be lonely and then I left. I’m sorry that I left you baby, I wish I had known that was the last time I would see your loving face. I’m sorry I left you Hollie. I’m sorry. I worried about you all night, I rang Granny and Grandad and told them what was going on, they passed the news on to everyone else – this family you were part of, each and every one of us adored you. We all wanted you to get better baby. The next morning, I received a call, the x-ray showed your bowel was twisted, you needed to have an operation. I remember constantly telling myself that everything would be okay, I hoped you could sense what I was feeling and that you weren’t afraid. Mummy and Daddy worried all afternoon until we got the call to say the surgery went well! Finally, some good news. You were still sleeping when they rang but they said things were looking good, but because your bowel had been twisted you were still at risk. Not out of the woods yet the vet said. He would ring me again that night and update me. We tried to distract ourselves that day, sending you happy and positive thoughts. Everything would be okay, it needed to be okay, you needed to be okay because I needed you. You were the one constant thing in my life, the past few years had been hard for me, I know you know that because you saved my life more than once. So, I knew you would come home to me. I just knew it. He rang that night and said you ate some dinner. Our hearts were so happy, we updated the family, and everyone seemed relieved. Still had a long way to go though he said. That night I will remember for the rest of my life. I just had a bad feeling and it kept me awake all night. Maybe it was because you weren’t lying there beside me, keeping me safe, or maybe I knew, deep down. You remember the lights in the house Hollie? They were sensor lights and would come on automatically if someone walked by. We kept them on all night, every night in case you needed to go downstairs for a drink. The last I looked at the time it was around 5.45am, then as I was lying there next to Daddy the light on the landing suddenly came on. Weird. That’s never happened before. I immediately woke up Daddy, so he could see for himself, I wasn’t scared exactly, I didn’t think it was an intruder or anything like that. I just forgot for a second you weren’t at home and thought it was you. I hoped it was you. Hoped you came home to me. 8am that morning, I got the call no one wants. You’d taken your forever sleep. I don’t remember much of what the vet said because I screamed, I screamed this inhumane scream, a scream you only make when your heart has literally shattered into pieces. I broke down on the floor and wailed “no, not my baby. Please. Not my babygirl”. I couldn’t breathe HollieBear, the air had been sucked out of my lungs, the panic set in and tears streamed endlessly down my face. I needed you, you were the only one who could keep me calm when bad things happened. But now you were gone. I don’t remember much else from that morning, just this horrible feeling that a part of me died with you and I would never get it back. I screamed and cried and screamed some more, Daddy was crying too. When we calmed down a bit we rang the vet and got the details on what had happened. He checked on you at 2am and everything was okay, you were sleeping, but he told me you had passed away sometime between 4am and 6am. I was so angry he didn’t ring me as soon as he found you because I wanted to see you, hold you. We decided to go and see you in a few hours, after clinic hours – so the place would be empty and quiet. Granny was with me then, she was just as inconsolable as I was, but she tried to be strong and hold back her heartbreak for me. She loved you just as much as I did, and her heart was just as broken, but she comforted me, the way you would normally do. I’ll be eternally grateful for that, you taught us all compassion babygirl. I knew that your life had only ever been filled with limitless love, but in those moments all I felt was shame and anger and sadness, for all the times I was too tired to walk you, too sad to play with you, all the times I lost my temper and shouted at you over stupid meaningless things. Please know babygirl, I didn’t know any better, please know I didn’t mean it. The past few years you were the only person in the entire world I could count on, the days when I considered leaving this earth forever you stopped me; just by looking at me with love in your eyes and a wagging tail you stopped me. How could I possibly live without you now? I still needed you. I wasn’t better yet, I needed you to help me more. When I would wake up at night with a panic attack you were there beside me, wide awake and reassuring me everything was okay. When I decided to leave the house for the first time in six months you were right there beside me, keeping me safe and my anxiety at bay. When I hadn’t showered or washed in weeks you didn’t care, you never judged me, you only loved me. When nothing else in the world could make me smile, you did baby. You always put a smile on my face, because how could I ever be truly depressed or suicidal when I had you, this gorgeous girl I didn’t deserve, loving me so unconditionally, never leaving my side. How could I live now, now that you were gone? Going to see you once last time was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You were lying on those cold, metal tables with blankets wrapped around you. Your pink bandana around your neck and your teddy bear under your chin. Oh, how I hated that moment my love. I fucking hated seeing you there. It seemed like you were sleeping, but I knew you weren’t. I ran to you and hugged you tighter than I ever had before. I told you I loved you, I hoped you heard me. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you my sweet babygirl. I’m sorry you were alone. I should have been there for you, like you were there for me. It wasn’t like in those movies where everyone is gathered around and can say goodbye. I didn’t get to say goodbye! I left you all alone! There was no decision to be made, you were just taken from me. I was angry Hollie, for a long time after I was so so angry, especially at myself. I hated that I left you and never saw you again. I hated the fact you were probably scared and wondering where I was. But I was waiting for you baby, I really thought you were coming home. I know that you would have, if you could. I know you would have run a million miles to come home to me. I don’t blame you baby, so don’t feel bad, it was your time to go. I just wish I could have said goodbye and told you I loved you and that everything would be okay, because it is now HollieBear. You helped me overcome my issues more than any drug or therapist ever could. You were my Mary Poppins. You had done your job, you made me safe and loved me and helped me get better. You were my rock, for nine wonderful years, bit by bit you removed the darkness that had consumed me and brought light into my life. I’m going to University now in a few months, something I’d dreamt of doing for years, but I’m going now, finally, because you gave me the strength and courage I needed to finally achieve my dreams. You have a little brother now as well! His name is Finley, you would have loved him Holliebear! Oh, the things you could have taught him, the wisdom you could have gave him! He won’t stop eating the remote controls for the TV, he’s ate three already, I know if you were here you would have taught him how to be a good dog. But he’s learning, he gets better and bigger with each passing day. You honestly would have adored him. I guess that’s why I’m writing this letter baby, I wanted to tell you that I still live with the pain of losing you every single day, my heart may never be whole again, but you taught me how to love and how to never give up. So, I actually live life now, my mental health has gotten so much better baby, all because of you. You saved my life Hollie, I wish I could have saved yours. I will never forget the short time we had together, you will always be a part of me. And although my heart is still broken, I know it can be mended because you brought light into my life and that light will never go out again. HollieBear, I will love you until I take my forever sleep. Thank you for being the best good girl I ever could have asked for. Until we meet again, at the rainbow bridge. Love forever, Your Mama.


7 hours Ten hours and I'll be back in Australia. I thought as I tried to get settled into my aisle seat. My time in Japan was amazing, but I was ready to go. I could only take so much of the food. I'd rather have my simple Aussie cuisine. After everything I'd gone through with Richard, with work, and the cancer treatments again: I was ready for a break. I chose to go somewhere foreign, where nearly everything would be different. I thought I'd give religion another try. It worked for so many other people. I saw Kiyomizu-dera, and all the more exclusive Buddhist temples Hana would take me to; she'd been a wonderful guide. I'd gained some spiritual solace, an appreciation for the world around me, and the things that have happened in my life. But I still felt an emptiness wherever I went. That's when I saw you. At first I thought, There's that stupid American who was lost at the counter. Then I thought, Just great! He is sitting right across the aisle. You smiled at me, and ended up bumping into the stewardess. I chuckled to myself at your embarrassment. Now I need to get to sleep, I thought. I closed my eyes and drifted off. An hour later the stewardess was back. I told her I'd take whatever dark tea she had. I crossed my legs to get comfortable. The young Japanese girl beside me hardly took up any room. I was ready to enjoy my tea when I heard you speak up. “I'll have whatever she is having," you said. Please don't talk to me, I thought. I put my headphones in to avoid anything you might say. Some 80’s space rock to help me relax. You looked at me, then guestured at the cup of tea you were given and gave me a questioning look. Something to the tune of “Why the hell would I order this?” I rolled my eyes at your childish attempt to get my attention, but I guess it worked. I picked up my own cup and you mimicked my motions, the way I held the cup, the way I sipped it. You made an exaggerated “yuck” face at me and frowned at your tea. I couldn't help but let out a chuckle. Your brown eyes lit up at the small victory you just made. I looked away to try and sour your triumph. I stayed that way for as long as I could. Turned away from you and continued reading my book, “As I Lay Dying”. I tried to focus on the book, but I was distracted by my own music, and from feeling your eyes on me. This went on for nearly an hour, until I was fed up with my slow progress. We just reached hour two of our flight. I sat up in my chair and you pretended not to notice. I decided a movie would kill time. As I went through the selections you were leaning nearly halfway into the aisle trying to see what I was choosing. You're lack of shame was impressive. I was determined to make a game of our interaction and win. I chose the sappiest love story I could find based on the description and the cover photo. I don't even remember what it was, something about a young couple dealing with a long distance relationship. I knew men hated chick flicks. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw you feign annoyance and choose the same movie. It was game on. The movie we watched was aweful, so cliche. I listened to the few times you laughed. It felt like you had won our little game, as you actually seemed to enjoy the movie. Then that cheesy sex scene made me blush. I'm such a prude sometimes. You laughed at me, and at the small seatback screen. After the movie was over you got in position to go to sleep. You had me worried that was the end of our little interaction. I also watched you when you slept. You looked older when you weren't smiling. The crows feet on your eyes gave away that you were probably pushing 45; so did your black hair, all dusted with gray. I tried to get some sleep myself. I woke up at the lunch announcement and found your eyes were on me. Instead of being on guard, I actually felt like a school girl who got winked at by her crush. Besides, I had watched you sleep so it was only fair. I ordered the vegetarian option. Again I heard you say, “I'll have whatever she is having.” I was excited for the meal. My salad was very good for airline food. Then you took my cheese wedge. I thought, You bastard! I had to get you back. I thought of reporting you to the stewardess but I didn't want them to move you. I decided to take your chocolate square and ate it before you could protest. You took a pen from inside your suit jacket and started writing on your napkin. “You owe me, Order wine", you wrote. I gave you a disapproving look. You just shrugged and pursed your handsome lips. “Red or white?”, I wrote back. Again you shrugged and pointed at me with both hands. Red, I decided. While we waited for the wine, really anytime we were waiting, you'd look forward and pretend to be deep in thought. Did it take you that long to make silly ideas or was that supposed to make me more interested in you? When the wine came, you gave me that school boy wink. Then you flipped the napkin over and began writing again. “Thank you (your name here)”, it said, with a silly little smiley face. I wrote you back. “Lorie” You cocked your head and quickly wrote back. “Not Sheila?” You surprised me with that one. “Jackass", I scoffed out loud and you feigned innocence then laughed. I threw the napkin back at you. “I'm Adam”, you wrote. I just nodded and acted bored. Now four and half hours into the flight you started looking through movies again. You chose an intellectual crime drama. A deliberate departure from my choice. I actually liked the movie, so the joke was on you this time. Since the waitress took our waste, you decided to write me a message on your phone. “This movie is boring”, you wrote. I rolled my eyes at you and tried to return to the film. You tapped on my shoulder. The first time we touched. You had written another message on your phone. “What is your story? Business or liesure?”, you wrote. “Liesure” , I wrote back. Not sure how much I wanted to disclose to you. You smiled and typed again. “Sushi?” “More like answers”, I wrote. I should have known you'd get nosey. You just looked at me and raised your hands, then passed the phone back. “Cancer", I wrote back. I had to look away. I was embarrassed. It felt like a mark of shame. I had only told my boss and my mother. Being breast cancer, it made me even less comfortable talking about it. Like I said, I can be a prude. When I wiped away my tears and worked up the courage to look back at you, you were sunken in your seat. You looked pitiful. I didn't know anyone cared about me. “Is it bad?”, you wrote. You were anxious. I bit my lip and nodded. I am sorry I cried. I think it made you feel worse. I wrote you a message on the phone. “What about you? Business?” When you took the phone from my hands you squeezed my fingers. It made me feel better. “Business," you said out loud. I was surprised at the change in our communication. “I don't want to waste your time with this," you said, holding up your phone. “It's ok. I'm still stuck on this flight." I smiled at you and you smiled back, but I could see you were still unsettled. "You're really nice, you don't deserve that. Anyway, I should do some work. Sorry for taking up your time." you said. “Yeah. I've got my book.” I said back to you. The announcement was made that dinner would be served shortly. The next announcement was the pilot shouting to brace for impact. It was aweful, it was so terrifying. Just before we hit the water I heard you say my name, and I saw fear in you eyes. They are still unsure of what happened. The airline and the police. Your side of the plane impacted first, and nearly every passenger on that side died. I spent a few days in the hospital. I only had a minor concussion, and some bruises and scrapes. The worst part was the endless reporters and the lawyers. I didn't care. I waited, watching the news for the passenger names announcement. It only took an hour to find your social media profiles: Adam Middler. I admit I stalked your digital profiles for a few hours, soaking up every bit of your life that was open to me. I contacted your wife. I'm sorry, I know. I was not surprised to learn you were going through divorce. She was not a very pleasant woman. I wish for your sake that your two boys have a good life. If I had any maternal instincts I probably would seek them out. It's been a month now. I'm back with Richard. He is sweet, he's just boring and a bit arrogant. I still haven't told him about the cancer. The treatments seem to be slowing it down, but probably not enough. I wish I would have- Lorie shut her laptop quickly when she heard Richard's voice. “Lor! Bloody hell Lor, come to bed. It's nearly midnight!” Richard called from the bedroom. “Just a minute Rich!” she called back. She opened her laptop, and continued writing. I should probably go. Most days I wish I had died with you on that plane Adam. In those seven hours I felt more alive than I have my whole life. I laughed, I cried, I feared, and I loved. I miss you Adam. This cancer is taking too damn long.


I was told I shouldn’t go. Begged more like it. They told me he was crazy, that he was probably dangerous, but I still went. I had to know why he chose me. Three days ago, I received a letter from my grandfather, Layton Young. He requested me personally to come by his estate for a visit. The problem with that is no one had heard from him in over forty years. He secluded himself inside of his mansion and hadn’t left since, or so the stories say. I’d never met him, but that was about to change. I arrived at his estate the day after I received his letter. Besides the lights coming through his windows, the whole place looked abandoned. After knocking for several minutes to no avail, I let myself in. Following the main hallway, I reached two large oak doors. Peering inside, I jumped back at the sight. It was a large ballroom full of life sized puppets dangling from the ceiling. Dozens of them, all exquisitely made. Their swaying made them appear to be dancing: a marionette masquerade. As I searched for my grandfather, I saw more rooms full of these strange puppets. Each room was staged to show a different story: birth, loss, success, failure, happiness, and sadness. The farther I went, the more the puppets began to look damaged and the strings worn out, like they were constantly being used. “This way my boy,” a voice called out from down the hallway. Startled by the sound, I quickly turned to face it. At the very end of the hallway stood a door lit from the other side. Standing in the window was the silhouette of a man. “Come closer,” the shadow said. “It’s hard to see at my age.” He chuckled. “Grandpa?” I asked as I slowly walked towards the door. The shadow nodded, “It’s so good to finally meet you at last,” he replied. “What do you want with me? What’s with these puppets?” I asked skipping pleasantries, standing in front of the door. The faded glass made him hard to see. “My guests? They’re my memories, my story. I try to change them from time to time, but they always seem to return to the truth.” He moved to a desk near the back of the room and sat down. “Why did you ask me here?” I asked. “I needed someone to see them.” he replied grimly. I could hear him open a drawer. “I’m too old to care for them anymore.” I heard a click of a gun. “Grandpa?!” I screamed, trying to open the door. “Take care of them my boy. They’re your guests now.” I slammed myself into the door harder. “Please remember me,” he whispered. A loud gunshot boomed through the house. I finally broke the door down. To my surprise, behind the office desk was another puppet with a smoldering hole in its head. This puppet, however, didn’t have strings.


On the tenth day of September, Shorouv walked along the cream-coloured cloisters towards the drama room. As the afternoon heat beared down on Shorouv, he took off his black blazer. His crescent moon badge, awarded to him at the Diversity Assembly, fell off the lapel. He picked it up, and started putting it back on, but his friends began waving to him from the asphalt basketball courts below. He returned their wave, and his best mate, Eddy, began to yell at him, “Oi, Shorouv! Come down! We need one more!” “I have to pray first! I’ll be down once I’m done!” Shorouv stuffed the badge into the front pocket of his bag. He turned right into the Arts Wing corridor, and Shubash, one of Shorouv’s peer tutees who was always at the Jumma’h prayer, was exiting the Wing. Shubash smiled, and Shorouv greeted him with a high five. “How’s it going little man?” “Math is still hard, but otherwise I’m good.” “Ah, you’ll learn to love it. We’ll work on it. See you at Jumma’h on Friday.” “Ok, see ya then.” *** On the twelfth day of September, Shorouv stood at the open window near his math class, watching his friends down at the grassy cricket pitch as they kicked a soccer ball around. The wind assaulted him, despite Shorouv wearing his heavy black blazer of which the lapels were empty. Eddy looked up at Shorouv, raising his arm. But he lowered it without giving a wave, and he turned his back. Shorouv’s eyes shifted up to the skyline. He looked at the Sydney Tower, surrounded by titanic skyscrapers. Skyscrapers which had taken years to build, but could be destroyed in mere seconds. The orange glow of the afternoon sun burned as it reflected off the opaque windows, and it resembled the footage of flames exploding from the towers. The footage which had been on repeat in each and every classroom. Shorouv ran his fingers along his jawline, feeling for cuts. Most people already knew though. A rough shave wasn’t enough to hide his faith. They’d seen the darkness of his skin. The previously well-kept beard. His commitment to the Zuhr prostrations in the drama room. They’d seen his involvement in organising the inaugural Iftaar party; the communal event for breaking the fast during Ramadan. Through the windows, they’d seen him give a Khutbah; standing up and lecturing the younger students, during the Friday Jumma’h prayers. They were aware that a message was being spread, but they didn’t know what was being said. The message was often about perseverance, and brotherhood. But they didn’t know that. All they knew was of his allegiance to Islam. And they knew of the attackers’ allegiances to Islam. They couldn’t tell the difference. The Islamic Society at the school had evolved well thanks to Shorouv’s efforts, and he had been recognised at the Diversity Assembly for it. But today, as they shuffled past, they averted their eyes. They walked faster as he walked by. The moon crescent badge he had been awarded meant nothing. “Death toll: ‘horrendous’”, “Hundred’s Dead”, “An Act of War.”. Students would look at Shorouv as the captions of news reports played over and over on the boxed televisions in the classrooms. The footage of men and women plummeting, as the buildings they jumped from were showered in ash and flames. Supposedly to spread the message of Islam. A message to which Shorouv had devoted much of his life. ‘That’s not what Islam is.’ He thought. In his maths class, most seats were empty, but the few who were inside looked his way. Not a word was said. Shorouv sat on his own. In the back row. The teacher began talking about iterative methods and something about Newton. Shorouv copied the explanations and examples into his book, but he didn’t really understand it. He stared at what he had written down. He tried to make sense of the equations, but he couldn’t. He read through the textbook’s explanation, but the words were blank. They meant nothing. *** The ringing of the bell respited Shorouv’s empty gaze from the textbook. He closed the book and placed it into his bag. And while the teacher and students left, Shorouv slouched over in his seat. Shorouv felt a tug on his shirt. It was Shubash, though he held a wet tissue which he continued dabbing onto his bloodshot eyes. “Shorouv? Shorouv…? Can you help me with algebra?” He remained silent. “Please?” “Not right now Shubash.” “…That picture of the man jumping. I can’t stop seeing it…Why did they attack? Allah never asked for it.” He sniffled. “Please don’t give up Shorouv. We need you to guide us.” Shorouv lifted his head, as he remembered his place. If he were to abandon Islam, then so would they. But Shorouv had to spread the truth about Islam. The message of perseverance. Or else people would never accept Islam. What he had spent a great deal of time and effort on would be in ruins. “I’m sorry Shubash…Stay strong brother. I’m here for you.” Shorouv opened his arms, and Shubash embraced him. He reached into his bag and pinned his moon crescent badge onto the lapel of his blazer. “Let’s work on your Al-Jabr.


A frenzied shriek over the airwaves was the only response to the controller’s repeated request for identification. A few tense moments later, the unidentified plane crashed east of the airport and nearly caused an air-to-ground collision. A midsize jet had been taxing down the runway in preparation for takeoff but had to abort in lieu of the emergency circumstances. The crash investigators were surprised there were no survivors or human remains found amid the wreckage. A cursory examination revealed that the vast majority of the doomed vessel was still intact; allowing for a realistic outcome of survivors. As a matter of fact, no explosion or fire had occurred at all in the fuselage. Closer inspection revealed the reason was because the fuel tanks were completely empty at the moment of impact. What did puzzle them was the very odd combination of forty five sticks of dynamite; and the bodies of twenty seven adult chimpanzees. “With those sticks of dynamite, there wouldn’t have been anything left if it still had fuel.”; They reasoned. "Luckily they didn't detonate from the impact alone." The obvious conclusion to the mystery was that the plane had been piloted by rogue animal smugglers. Those unscrupulous criminals were lured by the illicit fees paid to smuggle primates across the world to North American experimental laboratories. Another curious aspect of the investigation was the unusual location of the dead apes. They were scattered throughout the plane; instead of being in cages or crates. Ordinarily wild animal smugglers isolate them in the cargo hold during transportation. Three of the apes were even in the cockpit area. The investigators concluded that the smugglers had miscalculated their fuel supply and had bailed out before the crash; or hastily made their escape as the emergency vehicles screamed to the scene. “Perhaps a loose chimpanzee distracted them from checking the fuel gauge.”; Another theorized enthusiastically. "During the chaos, the loose primate may have freed the others. That would explain the dead chimps being in the cockpit." An all points bulletin was put out for the unknown suspects. The official report suggested at least three would have been required to fly a plane of that size. Since it crashed near the runway, it was assumed they were still close by. After running the plane’s ID number through the database, it was determined to have been stolen a few hours earlier from a large land development company. The mid-sized cargo plane had been taken from an airfield near the owner's construction site; four hundred miles away. Perplexing to the investigators was the fact that the company headquarters was only a few miles away from where the stolen plane crashed. It seemed to be quite a curious “coincidence” that (of all the places the smugglers could have went with their contraband), their flight path was in direct line to whom it had stolen it from. That revelation brought up many unanswered questions which needed to be taken up with the owner. He agreed to come in for questioning and to give an official statement. When asked why the stolen explosives hadn’t been reported, the owner contended that he had no knowledge of it. He further explained that he hadn’t even been told about the missing plane until an hour beforehand by the site foreman. His explanation and genuinely confused expression satisfied the local police but they had been given strict instructions to detain him a bit longer. A federal agent was on the way to further interviewed him. In all investigations involving explosives, animal smuggling, and aircraft highjacking the government assumes jurisdiction since criminal offenses of that nature could threaten national security. Also taken very seriously are suspected cases of insurance fraud and false theft reports. That was exactly what the inspector suspected under the circumstances. The lead investigator wanted to judge for himself if the developer had anything to hide, before releasing him. When he arrived; the agent formally introduced himself as Special Operations Investigator Joe Harris. He removed his mirrored sunglasses and deftly placed them in the coat pocket of his tailored suit. After taking a few minutes to familiarize himself with the facts of the case, he proceeded to the interrogation room for the questioning. Recently the government had tightened down on animal smuggling after U.S. based animal right’s organizations put pressure on them. Most state officials resented interference by the same country that created the incentive for smuggling in the first place but the American tourist dollar was a major part of their economy. They couldn’t afford to ignore the animal rights groups since they were such a powerful lobby. The general consensus however was that it would have made much more sense for them to tackle the problem from where it started; the U.S. Being a country with extreme poverty made this lure of riches simply too tempting to their poor countrymen. In the interrogation room, the agent questioned the owner with deliberate repetitiveness. He did this to determine if the same answer was given each time it was asked. This particular method of interrogation is called re-collective continuity. It is considered one of the best techniques for uncovering the truth about the subject’s statement. In this case however, the developer seemed to be telling the truth so he was cleared of suspicion and released. Two days later Agent Harris flew to the construction site and began interviewing laborers about the theft. As his first subject he chose the construction foreman since he had been the one to report the theft. From there, he planned on working his way down throughout the ranks of workers and contractors. During the initial interview, the foreman went over the events leading up to the robbery. When he mentioned the strange circumstance of the chimpanzees being loose on the plane, the foreman offered: “I don’t guess it would have done any good to cage the little bastards!” When asked for further clarification; the foreman explained that for months chimpanzees had been breaking into their supply hut and stealing food and snacks at night. Finally sensing what he meant, the agent dropped his serious disposition and asked with a humorous overtone; “Well, didn’t you lock it?” To that the foreman explained that at first there didn’t seem to be any need to. Eventually the supplies just started disappearing and couldn’t be accounted for. “That still doesn’t prove that...” “I hid outside one night and waited to catch the thief. It was then that I saw with my own eyes!”; He interrupted. “Those harry rascals crept over quietly and pulled the stick out of the lock flap and helped themselves to several cookies before I chased them off!”; He continued. Agent Harris broke into an ‘ear to ear’ grin. “You guys never heard of a padlock?” “Of course we’ve heard of padlocks.”; He sneered. The thick sarcasm annoyed him. “But that didn’t do any good either! They must have watched us put up the key on the pegboard next to the bulldozer keys. The next day, more food was missing and the supply hut’s key was on the wrong hook. I thought one of the men was playing a joke but I’ll be damned if we didn’t catch one of ’em the next morning ‘red handed’; trying to put the key back, with a candy bar in his other hand!” “You mean to tell me the apes were unlocking the padlock with the key?”; Joe grinned. “Not only that; they were locking it back so we couldn’t tell!” Agent Harris roared with laughter. “I’m tellin’ ya’, those monkeys are smart. They were sneaking into our R & R lounge and watching T.V. at night! We never caught ‘em but we could tell they had been in there because our generator was ran down every morning. Muddy paw prints would be everywhere!” “Well; so much for the ‘perfect crime’!”; He chuckled. A hilarious vision flashed in his mind of the chimpanzees sitting around watching “Bedtime for Bonzo”; while eating popcorn and wearing human clothes. Slowly he rose from the chair and thanked the foreman for the very amusing story. “The crazy things I encounter at this job!”; he thought to himself. One by one, Agent Harris eliminated all the workers as suspects at the development complex. They had all given similar accounts of the events which took place on the day of the theft; and all had 'iron clad' alibis. About the only interesting fact of the whole investigation was that the nearby chimps had a preference for candy bars and old war movies. The only other information came from workers who cleaned up after the rogue primates but he wasn’t about to put any of that ridiculous hearsay in his report. He would have been the laughing stock. There didn’t seem to be anything further to uncover there so he prepared for the return trip to the crash site. Unfortunately his dismissal of the provided testimonials at the development site was wrong. All the evidence he needed to solve the case was right there 'under his nose' but he refused to see it! In all fairness, he wasn’t alone in being oblivious. No one else would have been able to accept the true facts of the mystery either. Rapidly, the jungle was being bulldozed down to make room for the new development; and the ‘rascals' were watching their home disappear. Since fruit is their primary source of food and trees are their source of shelter and recreation, they began to suffer losses of both; as they were cut down. It was only natural that they would resort to raids on the supply hut and the R & R lounge (to seek food and recreation) since the source of both was becoming increasingly scarce. There in the lounge the Chimpanzees learned about war and bombing missions while watching T.V. They wanted to extract revenge on the humans who were responsible for destroying their home, so the supply plane seemed to be the logical answer. Many times they had witnessed the destructive power of dynamite while watching human’s blow up tree stumps out of the ground for clearing land. They simply navigated toward “enemy headquarters” for a retaliatory strike with the human’s fire sticks. Only a little more fuel in the plane stood in their way of successfully blowing up the land developer’s office and extracting justice. Still; I know that many of you readers will refuse to believe this is a case of “monkey see, monkey do”; but look at ME for proof! I learned how to type while watching the same T.V. as the others.


I stand in a sea of congratulations, against the current of beaming parents and my friends—the two crash against each other like waves, greeting and mixing and loving like water on its way to the shore. Except there is no shore. There is only the sea, and me, the lone lighthouse standing amongst the water, scanning its longing light towards the horizon. Craning my neck, I stand on my tiptoes to see above all the commotion. My ears are already ringing, and that isn’t good. What if I don’t hear the— “Jan?” I turn sharply, excitement nudging its way through my gut. But it is only Reid, his makeup already halfway gone. He cradles not one but two bouquets of flowers in his arms. He’s always had a loving family. “Good job,. You did wonderful,” he smiles, flashing his metallic teeth. I smile back, and he rushes off, probably to help strike the set. It would make sense; he dreams of becoming a professional performer one day, and to do that, he must earn himself a rightful place in our director’s Book of Favorite Actors—which, isn’t a real thing, but it might as well be. I sure as hell wouldn’t be in it. But I turn back to my lighthouse duties, and I can’t help but notice that the crowd around me has thinned quite a bit. I bite my lip, a little put off by that; everyone who came to see the show is out of the theater by now, and yet— “Are you going to iHOP after this, Jan?” Lori stops and taps me on the shoulder—she will always rap you on the shoulder when she wants your attention. “Maybe,” I reply, and it’s true. I’ll probably end up going whether I like it or not. Lori trots off in the same direction as Reid, and still I stand. I can practically feel my feet becoming rooted to the floor as I wait. I realize that I am a rather empty lighthouse, perhaps abandoned; no family of mine has shown up tonight. But there is still hope. Yes, but that hope seems to be slowly pulling itself from my grasp. The crowd has become one singular person now, dwindled down to nearly nothingness. And this person is simply another girl who was in the production with me. We lock eyes, exchanging a silent understanding. I’ve never spoken to this girl, but in that moment, I feel as though we are sisters of some kind, united by loneliness. But then she turns away, and slowly walks back into the theater, where the rest of the cast will surely be celebrating. And now there is nothing but the lighthouse. My lip quivers as an overwhelming stab of despair punctures me through, and I look at my hands. My cheeks flush with some kind of embarrassment; of course he didn’t show up. After a moment of consideration, I turn on my heel and march, away from the theater and away from the deserted ocean. My feet take me farther into the school, through hallways and past classrooms that stand as abandoned as I, until my character shoes come to a halt in front of the gymnasium. I enter, letting the familiar smell of sports and rubber hit me. I breathe it in solemnly. After all, it was in gym class where we’d first met. Miserably I make my way over to the bleachers and begin to climb, up and up until I am all the way at the top. The plastic resonates with my every footstep, the vibrations seeming to scream *you idiot, you loser, you pitiful thing*. I drop onto a bench and stare down, across the empty expanse of the basketball court. Half of the lights above me have been turned off for the night, and a chill runs across my arms, but I don’t mind. The air seems to shimmer with the memory of his smile, and it is almost as if I see an apparition, a glimpse of that first day with him. The way those bright, ugly lights had captured his eyes, swimming in their blue fishbowls like gems dropped to the bottom of the sea. His hair, coarse and blond, and how he’d let me run my fingers through it nearly every day. He was an angel on earth. And I’d never fallen in love before. I refused to. But it seemed that he’d captured me. And there was a part of me, a little sliver of my heart that led my skeptic of a brain to believe that there could be something there, something beautifully sweet, something just as gushy and gooey as they made these things seem in the movies. But my lighthouse beam had not shone on his smile tonight, and despite my hopeful wishes that he would heed my encouragement and appear in an audience seat, the sea was empty. The sea was empty, and I was a fool.


The howling of the frosty wind grew louder and muffled the dark rays from the moon above. A wet fog seeped through the cracks of an old, rigid window pane and washed over a fairly aged bedside cabinet. The frail curtains delicately flowed and rippled across the room, casting a misty shadow across the rickety floorboards. A peaceful log occupied the bed, laying lifeless as it succumbed to the cold breeze which smothered it. The plum kissed skin and the flowing locks were the only elements that could distinguish the object. All seems peaceful, but the fiends of the night are hungry and searching for vulnerability in their prey. A foreign, vivid shadow filled the room with a toxic darkness, suffocating the last drops of life that the room once had. The window chain hovered subtly off the lock and creaked open the ancient window, allowing the unnatural climate of the outside world to flow freely into the solitude room. Following the musty fog was a meagre figure, clad in rotting green, hungry for a glowing youth. The being, glowing in a murky darkness, stood tall as an oak tree by the bedside of the innocent child, watching over like a dark angel before elevating the child into the airborne room. The pair flew astray into the darkened night sky, leaving the isolated bedsit to fend for itself against the demons of the night. An object, unfamiliar to any of human existence passed the moon and scraped the moonlight gracefully, yet so eerily, casting shadows across the silent town below. The girl, under a spell of deep unconsciousness had travelled into a universe of the unknown. The vicious substance coarsed through the teens veins and grappled the consciousness of her freshly developed brain, only to start letting her slip through into a much darker place, back to reality. The girl called out to the figure, who sat on a stool opposite, eagerly waiting for company from an uncomfortable victim it had grasped from the goodness of the world. “Where am I?” Called out the girl as she eased back into a world she was unfamiliar with. The cloak shuffled and obscured the face of the dark soul it covered, before replying; “Neverland, my dear”. Grasping onto the rag of a blanket, the girl attempted to scan the room for any sense of where she was. After worrying glancing from wall to wall, the cloaked mound moulded into a standing position. Following a deep, crackle of a cough, the figure spoke; “I know all about you Wendy. I’ve been watching you for weeks, waiting for the right opportunity. When the stars aligned and all the pieces of my plan came together I... Well, that doesn’t matter now, I have you”. Shivering with fear, Wendy attempted her grand escape only to be restricted by the tight, straw like ropes which held her close to the rusty old bed frame. The slightest turn of her wrists would scrape her skin like she was bounded by barbed wire. Shaking like a rabid dog, she tried with all her force to pull away from her deathbed but only resulting in deep uncomfort and only distancing further from an energetic soul with every attempt of release. The figure nonchalantly hovered over to the bedside as if the twisted scenario it had started was just a minor inconvenience. Growing taller as the black cloak leaned over the bed, a collection of bones wrapped in paper thin, wrinkly skin, tugged on the hood and lowered the barrier, revealing the scrawny being it harboured. The creature, which was barely noticeable as a human, beared a long mouldy-grey ruff of a beard which hung down on top of the dark cloak the man bore. The arm of the coat twitched as a gaunt hand slithered out and reached over to the flowing river of hair covering the girls blushed face. Carefully moving the hair to reveal Wendy’s terrified emotion, the man spoke; “I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, how rude of me. I’m Peter”. Following his softly whispered words, the mortal grinned and scowled over Wendy, creating further shivering terror in the youth’s teary eyes. Crawling from the hair, the scrawny, scaly hand wandered down to the glossy buttons of her nightgown. Fiddling, the long-tainted nails of the hand unweaved the buttons and slowly unlocked the only fabrics acting as safety from the body of the teen. With an attempt to retrieve her snatched freedom, Wendy screamed at a volume unbearable to the human ear, the scream was met with a scattering of beetles and rodents escaping the siren of fear. Kicking and violently wriggling, she tried for a final time to escape the hands of her soon to be killer before he stole her innocent youth. But the attempt was unsuccessful. “Oh my dear, you’re not playing nicely. We can’t have that can we? Maybe this will calm you”. The man reached into a draw and scrambled across the wooden base before pulling out a yellowy handkerchief covered in spots of orange infection and held it over the sweet strawberry lips of the girl before allowing her sleep; “Goodnight Wendy my sweet girl”. Wendy’s eyes started to flutter softly before gradually falling closed. She dropped into a hole of darkness and her consciousness fell with her, leaving her body limp and vulnerable to anything by it.


No More Always Wanted It wasn’t raining, though all the people walking with big coats in the grey street felt it would be soon. The afternoon’s clouds seemed to be circling like a tired dog in search of the right place drop. Dustin’s numb hands were holding a bucket. The bucket, which had a sign on it that said *College Money*, was holding exactly nineteen dollars and sixteen cents. Foggy breath was left behind as talking people walked past. Dustin watched it float upwards and disappear, changing from red to green to gold with the Christmas lights in the shop windows. He knew it wouldn’t be enough money. He had been standing on the cold corner of Market Street since 10 o’clock in the morning, and only four people had made donations. The first had been his English teacher, Ms MacColl, who had been on her way to do some seasonal shopping when she’d seen him and said “I believe in you, Dustin.” The wrinkles on her face had transformed into an encouraging smile as she presented a five dollar note. The second person had been Isabelle Crosland, who was the same age as Dustin, and had caused him to daydream extensively after she’d let yet another five dollar note fall into his bucket with a wink. The third person Dustin hadn’t known at all; a young man in a long black coat swinging a carrier bag of rattles and clinks had stopped to ask: “What do you want to study?” “Literature.” “Why?” “I love telling stories.” “Then you must never stop,” the young man had instructed, handing a folded ten dollar bill to the boy. The fourth and final person had been playing guitar just across the street since roughly 11 a.m. Dustin was quite sure that he was homeless, but didn’t say anything except *thank you* when the musician gave him sixteen cents before moving along to another spot. At one point, Dustin bought a fresh-cream chocolate éclair and a coke from a nearby bakery. This had cost a total of one dollar. Thus, he was left with nearly twenty. As the roads became less busy, the twelve year old boy began to walk home. He wasn’t sure how to feel about his venture. The night was creeping across the sky and yellow street lamps flickered on as Dustin turned left onto Luck Lane. He felt touched that some people he knew and some who he didn’t had helped him, but he was sure that twenty dollars wouldn’t be enough to change the situation with his parents. In fact, he thought that he would probably have to spend all the weekends until he left school holding that bucket on various streets to raise enough money to make any kind of difference. But Dustin was a fighter. Even though, when he had asked if he would be able go to university and become a writer one day, his mother and father had explained to him all sorts of things about money and taxes and insurance and medical costs, he still remembered that when he was younger, they had always told him that he could be whatever he wanted to be. Dustin still wanted to believe it, so as he reached the end of Luck Lane he reassured himself: “I can be whatever I want to be.” However, he said it quite loudly, and that may have been a big mistake, because just then he heard heavy footsteps running towards him. “What’s in your bucket, boy?” said one of the three men who had just appeared behind him. Dustin knew he shouldn’t stop walking. He knew he should run, but for some reason he couldn’t. “Give us the bucket!” said another man, looking around to make sure there was nobody else on the shadowy road. “No!” shouted Dustin, as he turned and started running as fast as he could. In school he would often win races - but the men were faster than his classmates, and within seconds they were in front of him. There was a very loud slapping sound and Dustin fell backwards onto the floor, one hand still holding onto the bucket, one hand pressed against his burning left cheek. Someone ripped the plastic container out of his fingers. By the time he’d gotten to his feet again, all three of them (and his nineteen dollars and sixteen cents) were gone. He didn’t even get a chance to memorize their faces. Dustin sat down on the cold cobble-stones. He wanted to say a lot of rude words, but he just stared at the wall. His shoulders were shivering and his fists were squeezing at the air. All he could think was *what just happened? Why would they do that?* He hoped his Dad would come running round the corner, or the nice homeless musician would suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and say something like *here, I got it back for you.* But the street was empty. After a long time, Dustin stood up. He stared at his feet, hoping that soon they would start walking for him. But they were too cold and too stunned. His shoes were tied up with the standard two bows hanging on either side of each foot. His laces were mainly white, with a few grey smudges, and the material below them was a navy blue. He started to think about all the things people he knew had in common - like hair and eyes and ears and noses and brains and clothes and shoes. He even knew two boys in his class who had the same shoes as him. Dustin started to think that maybe his parents had been mistaken: maybe he was just like everyone else, and his dream to become a great writer was just something silly that he’d convinced himself could happen. Maybe his shoes would best be used for kicking balls and learning to run faster and walking to and from school and, in the future, to and from work. The young boy looked up from his feet. He noticed a line of graffiti all alone in pretty, curvy red writing stretching along the top of the wall. He’d never seen it before, and he often walked down Luck Lane. He read it. It said: *I could have been someone.* He recognised it from a Christmas song his parents would sometimes listen to. He remembered the next line in the song: ‘*well so could anyone.’* For a few more moments, Dustin was still. He was thinking deeply. “I can be whatever I want to be,” he whispered to himself, a tear cooling the place where one of the men had hit him. His right foot lunged forwards. \* Luck lane was quite a busy street during the daytime. It had a number of banks on it, some shoe shops, some clothes shops and a sweet shop. The sweet shop, whose window was just opposite the line of graffiti Dustin had noticed, was owned by a very nice old lady with white hair called Ms Sow. Ms Sow had seen the graffiti on Saturday, just like Dustin. There was a lot of crime in the area, so Ms Sow didn’t give too much thought to it - but on Monday morning, when she noticed another line just underneath the words *I could have been someone*, she rubbed down her sugary rainbow apron the way she always did and complained to a customer: “There seem to be more and more troublemakers around these days – Look! They’re spraying everywhere!” Dustin happened to be waiting in the queue to buy some lemon bonbons just as Ms Sow had said it. When he left the shop, he spent a few moments looking at the new sentence. It made him smile: **“I’d bet you’re wonderful,”** someone had written in a heavy but neat, black paint. As Dustin gazed at it, he noticed a few people around him slowed to read it before continuing on their way. By Tuesday, Ms MacColl was one of the people who had stopped briefly to read the graffiti conversation that was slowly taking place on the wall opposite Ms Sow’s Sweet Shop on Luck Lane. The curvy red style of writing had replied: “What makes you say that?” By Thursday, many people, including Isabelle Crosland, were talking about the graffiti conversation. The black ink had replied: **“From what you wrote, you must have dreams. And I like your handwriting.”** And below that the red ink said: “I’ve always wanted to be a singer.” On Saturday too, Dustin found himself standing and smiling amongst a crowd of people marvelling at the dialogue. **“I’ve always wanted to be a songwriter,”** the black ink remarked. “For some reason, I think you could make it,” the red offered. **“Well, so could anyone,”** said the black. By the following Wednesday all the people of the town knew about the graffiti conversation. Even Dustin’s parents walked in their big coats through the grey streets to see it. On Wednesday night, Dustin asked his parents again about becoming a writer. “Of course you can write in your spare time,” Dustin’s father had said, “but I just don’t think that it would be a very stable job.” “Your Dad’s right, Dustin,” his mother had added. “These are hard times, and we don’t want to get your hopes up. You can be whatever you want to be – you can write whatever you want to write – but for now you mustn’t forget to concentrate in all of your subjects because they’ll be important for getting a good job.” “But I want to change the world and tell wonderful stories that everyone will hear and I want to spend all of my time doing that!” Dustin explained. “I know I can do it. What if I can prove it to you?” “We’d love to read anything you’ve written,” his Mother smiled, warmly. “We’re not saying you shouldn’t follow your dreams, Dustin. But it’s like the graffiti on Luck Lane – the people writing it have probably tried working as musicians – they probably still try, but it’s very difficult to get into.” His father spoke kindly. “And a college course for writing is very expensive.” Dustin understood. He knew that he was only twelve years old, and that probably meant he was too young for his parents to think he was being very serious. He had often wondered how old he would have to be for people to consider him seriously as a writer. Fourteen? Sixteen? Eighteen? Twenty? Probably older. But Dustin was a fighter. On Thursday morning, the afternoon’s clouds seemed to be circling like a tired dog. “Would you like to meet up?” The red writing asked. By Friday, the black had replied: **“The bench on the hill in Windmill Park? 4 p.m.? Tomorrow?”** Dustin spent Friday evening by the graffiti wall with his bucket asking for donations to help him become a writer. Lots of people gave him a few coins and by the time he went home, he’d made twenty seven dollars and thirty six cents. That night he finished writing a short story on his mother’s computer. “Yes.” Read the red ink on Saturday morning. The whole town was excited. They all wanted to see who was having the graffiti conversation. On Saturday afternoon, Dustin went to a photocopying shop and printed out a few copies of his short story using some of the money from his bucket. At 2 p.m., Dustin showed his short story to his parents. They said it was brilliant. At 3.30 p.m., the clouds had finally made up their minds. It had begun to rain. Despite this, it seemed that the entire town had decided it would be a good time to go to the park. Hundreds of people were gathered in a ring of whispers and umbrellas around the empty bench on the hill at Windmill Park. At 3.45 p.m., Dustin managed to push to the front row, only a few feet away from the empty bench. He waited. At 3.55 p.m., the crowd was very loud. At 3.58., the crowd hushed. At 3.59., the crowd was nearly silent. At 3.59 and thirty seconds, the rain could be clearly heard hitting against the leaves of trees. At 3.59 and fourty five seconds, nobody moved a muscle. At 4 p.m exactly., everyone watched as Dustin walked towards the bench. Everyone held their breath. Dustin climbed up and stood on the bench. He could see Ms MacColl – and Isabelle Crossland – and a young man in a long black coat wearing a joyful smile – and the homeless musician - and a group of three guilty looking men – and another hundred faces with open mouths. Dustin turned in circles on top of the bench looking at the silent people. He blinked the rain out of his eyes. He couldn’t help but smile. Nobody could look away. Slowly and dramatically, Dustin put his arms out to either side of him as if he were reaching out to the surrounding people. He kept his legs straight and began bending forwards – further and further until he was looking at the ground. He straightened, turned slightly to the side, and repeated the action. He was bowing to his audience. “The truth is –“ he shouted at the top of his voice “I was walking home and I saw a line of graffiti that said *I could have been someone.* And that single, beautiful line of graffiti gave me the idea to write the rest!” The people were quiet. “You see, the truth is –“ he repeated as loud as he could. “I want to be a writer! And I believe you can be whatever you want to be! And to prove it to myself and to my parents, I invented a story and characters and wrote that story on that wall opposite Ms Sow’s Sweet Shop on Luck Lane! And now I know – and my parents must know as well – that it was a good story – because you are all here to hear the ending!” At 4.02 p.m., as Dustin finished his sentence, his parents approached the bench. They were each carrying cardboard boxes containing copies of the short story that Dustin had written on his mother’s computer and printed out at the photocopying shop. “Collecting money to become a writer!” Dustin shouted over the sound of the rain. “Collecting money to become a writer! Pay however much you would like for a short story!” The crowd of silent faces tore open with surprise and applause and cheers. People turned to whomever they were with and smiled. Some even hugged each other. However, even as many nice people approached to buy a copy of his short story, (which was entitled *No More Always Wanted*), Dustin suspected it wouldn’t make enough money to send him to college. Still, at the very least he did feel that he had made a lot of people happy that day – he was sure that they would remember what had happened and that they might even pass it on to their friends. Maybe his parents and other people would start to take the fact that he’d *always wanted* to become a writer more seriously. And if his plan didn’t work out and people didn’t start to recognize that he was meant to be a writer – he’d make another plan - because Dustin was a fighter - and he knew he could be whoever he wanted to be.


Hello, this is my first story and I am not a native English speaker so my story may have some grammatical flaws. Hope you'll like it.  Mr. Jones had a few days' holiday, so he was very happy and decided to go on a trip. He was thought to himself: “I enjoy traveling a lot but I dont like to go alone, I always like to go on a trip with my best friends. He immediately remembered his old mother, she was living in a countryside far away from this city and Mr. Jones loved his mother, He had not seen her since two months ago, and she always came to see him, and never let him to visit her. So he thought what a great surprise it would be! He started packing his clothes and everything he thought he may need. He did a total checkup for his car to ensure that everything was working the way they should be, then he got on the road to get out of the city. When he was out of the city, he caught in the traffic jam as there were a lot of cars on the road and everybody wanted to go on a trip to the countryside. He moved slowly with the traffic, but finally he found out that the road was closed because there was a bicycle racing going on. After sometime, he stopped at the roadside. Mr. Jones came to realize he didn't had any choice but to wait and enjoy the scenery until the road is open. At last, the race ended. After three hours of driving, Mr. Jones finally arrived to the countryside. It was dark, and he was tired. While he got out his car and went to his mother’s house, He knocked at the door, no one answered it, and he noticed there was no lights on in the house as he was thought to himself “My mother would never leave the house after dark, so where could she be?” a voice came from a few houses next to his mother’s, it was a young boy, “Hello Sir, are you looking for Ms. Elizabeth?” the boy politely asked him, and Mr. Jones replied: “Hi there, yes I am his son, I came to visit her, do you know where she is?” the boy said “Yes, she said she is going to the city by bus, to visit her son!” Mr. Jones said “Thank you” to the boy. He went to the house next door, he knocked the door, it was Ms. Peterson house, who was friend of his mother since when Mr. Jones was a little boy, she opened the door, surprised and really happy to see him, she invited him in, as Ms. Peterson was making some tea, Mr. Jones called his mother on her cell phone to tell her the where he put his spare key for his apartment so she could spend the night at Mr. Jones apartment, and he would head back to the city in the early morning after spending the night at their old house, but she told him that she was already on her way back to the countryside and the door keeper has already told her he was on his way to visit her, She insisted that he stay at the Ms. Peterson’s till she’s back. As Mr. Jones drank his tea, wondering why his mother was in such a rush to get back and why she insisted to spent the night at Ms. Peterson's house, he went on asking Ms. Peterson to give the keys of his mother’s house, he had spent his whole childhood there and he really missed the house cause his mother was always the one visiting him so he didn't came and see the house for few years now! As Ms. Peterson had the keys to feed the fish. So he took the keys and happily with a childish joy walked towards his mother house, he opened the door only to find out the house was in a really bad shape! Furniture was really old, he went on looking inside the house to find refrigerator wasn’t working properly! He was really surprised! As he has always said to his mother: “let me know if there is anything you need” and she has always replied “I am fine I have everything I need” so now it was making sense why she didn’t wanted him to visit her and she was the only one always visiting him, so he went on looking around and checking all the house to find out all her needs that she didn’t told him about, the TV was really old and the screen had really bold line all over it! as he looked around, he took note of everything, and after he was done, he took out his phone and called the big store that he was always buying stuff from, he gave them his membership code and ordered everything on the list, they told him the order will arrive in the morning, so he sat there and tried to get some sleep. It was morning, a beautiful morning, he woke up as someone knocked the door, he opened the door and the truck was there with all the orders! He asked neighbors for help as they loved his mother, Ms. Elizabeth, Mr. Jones mother, was kind and she had helped everyone in the past, so everyone was more than happy to help her! Some repaired the house, the broken window, the door and etc. some ladies helped cleaning the house, and some men helped to carry newly bought stuff to the house, it was perfect! New stove, oven, TV, sofa, carpet, curtains and many, many new stuff. As the neighbors were leaving the house Mr. Jones mother arrived, she didn’t knew what was happening, but she felt anxious when she saw Mr. Jones at the porch of her house, she was thinking to herself: “how am I going to explain him the situation, that I didn’t wanted to bother him with my problems”, as she was delighted to see him she walked towards him and hugged him saying: “My boy I am so happy to see you!” Mr. Jones kissed her forehead and said “I love you Mother and I missed you too, and here I wish you will like this” and he opened the door of the house and invited her in, she was speechless so happy, she began to cry and hugged Mr. Jones saying “My darling, I didn’t wanted to bother you, some of my old stuff was still working” and Mr. Jones replied “You have done more than what was in your power for me, now it’s my turn to take care of you”.


e walked along the lake, seeking solace in the wings of the birds as his mind soared high in search of the elusive – the sublime messages of nature, so little understood, or misunderstood. His path was deeply carved by his passion, the vehicle in which his brilliant mind travelled through space and time in search of the beating heart of the universe. ‘Kurt,’ a voice called. He turned his head toward the source of the voice. His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. He had completely forgotten about her. It was Destiny. ‘You missed the meeting,’ she said. ‘I am very close to solving it … I think,’ Kurt said rather hesitantly. He did not dare to speak with assurance, for he had been wrong before. Destiny sat beside him. ‘I like it here.’ Of course she liked it here. It was at this very lake, at this very university that they met forty years ago. ‘Walsh has invited us to his house for dinner tomorrow night. I told him that we’d go.’ Kurt by nature was a loner, but did not mind the company of Professor Walsh Miller. They had worked together on many papers over the years, many of which were groundbreaking. ‘How was the meeting?’ Kurt asked in low voice. ‘Interesting,’ she said casually with a shrug of her shoulders. Kurt smiled. Interesting. The one word his mother always said was the most disinteresting of all the words in the English language. His smile changed into a muffled chuckle. He still remembered it as if it was yesterday. ‘Please, Kurt, if you want to get a job, don’t go and say in the interview that the job is interesting. Say something that shows a bit more enthusiasm,’ his mother would often nag at him whenever he was applying for a job, and of course not getting it, because he was deemed as being too academic. Oh, the years of unemployment! The years of abject poverty, when there was no need for it to be so. But those years also gave him his greatest chance for doing his own private research which led him to produce great papers, ultimately opening the way back for him to the academic world where he found his own little niche and felt comfortable in it. At last, his mother drew a sigh of relief. Her son had a job. His mother’s greatest fear was for him to be stuck in poverty for the rest of his life. She had, of course, another great fear and that was for Kurt to remain single. His mother drew another sigh of relief when he finally met Destiny. He was thirty-six and she was twenty-six. ‘Destiny,’ his mother said as soon as she met her, ‘is finally here to fulfil my dream of giving me peace that my son won’t be alone when I am gone.’ There have been only two women in his life and he adored them both, devoted to them both. His mother and his wife – two great women, both of whom two great gifts, who gave him two great gifts. His mother allowed him to pursue his passion into the workings of the universe to discover the unimaginable. And his wife allowed him to experience the birth of the universe by giving him a son. ‘I am so close to solving it,’ Kurt murmured. ‘You are a great mathematician,’ Destiny said lovingly, wrapping an arm around his waist. ‘If anyone can solve it, it is you. After all, it is your own equation.’ ‘I know. I solve one equation only to find another and now I am stuck with this one. It is like a slippery eel. Just as I think I have it, it slips from my hand. But if I solve it, it will change the world … our understanding of the universe. It will give us all the answers that we ever wanted to know. We will be able to learn the big why. Why the universe came into existence? Physicists and mathematicians alike have always accepted that the universe began with a naked singularity as a matter of course and none of us were ever interested in knowing the why, but if I solve this equation, we will know the why…’ ‘And we will be able to see the face of God,’ Destiny whispered in his ear, knowing that Kurt wouldn’t appreciate the remark since he was an atheist. ‘Only metaphorically,’ Kurt said, with a half-smile. ‘Only metaphorically,’ Destiny echoed with a full-smile. ‘Come, let’s go. It’s getting late. I don’t like to drive at night.’ Kurt rose to his feet. He never learnt to drive. In his youth, he never got the chance to drive. He was either too poor to pay for driving lessons or too busy to take driving lessons, and when he met Destiny he saw no reason to learn driving at all. Destiny was the driver. **\*\*\*\*** **K**urt lay in bed beside his wife, but sleep eluded him. In his mind he went over his calculations again and then crossed them all out – they were wrong. His mind drifted to Mendeleev, the famous Russian chemist, who, after working intensely trying to understand the pattern that the chemical elements were following, ended up dreaming about them and came up with the two-dimensional periodic table upon waking. How he wished that he could dream his solution. He was an old man and time was not his biggest fan. His eyelids were getting heavy. He looked at his wife again, sleeping so peacefully next to him. He stifled a sigh only to let it turn into a silent yawn. Tomorrow he will begin a whole new set of calculations to trap his slippery eel. **\*\*\*\*** **T**he mist grew thicker. He had no idea where he was going, but then the light appeared. At first it was a speck of light, the tiniest flicker, which expanded to form itself into a human shape. ‘Kurt,’ the human shape called. ‘Yes,’ Kurt responded and saw that the shape was gliding towards him. He narrowed his eyes incredulously. Something odd was going on. The shape had Destiny’s features during her youth – the way she looked forty years ago when he first met her. ‘What is it that you seek?’ asked Destiny lookalike. ‘I seek the truth,’ Kurt answered, not sure of what he was seeing or with whom he was even conversing. Everything looked so peculiar. Was he dreaming? He must be. But then it didn’t feel like he was dreaming. He felt very much awake. Maybe it was a lucid dream. His reverie got interrupted when Destiny lookalike spoke again. ‘And when you find it, what then?’ ‘Then we will know. We will know why we are here,’ he answered, while glancing around to see where he was. He wasn’t in his home. He was standing in a place that he couldn’t describe. It was foggy and yet it wasn’t. He just couldn’t see anything other than the shape of Destiny lookalike. ‘Why is it so important for you to know this?’ ‘It is important for everyone to know this. From the first moment that man walked on earth he has been searching for this answer. Some gravitated towards religion to find the answer, while others towards philosophy, because science could never answer this question.’ ‘And you think if you solve this equation you will know the answer and set humanity free once and for all?’ ‘I don’t know about setting humanity free, but it will certainly set me free.’ ‘Set you free? How?’ ‘Because I want to know,’ Kurt answered, his eyes flickering about, trying hard to see something, anything that could determine where he was. Destiny lookalike moved her head sideways and looked at him in a way that Kurt thought she was studying him. ‘Who are you?’ Kurt asked, frowning in puzzlement. ‘I am the answer you seek.’ Perplexed, Kurt’s brow furrowed. He was looking for equations, not a Destiny lookalike woman made of light. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said in a tone of utter bewilderment. ‘What is it that you don’t understand?’ she asked, quite composedly. ‘You! This! All of this!’ He waved his hands about. ‘It doesn’t make any sense to me. How could you possibly be my answer? You offer me no geometrical or algebraic solution.’ ‘Are you sure?’ the woman said with a touch of amusement in her voice. Kurt remained silent for a few moments, studying the being and his surroundings. He even made an attempt of injecting some esoteric elements into the whole scene, but nothing worked. This was not the answer he was looking for. ‘I am sure,’ he said finally. ‘Follow your destiny but know that the path will be difficult,’ Destiny lookalike said, as she turned away to disappear in the mist. Kurt tried to follow her through the mist, but found it impossible. The mist was too thick. Then he heard his mother. Suddenly he was sitting in his mother’s kitchen. Clearly, this was a dream, which was most likely brought on by stress over his work, for no other explanation could be attached to it. But damn it, why couldn’t he have a dream similar to the one that Mendeleev had? Surely, dreaming about his calculations would be more productive than visiting the ghost of the past. ‘Kurt, I think you should apply for this job. The pay is very good,’ his mother was saying about a job ad. ‘I’ll apply but I doubt if I’ll get it,’ Kurt responded, while wishing he could get out of this dream, even though he loved seeing his mother again. ‘That’s negative talk.’ She stopped, rubbed her forehead and sighed. ‘For the life of me I can’t understand why it is so hard for someone to give you a job. There is nothing you can’t do. You are brilliant.’ ‘So says my mother.’ She sighed again, but said nothing, and Kurt went to hug her. ‘I can’t rely on anyone giving me a job, no matter what I know. The only person I can rely on is myself. The only thing that will get us out of this poverty is my own work.’ His mother nodded, accepted that that is how life was. They had to do it the hard way. ‘The path has been difficult, but maybe it can be easier now,’ Destiny lookalike said as she appeared again. Once again he was back in the mist. ‘How?’ Kurt asked abruptly. He was beginning to lose his patience with this nonsensical dream and wanted to wake up from it, but didn’t know how. He had no control over it. He was also not quite sure if it was a dream. It certainly didn’t feel like he was dreaming. But if not a dream, then what? For surely it couldn’t be a hallucination. ‘You have done all the hard work and now you must look for it in the right place,’ Destiny lookalike advised. Kurt grimaced. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘In your notes you have all your equations...’ ‘Yes, and they are all wrong,’ Kurt said, feeling frustrated both with the dream and the argument. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Of course I am sure,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘I am going to delete all my previous equations.’ ‘That would be a grave mistake,’ Destiny lookalike warned. Kurt suddenly woke up. So, he was dreaming. It must have been the stress of his work that was responsible for him having such a weird dream. He looked at Destiny and then got up and went to his study. He switched on the light, turned on his tablet computer, and pored over all his equations. They were wrong. He was certain. Then he saw it. The answer was there all along, but for some inexplicable reason he had failed to see it. But how was that possible? ‘You know, darling, you have a habit of sometimes ignoring little things,’ his mother once said to him when he had been slaving over some particular mathematical proof when he found out that he had actually solved it, but didn’t know that he had. **\*\*\*\*** **K**urt’s cellphone vibrated. It was Walsh. In his excitement, Kurt had texted him in the middle of the night that he had the answer. ‘I always knew that you would solve it one day. But when did you do it?’ ‘Oh, about fifteen years ago.’ ‘What?’ ‘Yeah, I can’t explain it. Go figure…’ Walsh laughed. ‘Well, this will surely make your name immortal.’ Fifteen years! For fifteen years the answer has been sitting there somewhere hidden in his equations on his tablet, until he dreamed of Destiny appearing as a creature of light to enlighten him. ‘Good morning, darling,’ Destiny said, as she came to his study. ‘Breakfast is ready—’ ‘I have the answer,’ Kurt said excitedly, with a big grin. Destiny smiled and before his eyes she disappeared to be replaced by pure light. Kurt blinked in disbelief. This couldn’t possibly be a dream. It can’t be. He was wide awake. ‘Are you ready to reveal it to the world,’ the light asked, breaking into his thoughts. I am,’ Kurt said with assurance, though he was anything but assured. He didn’t know what was going on. ‘Do you think that the world is ready to learn of this greatest of discoveries?’ ‘I think so. Yes. Yes. Of course.’ He nodded profusely, despite his confusion at the whole thing. ‘Kurt! Kurt!’ He turned his head around. Someone was calling him, but he couldn’t see anyone. In fact, he couldn’t see anything. All around him nothing existed but light. He was swimming in a sea of pure white light. ‘Kurt! Wake up!’ ‘What? I am not sleep. Who is this? What is the meaning of this?’ He squinted his eyes to see through the thick veil of light. He brought his hands close to his eyes. Nothing! The light was so bright that he couldn’t even see his own hands.


Today I thought about leaving again. I remember the second that thought reentered my mind. This morning I stepped outside to see the sun rise over the earth, like every other day. There was a time when that view took my breath away, but now I applaud the sight with an unenthused sigh. I believe that was the first time I genuinely considered leaving. The novelty of my situation wore off quicker than you’d expect. When I was younger I would dream to be where I am today. If only I’d known how mundane it would be, then perhaps I would have moved to San Francisco or New York. Yeah, if I lived in New York I’d be happy. I could eat pizza all day and get lost in a maze of enchanting architecture. I know it doesn’t do me any good to fantasize about what I could’ve done differently. I can’t change what has already passed. Though I’m sad to say that thinking about a different life is the only way I can get through my reality. There’s something I like to say. When I first arrived here, I’d start every day by saying it, to try and comprehend the amazing truth that became my life. “I live on the f\*cking moon.” I remember still not being able to believe it, I was more than on top of the world, I had my own world. No other person had that. I knew this to be fact, but as days turned to weeks, to months and years, I started to notice a change in my attitude and spirit. My excitement for my little world faded, the so called honeymoon phase had departed and I was left with my new home for what it was. “I live on the f\*cking moon.” What was once a statement of wonder and amazement had become the truth that sucked me out of any pleasant fantasy I dreamt, a shackle that forever defines me. From afar, I’m sure the people of earth look up at the moon, at me and think that it must be like a dream to be where I am. I was a hero, a pioneer. The first to live off world. I can’t go back, for if they saw me return to earth they would be heartbroken. This is everything they had been working for. Those are the things I tell myself to get the thoughts of leaving out of my head. They’ve always worked until now. I’m not sure what’s changed, but what left my mouth next would reassure myself one way or another. “I do not want to live on the f\*cking moon.” When I finally heard myself say those words, the emotion I felt was relief. As if a weight on my back had floated away. I wasn’t happy, and I had finally let myself realize that. I looked to the rocket that took me here years ago, it’s never been more than 100 feet away from me. It always brought me comfort. I knew I could leave whenever I wanted, and that power gave me the will to stay here. But now I’m scared, I’m actually thinking about leaving. If I leave, I can never come back. There’s no assuring that where I’d end up would be any better than here. It’s the safer option the stay, at least for now, I can leave whenever I want. “I’m miserable and I want to leave. I can leave whenever I want. When I leave I can’t come back. I’m miserable and I want to leave. I can leave whenever I want. When I leave I can’t come back.” These thoughts kept me running in circles for over 30 years. I’ve spent my life fighting a war, and I’m the only living thing for thousands of miles. “...No. Not anymore.” I don’t know what had happened, but I was finally done, I was finally ready to take action. No more thinking, it’s time for me to do something for me. With many short hops I was able to get my old self to the rocket. Entering the machine flooded back memories and nostalgia nearly powerful enough to stop myself from bringing power back to the sleeping engines. But it wasn’t enough, I did it. I started the rocket, only to see two words flash on the dashboard. Refuel Required.  *This story was written for a podcast about trying new things.