                                 The Trial of Big Bill Gantz When he looked down from the stage, all Horace saw were the shadowed heads of horses off in a hollow below the roadway, a sunken area given over to sagebrush and weeds. There were no riders to be seen, no movement save for the  fluttering of horse manes as the animals danced a little against one another. But it was a certainty  that there had to be people---several people---nearby even if they had left their animals tied up in the swale.   Because he believed caution trumped valor, Horace cocked both barrels of his twelve gauge and gave his partner Jim driving the team a sideward  glance. "Don't like it none." Jim also had spotted the tethered horses and nodded. "Keep the piece handy." Both men pushed the front flap of their  brimmed hats higher on their foreheads to allow them better vision.  Below them in the creaking stagecoach were four paying passengers whose trunks and cases were secured behind the driver’s bench. And  strapped to the back of the coach was another passenger who paid nothing. He was riding horizontally in a  coffin painted a somber  black, the lid held tight by metal latches. The rough corduroy of the rutted trail meant that the box needed to be  secured by additional rawhide thongs that were tightened through the carrying handles and double-knotted at the back. The road dipped and took a sharp turn to the left. Jim pulled on the reins a bit and the horses responded, slowing to a walk. It was a bad stretch and though neither Horace nor Jim cared to lose momentum,  here  they really had no choice. After a minute at that pace one of the two male passengers rapped on the forward wall of the carriage, then stuck his head out the window below the scrolled  oil paper curtain.  “Why are we slowing?” he asked impatiently.

“No need for alarm,” Horace said as his head swiveling left and right watching the roadside. “We’re due in Virginia City by nightfall,” replied the passenger. “At this rate we’ll be lucky to get there before sunrise.” It was then,  just a bit beyond the bend, that four men stepped out  ahead of the coach, three positioned across the path slightly back of the fourth. Of those three two wore long dusters and held Winchesters crosswise.  The third had  a shaggy bison robe thrown over his shoulders which looked too warm and heavy for the mild day.  Horace and Jim saw that poking out of the robe was the blue steel  nose of a shotgun. The fourth man, who was closest to the stagecoach, possessed a brace of Navy Colt pistols which were still nestled in his waistband,  his hands  placed casually but strategically on the handles. Horace, being a practical man, slowly rotated his own weapon so it now faced generally forward over the team of horses. The three  men straddling  the road looked to be very young. They were clean shaven  and wore Mexican-style sombreros while the fourth man, a generation older, sported a bowler jammed down on his head and had  sharp and pointy features accented by a thin beard and mustache.   He took a hand off one  pistol and held the palm up.

Jim knew  what that meant. He had no choice but to tighten the reins even more and bring the rig to stop. Horace, for his part, kept his shotgun  at an angle where it could be brought to bear instantly against the man with the bowler. No words were necessary to let the fellow  know that if folks were going to die this day he would  be the first to go.  As if reading this thought  Bowler said: “We mean you no harm,” “Then why you stopping us?” Horace asked. “You got something I want.” “Not carrying no gold or silver or cash,” said Jim. “Just passengers.” “Not what I’m after,” said Bowler, and the three young men in back of him looked at each other and nodded in agreement. “You’re gonna scare ‘em” said Jim.

“If everyone cooperates, they’ll be just fine.“ To show he meant what he said, Bowler took both hands off of his pistols and let them drop to his sides.  In back of him, relieved, the other three  shifted their weapons so the guns no longer threatened. Horace kept his shotgun cocked but also moved it sideways. “How many passengers you carrying?” Bowler asked. “Four, all bound for Virginia City,” Jim said. “They’ll do.” Then in a commanding but polite voice he said: “You people inside, please step down. “ The carriage door opened slowly and the four occupants exited, two men dressed in fashionable eastern-style gray tweeds, an older woman half covered by a shawl who needed assistance getting out and  leaned heavily on her cane by the rear wheel ,and a younger woman in a crimson crushed velvet dress whose lovely  face and  green eyes were shaded by a parasol  held at an angle against the sun.  The two male passengers looked at each other and started to raise their hands. “Put ‘em down,” Bowler said. “We aren’t no desperados.” The men  did as they were bid. “You four are gonna be the jury,” Bowler went on. You will judge the innocence or guilt of the accused.”  Jim and Horace sitting atop the coach looked at each other. “’’Scuse me,” Horace said after a long pause, “exactly who is the accused here?”

Bowler motioned with his head and the  men behind him approached the stagecoach, sliding  around to the rear of the vehicle. “He’s back there,” Bowler said. “Nobody back there but a dead man in a coffin,” said Horace. “And that man, sir, is the accused.” It took  a few moments for the three  to untie the straps that bound the coffin to the stagecoach and lay it on the ground. Bowler watched  and with  irritation said, “The defendant got no reason to be tried on his back. Set him up.” The trio dutifully  lifted the coffin so  it was braced against the back of the coach, not quite fully upright, but close enough. “Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if you’ll step around here.”  Bowler motioned to a spot a few feet from  the coffin and the four passengers shuffled uneasily  forward and took the place indicated. “You boys up top, you’ll be part of it too. So listen close to the evidence because you’re gonna defend a man guilty of cold blooded murder.” Bowler  went to the coffin and opened the latches, each one snapping like a gunshot as they came undone. Then he threw back the lid which brought a gasp from the women and something like surprised  grunts from the male passengers. Atop the stage both Horace and Jim swiveled around and noted the shock on all four faces though from where they sat they couldn’t  see the coffin itself or its contents.

“Now I will present my case,” Bowler said, “as the accused is present and upright.” “Mister, he’s dead and gone,” Horace said. “That don’t matter none,” Bowler replied. “He’s gonna stand trial regardless.” Jim spat a load of tobacco juice into the dust. “How we supposed to defend a dead man?” ”You’ll do the best you can.” “I don’t even know him,”Jim protested.  “And I ain’t no lawyer.” This didn’t faze Bowler. “Don’t need to be. You’ll hear what I have to say and then you can make a defense.”  Bowler hooked his thumbs through his vest and cleared his throat: “I had four young nephews,” he began, nodding at the trio behind him. “Now I got three. The defendant, Big Bill Gantz, killed the youngest for sport. Young Thomas didn’t stand a chance, hell, he wasn’t even armed. But Gantz here, a known coward and bully, a violent type,  terrorized a lot of folks in Sacramento. When the cousins rode into town from the ranch to resupply and have a little fun he spotted them and decided he’d have some fun of his own. It was bad luck that  Thomas headed into the American River Saloon alone since his cousins was busy at the suttler’s store.  When Thomas sidled up to the bar and ordered a beer Gantz spotted him as an easy mark, walked up behind and put a shoulder into him.” Bowler turned and spoke directly to the corpse. “Now Thomas was a nice boy and offered an apology though he surely didn’t need to. But you, Mr. Gantz, called him a fuzz-faced sonofabitch and shoved him.” “I object,” Horace said from above. “You’re telling it like you was a witness which I take it you were not.”  Bowler nodded. “See? You’re talking like a lawyer already…Nope, I wasn’t there. But there was a dozen others in the saloon who saw what happened. So that makes it a fact that’s gotta be put on the record.” Bowler turned to the jury of four. “ Thomas, being a good boy, let it go and picked up his beer mug to take a swig. That’s when Gantz stepped back, pulled out his pistol and shot him dead. Claimed young Thomas was intending to hit him in the head with the glass. Then Gantz turned and strolled straight out of the American River Saloon just like nothing at all had happened.” Bowler swiveled back to  the corpse as he said this and poked it in the chest which caused the  young woman  to drop  her parasol and  sway, her eyes rolling slowly upward. She would have collapsed had not the men on either side  taken her by the elbows and steadied her while one of the cousins kindly picked up the parasol and held it over her head until she had recovered. “No reason to get physical with the dead,” Horace scolded Bowler. “I object to your actions.” “Well then come down here and protect your client.” At that, Jim and Horace stepped down from the coach and stood on either side of the coffin and from this new vantage point Horace was able to give the dead man the once over. He was indeed big, over six feet, with a large belly and large hands crossed over his belt. He had a receding hair line and mutton-chop sideburns that sagged unevenly on either side of his ash-colored face. His eyes, while  closed by the undertaker, still  seemed  slatted almost like he was pretending to be dead but keeping watch on the proceedings. “This is just disgraceful,” said the old woman leaning on her cane with both hands. “Sacrilege.” “No ma’m,” Bowler corrected her. “Justice.” “Now hold on,” said Jim. “ He shoots a man in cold blood and walks out of the saloon? Just like that?“ They got law men in Sacramento who walk those streets and would’ve arrested him on the spot.” “Never got the chance,” said Bowler. “So who shot him?” asked Horace. “Wasn’t shot. He walked out of the saloon, took four strides and dropped dead in the avenue. A life of drinking and gambling and fighting finally caught up with him. And probably more than one murder. The good Lord got him.” “Well then why not let the actions of the Lord be the final judgement on the man?” Said Horace. “Hell, dead is dead and he’s deader than a door nail.” “Got to bring it to a final close for his cousins,” Bowler answered turning to the three who nodded in silent agreement. “So now for the defense. Boys, your turn.” Horace collected his thoughts for a moment. “Ladies and gents of the jury. We have here a dead man accused of a terrible crime. But all I hear is a lot of second hand reports regarding what he did. What I do know for a fact is that the recently departed has relations in Virginia City who are waiting for the body so they can give him a decent Christian burial.” Horace pointed at Gantz’s remains. “And I’ll tell you something else. This  here is really a case of what I believe lawyers call double jeopardy. Man dies of natural causes. Now some  want to kill him again. And that just ain’t right.” He glanced at Jim. I rest my case.” “I’m  resting  too,” chimed Jim who spat another load of tobacco juice into the ground. “Well then, it’s time to let the jury decide the fate of Big Bill Gantz,” Bowler said. “Members of the jury, step down the road a piece and talk it over. Then come back and let us know your decision.” The four passengers shuffled  away, too far for the discussion to be over heard by the others, but close enough so that their excited murmurs  and the physical gesturing of the four was clear to those waiting by the stagecoach. When they came back the makeshift jury stood grouped together, looking uneasily at each other until the old lady poked one of the men with her cane. “You speak for us,” she said. The passenger/jury foreman brushed a little dust from his coat and cleared his throat. “ We believe that had Mr. Gantz been alive we couldn’t convict him on the evidence as presented.” He held up a finger.   “But seeing as he’s already dead, we’re inclined to give these gents the benefit of the doubt and say he ought to suffer  an appropriate punishment.” “And what does the jury recommend?” Asked Bowler. “Uh, not hanging,” the foreman said, and with that picture planted in her head,   the legs of the beautiful  young woman started to buckle beneath her dress a second time so that the others had to step in again to steady her. “We think it would be proper if someone would, well, shoot him… But just once.” Bowler bit on his lower lip and  considered the idea.   “Just once? Young Thomas has three cousins here, all of them aggrieved by what Bill Gantz did. Why shouldn’t each of them be entitled to plug him?” The other male passenger spoke up: “We’re’ thinking of the innocent parties involved.  His relations.   All those bullet holes in the body of their kin. Not what we’d like to see if it were a member of our own families we were planning to bury. And if it ever gets out that he died of natural causes, the more bullet holes, the more  questions people might start asking.”  “I guess that makes some sense,” Bowler allowed.   He  turned to the three cousins. “You boys want to draw straws?”

The three looked at each other with wide eyes and slack jaws. “Well, speak up,” Bowler said. We haven’t got all day.” “You do it, uncle,” said one. “We’re good with that.” Bowler nodded solemnly.  Then he  drew one of the Navy Colts from his waist band, pulled back the hammer, walked up to the coffin and fired.                                                                       … The stage pulled into the company yard in Virginia City almost on time. To the west, there was still a little light showing over the backs of the mountains  hunched in silhouette above the valley floor. The station agent, a trim and nervous little man, helped Horace and Jim unload the luggage from the roof, then tipped his hat at each of the passengers as they collected their belongings in collaborative  silence and walked swiftly away. “Real pretty up there in the hills,” said the agent. “Nice country. A good trip?” “Not really,” said Horace.

The three men turned  as  a flatbed wagon pulled by a single horse drove into the yard and eased toward the back of the stagecoach. A big man stepped down, a man Horace found strikingly  familiar. And then it hit him: He was looking at the spitting image of the deceased. This man, however, wore a clerical collar with his dark suit and offered a pained smile as he approached. He held out his hand and shook with all of them. “ Simon Gantz,” he said. “I’ve come to claim my brother’s remains.” In a few moments  the coffin was free of the straps and slid  into the open back of the wagon. The clergyman didn’t hurry away but stood looking at the box. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see him now. For the last time.” Jim stepped forward, unsnapped the latches and opened the lid. Then he and Horace removed their hats and lowered their heads. Simon Gantz stared sadly at his brother. “Born twins, but we took different paths. I found God early and made Him my life. Bill started wild and ended wild. I’ve got no idea why.” The clergyman peered closely into the coffin. “I have little doubt he started it.  And it seems one bullet finished it. All the telegram said was that he’d died, not how.” He shook his head.  “I guess they just put him back in the clothes he was killed in. Funny, no sign of blood.” Horace and Jim exchanged glances. “ I reckon it goes that way sometimes,” Jim murmured. “Our sister is here. So is my nephew.  They took the train all the way from St. Louis. We’re a close family, gentlemen.  Rough and disagreeable  a man as my brother was, it still won’t be easy for any of us.” The clergyman gave a deep sigh and then added: “We all have our trials.” 2,905 words.


I yawn.

Somewhere between the boisterous music and the haze in my brain, I realize we’ve been here way too late. How did that happen?

Eh.

It’s fine. It can’t be that late really, can it?

I’ve been waiting a long time to get one more song in on karaoke before we head home for the night.

But the outdoor patio of the bar has become super crowded with people.

Some are so inebriated they can’t walk out on their own. I had hoped to hear that young lady sing again, too.

She’s a pretty girl with a pretty voice, but no self confidence.

She’s overweight.

Poor thing probably has all the mental health issues that go along with that.

I’m not going to get another song in any way.

And, I doubt she will either.

What was her name?

Oh, heck if I know.

She only sang once.

That’s all I’ve gotten to sing, too, come to think of it.

Saturday karaoke is for the wild drunken fools. Where’s Bob now?

Oh, right.

He went to shoot a game of pool. I weed my way through the crowd to the other side of the bar, ignoring the drunken leers.

Little black dress.

Sorry, not sorry, penises.

Not here for that.

Plus, out of here.

Bob stands at the opposite end of the pool table from me, so he sees me walk up and smiles.

My heart warms.

He’s examining the balls on the table when I reach him.

He stops as I wrap my arms around his waste from behind. “I’m ready to go,”

I exclaim toward his ear, hoping he can hear me.

“I’ll be out in the car.” “Okay babe,” he shouts, and kisses me. Out in the car, I crawl into the backseat.

Shoving everything off the seat, I’m wishing I had a pillow.

I spy my

fuzzy pink hoodie with the ears. Wadding it up for a pillow, I curl up on the seat.

As an afterthought, I tug my skirt down in case someone strolls by the car.

They aren’t going to like getting flashed with my granny underwear.

Lying there in a drunken stupor, I sorta grasp that I shouldn’t have had that last whiskey.

Ginger whiskey.

Who invented that?

It goes down too easily, kind of like that vanilla one.

That goes down way too quick, too.

I can’t drink it because I end up sick to my stomach and having a sugar headache before I even lay down to sleep.

I already have a sugar headache from the three I had tonight. Four? My mind’s wandering over the day’s events, and the evening they’ve had out, and what they're going to do tomorrow.

 I hear yelling.

It sifts through the fog in my brain, slowly.

People are making some much of a raucous, and the music is concert level loud.

Not concert level good at the moment

“What’d ya do with our s***?!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Thud, grunt. “Don’t get mouthy, s*** head.” I peek my head over the door and gazes groggily out of the car window

A young kid, must be about twenty-five because he looks no older than Jeff, is backed against the patio fence.

He’s very confused and dazed. Drunk, I’m sure.

He has the appearance of a college boy headed for a career in an office somewhere. Probably, his family has a cottage on the lake and he's there for the summer.

The crew of three older hoodlums have him pinned.

They’re screaming at him, but I can’t understand what they’re saying.

And not because I’m drunk.

They’re just screaming nonsense with profanity thrown in.

The one older man has his shirt front gripped in his fist and keeps slamming him against the fence.

I’m surprised nobody’s reacting inside the fence, but the music is blaring.

Somebody's screech karaoking.

Too bad one of those young lady’s aren’t up singing.

They actually can sing. “I

don't know what you're talkin about,” the kid is saying.

“Don't play dumb with us.

We know you have it. Julio done told us he gave it to you.” Julio?

I feel sorry for anybody named Julio that’s gotten himself tangled up with this riff raff.

Dumb, cumbersome white guys who think they’re bad ass and always trying to prove it.

They probably don’t even know a Julio.

They’re just using a Mexican name to sound tough.

The kid notices me and makes eye contact.

The goons turn around to see who he's looking at.

I drop down below the window, quick.

That’s the last thing we need, is to get involved in an altercation. “Hey, hey, hey,” the kid stutters, panic creeping into his voice. “You don't have to do that.

you got the wrong guy!” “We ain’t got the wrong guy!”

I peep over the door again.

The ring leader has a knife to the kid’s throat.

The young man is pleading with his eyes, begging me to help him.

This time the punk turns his head quick. I’m too slow and he spots me.

Damn!

Are the doors locked?

No.

Why didn’t I lock the damn doors sleeping in a car outside a damn bar. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I gotta lock the doors.

I can’t even figure out how to do that.

No more ginger whiskey.

I’m done with that poison.

I can’t lock the doors from the back seat. I scramble up to through the front bucket seats, thumping and bumping like a pinball. When I keep flopping into everything, I grab a hold of the steering wheel to pull myself toward the door handle.

The back door squeaks open. I can hear the other two guys shouting in the distance, feet hitting stones, and a car door slam.

The kid broke free and ran to his car.

Good.

Maybe he made it. I slam my hand on the lock repeatedly, but it's too late. He yanks me by my feet.

The fingers of my right hand nearly pull loose.

The left hand fingers scrape free of the wheel, scratching grime and gripping at air.

That hand automatically clamps back onto the wheel.

I didn’t tell it to.

I almost stop to contemplate that, but he’s yanking again.

I grab on and pull.

So does he.

My back cracks multiple places down my spine. Ahhh… Focus! A car squeals it's tires, kicking up dirt.

Some of the stones patter on Bob’s car.

The other two, frustrated at losing their prey, crunch through gravel heading my way.

Now I’ve got all three of them on me.

I’m dead.

I’ll never survive this.

At least the kid lived.

He’s got his whole life ahead of him.

I’ve had a tumultuous, but full one.

So far.

My heart hurts at not ever seeing the boys again.

At them having to lose me. The door to the bar opens.

“Someone’s coming, Frank.

We gotta get!” Frank growls. And swears.

At least he’s got the language of profanity right, even if he can’t speak human.

He drops my feet, and I plop awkwardly in the gap.

I don’t fit in the gap and am instantly wedged.

I can hear them running down the road.

My heart is thumping, hard.

“Baby! What ya doing?” I hear Bob exclaim, jovially.

I gag.

A bit of that ginger whiskey comes back up into my throat, and I force it back down.

After all this, I’m gonna worry about not puking on his seat? He's trying to open the door, but it’s locked.

He reaches for his keys on his pants, but I fumble with the button first.

“What's going on?

What was the noise out here about?” He stares at me, strewn between the front and back seat. I’m fighting down the whiskey and the chicken strips. “Get me out!!” I manage. I don’t think I can hold the contents in my stomach much longer.

Bob clutches my arm.

We both pull.

It hurts as he pulls me loose and out of the car.

I scramble to the bushes by the building.

And vomit.

He rubs my back.

I keep vomiting.

I cry.

Ugly tears.

Hyperventalating. “It’s okay, relax, you're okay.

What happened?”

A group of drunk people come out, moving to another car and cavorting. “Bob!

They were going to kill him and he was just a kid.

They were going to kill him.

He looked like Jeff.

Baby, he was just a kid!” “What are you talkin’ about?

You drank too much.” For the first time in twenty years of being together, I slap him.

Hard across the face.

Shock registers in his eyes, and my hands shoot to cover my mouth. As calmly and as sternly as I can I say, “I am not being a hysterical female, Bob.

These guys, they had a kid out here and they were going to kill him.

And they’re getting away.

They left on foot, they can’t have gone far!” “Okay, okay.

Do you want me to go after them?” “No!!

They had a knife.

They were trying to pull me out of the car.” His face takes on a whole different expression and he pulls out his cell.

“I’m calling the cops.

Which way did they go?”


Warning - If you accept your invitation to this tea party, there will be mentions of poison and murder. It starts at 3.30pm GMT. Don’t be late. Why had Hazel invited the taxman to tea? Was he the next to suffer, like they had? Last month she’d asked the planning officer who’d refused to let her build a conservatory, the month before that, it had been the headmistress who’d given Billy a detention. There was a pattern, but only Jude could see it. The other friends (or were they victims?) thought Hazel was a darling to invite such a range of people. “So sweet,” they said. “So generous,” they said. “So suspicious,” Jude murmured. The thing was - someone was always ill after tea. Amber had had palpitations after eating a caraway bun, even though it was so small. Jude had listened to her repeating that she was tired and hungry, and her heart was racing. Surely those were symptoms of an insulin overdose? But Amber was always tired and hungry, or so she said, and the only difference was the speed of her heart. Jude, still by Amber’s side, had thought how much of an improvement it might be to Amber’s life if her heart did beat a little faster. She might be better at tennis for a start, and she’d be able to beat Hazel. Then Mary had been sick after her yellow French Fancy. Jude had helped her to clean the driftwood-white laminate flooring in the bathroom. Mary had been sobbing, mortified that the floor had been stained a luminous yellow. Jude hadn’t the heart to tell Mary that her new white fillings were now the same shade as the floor. Jude had to admit, Mary’s bright smile had been annoying, but now, it would make Jude smile too. They were right, smiling was contagious. Right there, on the bathroom floor, Jude had known that Hazel was up to something; she’d watched enough forensic dramas to know that rat poison could make your vomit bright yellow. But why would Hazel do this? What was she trying to gain? Was she practising, trying to get the doses right? Would there be a more dramatic event soon, an imminent death perhaps? Would Jude have the chance to save a life at last? She’d love to do that; she’d be a hero and people would want to talk to her all the time. Jude had started training as a paramedic once, before her mother’s accident. She’d learnt for real after that, she’d watched medical videos, read medical blogs, and loved her mother until she was gone. Without her, Jude missed the contact with the health service. She needed people to know that she cared, and that she was there for people – if only they reached out to her. When Hazel first invited Jude to tea, they were in the pharmacy in Fordingbridge. They’d started chatting beside the paracetamol – well, Hazel had chatted, Jude just listened and encouraged her. Then Hazel invited her to tea – just like that, and Jude managed to be there, despite her tonsillitis. That was last year, before people were getting ill. Now, Jude was considering refusing to go, but she visualised the empty teatimes in her flat, along with the empty lunchtimes and evenings. She couldn’t bear it; it was better to go than to be alone. Jude liked to be invited to things, that was the truth of it. She wanted to be included and that was important to her. Jude had been lucky so far, anyway; she hadn’t been ill. She’d watch Hazel carefully, she had a duty to keep herself well, since she would be needed to look after the others when the time came. Besides, Jude realised, she was fascinated. What condition did Hazel suffer from that made her do this? Perhaps it was Hazel that needed her help, not the others. It was 3.14pm. Jude decided to walk to the tea party since there was plenty of time. The house wasn’t far, and it would give her a chance to wear the kitten heels she’d bought last year and never worn. Picking up her handbag and her flowery biscuit tin, she left the flat. Outside, she turned to go up Romsey Street because she liked the bustle of it; the houses were built for families and overseas students. Jude waved at a group of women and prams, and at a window cleaner whose ladder wobbled as she brushed past. She didn’t know them of course, but if she waved, her dress floated around, and she’d be looking flushed and happy when she knocked on Hazel’s door. She’d have to hope the dread that she was feeling didn’t creep into her eyes and give her away. Hazel’s house was pretty. There were fluffy net curtains at the windows and Hazel in her effervescent tea-dress at the door. What would the taxman think? Was the poor man there already? Jude took a deep breath and crossed the road. “Hazel!” said Jude, handing her the tin of homemade shortbread, using it like a shield so that she wouldn’t be hugged, or air kissed. “Come in, Jude. Roxy and Tomas are here already. Everyone’s a little early, ” said Hazel, wiping her hands on her pinny. Tomas? Was that the taxman? She’d pronounced it Toe-maz, as if she knew him well. Was there a way you could pronounce her own name to show she was known well too? Ju-ood or Jood? No, probably not - she was just Jude. That’s what they’d called her at school. Just Jude. “Oh,” they’d say in disappointment, “It’s Just Jude.” At least Hazel hadn’t done that, and Jude smiled slightly as they walked down the narrow hall into the bright kitchen. The retro-styled units and red gingham curtains seemed to make everyone happy. Hazel mixed retro eras with distressed kitsch, with factory shop bargains, and Jude wondered how anything ever looked good. But it did, somehow, and the kitchen was welcoming, like a little pat on the head from your uncle. Jude saw Roxy standing by the window, looking into the garden. She’d be imagining a fishpond, more than likely. Roxy worked for a fish charity in Africa and could answer any trivia question about fish in the Zambezi. But she didn’t have her own fish, not even a goldfish. Jude had bought her a Nemo bath toy last Christmas and she hoped that was helping. It was 3.30pm. Hazel appeared to be incredibly pleased with her guests. Well, not Jude, Roxy or Tomas to be fair, but the others. They were on time. They’d made Hazel’s day by ringing the doorbell at exactly the right moment. And now she was able to reveal her new three-tiered cake stand, stuffed with potentially hazardous teatime treats. “Beautiful!” said Amber, looking for caraway buns. “Um,” said the taxman because he needed to join in. “Just like Claridge’s!” said Hazel, twirling the stand around so that her guests could see the full wonder of her baking skills. Jude looked on in horror. She didn’t know how she was going to protect everyone this time. There were so many choices, even little sandwiches, she noticed - it was usually just cakes - and savoury things added to the problem. Jude’s responsibility was huge, Hazel might have used fish paste and that was great for disguising poison. In fact, Jude could smell the sardine and tomato paste from here. She held on to a chair for support. There were goat’s cheese and rocket sandwiches on brown bread – Hazel was even telling them brown bread was better for their health – but the salad leaves weren’t rocket at all. Jude stared. Was that - hemlock ? “We’ll go in the garden,” called Hazel from the back door and they all followed each other into the sun. Hazel took the teapot; Roxy carried the cups and saucers and Jude lost out to Tomas in the rush to carry the resplendent cake stand. He brushed her away, as if she were incapable. Jude nearly swore at him - her frustration had escalated - he’d ruined her plan of dropping the thing on the way out. It was 3.53pm. Jude grabbed a goat’s cheese sandwich and took it behind a large hydrangea bush. She pulled the bread apart and examined the contents. Her hands were so sweaty, they were beginning to melt the cheese. She couldn’t be sure about the leaves, but they weren’t rocket, she knew that. Should she try a bit? Take the risk for her tea-friends. Was it worth it? As Jude crept back to the patio, trying not to gag, Hazel bent forward to Mary, offering her a sandwich from the stand. Mary, thankfully, chose a macaroon and Hazel turned to Jude. “Did you see my husband?” she asked. “Pardon?” Jude was taken aback, there hadn’t been anyone behind the bush with her. Besides, she’d never met Hazel’s husband, she hadn’t even been aware that Hazel was married. “Hazel – “warned Tomas, while Mary sniggered. They were looking at Jude, every one of them. She had a feeling they knew what she’d been doing, but she’d been so diplomatic, how could they? But Hazel’s husband - what had he got to do with it? Jude was getting flustered. She didn’t understand. She looked at them again. Tomas’ hand rested lightly on Hazel’s arm, an informal gesture that you did when you knew someone well. Amber was grinning widely, she knew what this was about, that much was obvious. They all did, Jude sensed from looking around. Embarrassed, she flushed. She’d never understood jokes, they made her feel uncomfortable, like she wasn’t clever enough, like she wasn’t allowed to understand, excluded from the laughing. Jude remembered how it had felt, all those times in the past, when she wasn’t welcome, not invited into the laughing circle. The memories stabbed her, as if they were serrated knives. It was 4.09pm. And then Hazel giggled. “Jude, I forget that you don’t really know any of us! I’m sorry – Jerry’s buried there – well, his ashes anyway.” She laughed, high, like a piccolo. Not a tra-la-la piccolo, but a pointy, pokey, nasty piccolo, like a seagull’s beak. “Hazel, you’re cruel,” said Amber, trying to make things less awkward for Jude. Amber glanced at her, but Jude looked away. She hated them for knowing each other for so long. And to think, she’d been willing to risk her life to protect them. She sat on the edge of the walled flowerbed. She couldn’t join them anymore; she was still the new girl, always the new girl. But she did have a job to do. Real heroes didn’t help people just so that they could have tea, they helped because it was the right thing to do. And what about the martyrs? No one included them, did they? Joan of Arc hadn’t been on anyone’s guest list, Jude was sure. She straightened her shoulders and monitored the situation. It was 4.24pm. All was well. At 4.39pm, the lower two tiers of the cake stand were empty, and still no one had been taken ill. Maybe Jude had been wrong all along. She’d spitefully let them eat the goat’s cheese sandwiches, without warning them, and then remorse had begun to bite at her. What if one of them had been ill? Would that have been her fault, when she’d known, when she’d kept quiet, deliberately? Did that make her an accomplice? Roxy and Mary were at the top of the garden now, in the shade. They were chatting about charity work no doubt. Jude had moved to the fold-up chair, which had the only mismatched cushion, and was listening to Hazel explain the art of violin playing to Tomas and the others. She wondered if anyone’s tax was going to be paid this quarter, Tomas had that goofy expression of the easy-to-bribe, and she could just see him turning a blind eye. “Does anyone mind if I have the Cherry Bakewell?” he asked, reaching towards the top tier of the stand. “NO!” shouted Jude, her overly loud voice springing out of her. She’d scared them, she could tell. She’d scared herself; she was shaky and jumpy, and her heart was flapping like an old kite stuck in a tree. Jude made a huge effort to recover herself. “No,” she said again, more calmly, “go ahead, I’m full.” But Jude stayed alert. At 4.55pm, everyone had survived. The conversation began to slow down. Amber was the first to leave, followed by Mary, whose children had just come home from school. Jude began to feel her responsibilities lifting, and she needed the walk home to clear her head. When she saw Hazel and Tomas having a furtive kiss, she knew it was time to go. She felt deflated. The taxman hadn’t needed rescuing after all, nor had anyone, come to that. She let herself quietly out of the front door. She was so wrong, and so stupid; nobody had needed her, there hadn’t been any danger or mystery, just – what? Just - nothing. Just - Jude. She stomped home in her ridiculous kitten heels and threw herself on her sofa, turning on the TV. It was her favourite, but she couldn’t watch, not today. Celebrity Cakes would have to wait, just like her. Waiting, for ages, just to hear when the next tea party was. And who Hazel had invited. Someone must need Jude’s help next time, and then they’d find out what a good friend she could be. Three weeks after the tea party, when Jude had fully recovered from the gastroenteritis that had laid her low for so long, she received the invitation. It came through the post this time; thick and formal, in an envelope. She saw the black edge of the card as she put her finger in the flap and pulled up. Jude continued, trying to keep her breathing slow. Her brain was skipping ahead of her fingers, trying to tangle them up. What was this? The invitation was in her hands. Her eyes had read it, but her brain couldn’t make sense of it. It was to a memorial service, not a tea party. Jude read the words aloud in the hope that she would understand. “We wanted to let you know the sad news that Tomas McBride died unexpectedly at home on Saturday 25 th May 2019 and his memorial service will be held at …” Jude read it aloud again. The taxman? Her respiratory rate doubled. Toe-maz? It couldn’t be. Jude reached for her mobile, stubbing her fingers on the screen. “Hazel?” she said when the phone was answered. “What happened?” “He died, Jude. Poor Tomas,” Jude heard some sniffling. “How?” Jude was beginning to feel faint. She sat on the floor, putting her head between her knees. “It was quick, he went into shock,” Hazel whimpered impressively. “Why?” There was silence. Then a whisper. “I didn’t know , Jude, I didn’t know… ” Hazel sounded as though she was being strangled, “I gave him the shortbread to take home, and he was allergic.” Jude let her mobile slip from her hand. She poked the red phone icon and shut Hazel up. Jude raised her eyes and stared at the wall, waiting for something to happen to her. Fire bolts from hell? Blue flashing lights? A knock at the door? But there was nothing, nothing at all. That was the shortbread that she'd made. She’d left it with Hazel, to teach her a lesson, just a little lesson, to protect the others, to stop Hazel making people ill. Jude had been protecting everyone, she was doing her job - like she’d trained herself to do. She did what others needed her to do because, unlike her, they couldn’t take the risk. She’d been helping Hazel, getting her to see that what she was doing was wrong. But Hazel had given away Jude’s gift, the one she’d been so careful with. And now the taxman was dead. And Hazel shouldn’t have killed him.


“I don’t know yet, Dad. Do I have to decide right now?” “Well gee son, I don’t know. Do you want to get into a good, Christian college?” “Dad, --” “St. Paul University is hard to get into, they have a long wait list—" “Dad, --” “Our Lady of Love Bible college is having a student tour next weekend—” “Dad, --” “Junior year is when you should start taking this seriously, son, I mean this is your future after all—” “DAD! I don’t even know if I want to go to a Christian college.” “What? Of course you do, you’ve wanted to ever since you were 10, remember?!.” “No, YOU want that. YOU’RE the one who always talks about it. I don’t know what I want to do yet. And yeah, junior year is for figuring that stuff out, so let ME figure it out.” “Well hold on now, where is all of this coming from?” “I’ve always felt this way. You just never bothered to ask.” Dan couldn’t believe his ears. Since when does Jacob not want to go to a nice, clean, Christian college? Jacob has been going to church with his family ever since he was still in the womb! He’s attended Sunday School and Bible Study every Sunday, Vacation Bible School and Camp Jesuit every summer. He’s participated in the Christmas play ever since he was an infant (he got to play Baby Jesus for his first performance). The plan was always for him to go to a Christian college and become a Youth Leader for the church. It’s been Jacobs’ dream job practically forever, or so Dan thought. “I think maybe you’re having some funny thoughts about this. I know you’re young and sometimes when you’re young you think you want one thing when you really want--" “Dad, please don’t stand here and lecture me on what I want. Just…leave me alone.” “Alright, well…I’m uh, I’m gonna go on my jog, so if your mother asks where I’m at—” “I know, I’ll tell her.” “Alright, well…cool.” Dan leaves his sons room feeling conflicted. How is he supposed to talk to his son about his future when his son is being so unreasonable? This was always, ALWAYS the plan. Dan laces up his running shoes and leaves the house. He needs to get away. A good jog is medicine for the soul. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. The breeze brushes through Dan’s hair. The wind tickles the little hairs on his arms and legs. Calves burning. Sweat racing down his face. Styx playing in his earbuds. Water bottle strapped to his fanny pack. “Please Jesus, tell me what to do,” he whispers under his breath. He silently prays for guidance. Suddenly, he feels a finger tap him on the shoulder. Surprised, he jumps and yanks out his earbuds. “Hey man, mind if I run with you?” “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!” “Ah, I see you’re familiar with my work.” “Huh?” “Jesus. You know, my dad’s the ‘big man upstairs’. We’re kind of a big deal. Bigger than ‘The Kardashians’, some might say. There’s a bestselling book about us. It’s called The Bib--” Dan stops in his tracks and faces the man who nearly made him wet his jogging shorts .2 seconds ago. “I know what a damn Bible is! This isn’t funny. I am a devout Christian and I do not find that ‘joke’ funny young man.” “What joke?” “Seriously?” Dan shakes his head in disapproval, puts his earbuds back in, and start moving again. “Not what you expected, is it?” Once again, Dan stops, takes out his earbuds, and faces the man, this time very obviously annoyed. “Alright man, what do you want? Money? I’m not letting you perform any weird sex stuff on me, if that’s what you’re thinking.” “What? No, I’m just here to talk.” “I don’t wanna talk to some creep who walks around claiming he’s Jesus and harassing strangers’ on the sidewalk. You’re not Jesus bud-“ “Because I’m brown?” Dan was stunned. The balls on this guy. “I get that a lot for some reason. I’m Middle Eastern, what’d you expect? You think they had sunscreen back in the A.D.?” “I—” “Here let me prove it to you.” The man snatches the water bottle from Dans’ fanny pack. “Hey man, what are you—” The man gently shakes the water bottle. “Uhh, bibbidi-bobbidi Jesus magic! Here.” The man hands the water bottle back to Dan. Dan takes a drink. He scrunches his nose at the sharp taste. “That’s wine!” “Still my best party trick. Now do ya believe me?” Dan is unable to speak. He opens his mouth and tries to utter words, but nothing comes out. “So anyways, you rang?” “This can’t be real.” “I thought you said you were a devout Christian, so clearly you believe in me; you know I’m real. Well, here I am, in the flesh! Son of God, at your service!” “You’re…Jesus?! I’m sorry, I gotta—” Perplexed on how to feel, Dan starts jogging again. Jesus tags along. “So what you want to talk to me about?” “What?” “I overheard you telling me to tell you what to do, and I happened to be in the neighborhood, so, lay it on me!” “Well, uh, ummmm. Jesus, this is so weird—” “I hope you’re not using my name in vain now.” “What are you even doing here?” “My dad is…I just needed to get some fresh air. Nothing quite like Earth air.” “This day just keeps getting weirder. First I find out that Jacob is a God-hating atheist who doesn’t want an education or a future or anything and now you’re here and I—” “Woah woah, slow down, who’s Jacob?” “Shouldn’t you know who he is? You’re Jesus after all.” “People think I have more power than I do. I’m actually more of a middleman. The archangels are the ones who keep records of everyone, I just get the coffee. So, Jacob? Who is this mystery man?” “Try angsty teen who doesn’t care about or appreciate—” “Slow down, is Jacob your son?” “Yes, and he—” “Hey man, go easy on him. Whatever is going on between you two, it’s not worth souring your relationship with your kid over. Trust me.” “Didn’t you just hear me? He’s a God-hating— “Atheist who doesn’t want an education or a future, I got that. To be honest, I can’t blame him, sometimes I hate God too.” Dan abruptly stops in his tracks. “What?!?!? But you’re Jesus. Your dad is…I mean he’s our ruler! The King of Kings, Yahweh, our HEAVENLY father--” “Yes, and he’s also a hard ass who makes decisions for me. I’m 2000-something years old! I stopped counting after like, 408, too many candles to blow out. Anyways, I should be making my own decisions, but my dad is too stubborn! Maybe Jacob should be making his own decisions.” “Jesus just cussed. I’m sorry, am I dreaming right now?” “I don’t think so, but I can slap you across the face if you’d like.” Dan is completely flabbergasted, his brain frying like an egg. He doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t. He isn’t sure how he should deal with whatever the hell it is that he’s dealing with. Dan feels like Earth is flipping upside down. What’s left is right, what’s blue is orange, and what’s a white, conservative, almighty Jesus is actually a pretty chill, Middle Eastern guy who’s easy to talk to. Nothing makes sense anymore. Dan starts running slower, like a man in an indie film who doesn’t know his own name or have any memories. Jesus continues to run beside him. “Hey man, that was a joke, I was—” “I don’t joke!” “Oh come on, who doesn’t joke?” “Me! I don’t! I go to work and I go to church and I’ve been paying my dues my whole damn life to get into Heaven!” “So, Heaven’s actually more of a concept—” “I thought I was emulating you the best that I could, but you have more in common with my lazy, laissez-faire, ‘chillax dude- bro’, ungrateful--” “Hey!” Jesus steps in front Dan with authority. “Do not speak that way about your kid, ever! Do you understand me?” “Psh, whatever man.” “Don’t ‘whatever man’ me, I’m Jesus!” “You’re the middleman!” “Why do you want Jacob to be someone he’s not? If you continue to speak this way to Jacob and you push him and push him and keep pushing him, he’s not going to want to be your son anymore! If you try to force him to move one way, he’s going to bounce back and head straight for the opposite direction. Yeah he's your son but it’s not his responsibility to bear the burdens that you decided belong to him.” Dan feels fed up and starts running again. Jesus, also fed up, runs beside him. “Hey! Slow down, we’re not done here!” “I’m not pushing him—” “Then what are you doing?” “Nothing! It’s just, that’s just how it goes.” “How what goes?” For the first time in a long time, Dan felt powerless. Much like his son, he didn’t have all the answers. Or any answers, really. “So you don’t know, but you expect your kid to just understand? Have you ever tried understanding your kid for a change? If you try to force him up on a pedestal that he doesn’t want to be on, you might just…crucify him. See what I did there? Crucify? Little word play…you know what, never mind. Why not just get down on his level?” “I just want what’s best for my son, Jesus. He’s a kid, he needs some direction from me and his mother.” “I know you think you’re doing what’s best for your kid; I can tell how worried you are about his future, but Jacobs’ wants and needs are important for Jacob to figure out. Did you turn out exactly how your dad wanted you to?” “No, I guess not. My old man wanted me to join the army. I was too much of a coward. He was so disappointed. Still is, I think.” Dan sits with his thoughts for a moment, realizing that he holds an angry space in his heart that is reserved for his father. He doesn’t want Jacob to reserve the same kind of anger for him. “I just don’t want my son to fail. I don’t want the world to…crucify him, ya know?” Jesus chuckles. “So you do joke then, huh? Have you ever tried joking with Jacob? Maybe, be more honest with him? More vulnerable?” “Vulnerability isn’t something I see in the Bible that often.” “No, but you do see a whole lot of ..well, me…living my life for my dad, and we know that my story ends with me—” “Yeah yeah, I know, crucified—” “Suffering. It ends with me suffering. I put my life on the line…err, on the cross, I guess…because ‘that’s just how it goes’. But I didn’t write the Bible and I didn’t choose how the story ends.” “But…but you came back 3 days later. It was a miracle.” “I had to, my father expected me to show up. On time. So I did. And where did all that hard work and sacrifice get me? Being a fucking middleman.” “Jesus just said fucking…” “I work for my father, filing prayer requests for him. He doesn’t even read them half the time. He brushes a lot of them off. And the ones he does answer are about someone wanting their favorite sports team to win a game or to help someone find their lost keys. If I knew this is how everything would turn out, I would’ve gotten the hell out of dodge. Don’t give Jacob a reason to want to run away.” “Wow, um…thank you Jesus. I think I need to, um, I need to go see my son. Thank you.” “I think you do too.” Dan picks up his pace and runs home. He’s never been so eager to see his son like he is right now. Jacob is in the front yard, mowing the grass, when his very sweaty father comes panting over to him like a fluffy dog on a hot, summer day. “Jacob….Jacob. I need to talk to you, I need to—holy fuck where’s your mother? I need some water.” “What is happening? Also, you have a water bottle strapped to your fanny.” Dan struggles to catch his breath. “No that’s not….that’s not….it’s wine.” “Wine? Why are you drinking wine on your runs? And why are you so sweaty? It’s 50 degrees out!” “Son, I need to talk to you…I just..fuck, how am I so out of shape? I jog every day!” “Maybe it’s because you drink wine when you exercise.” Dan finally catches his breath. Jacob is a bit unnerved, wondering if he did something wrong. His dad never shows Jacob this level of passion. What does he want to talk about? “I need to talk to ask you a question I’ve never asked you before.” “What?” “Jacob, what do you want to be when you grow up?”


My heartbeats were growing faster and faster as soon as I was getting close to the city, the city of my university that changed me forever. I reached in front of my university gate; a wide, beautiful gate which was wide open as if it had opened its arms to welcome me after six years. Here was the place that gave me my life’s best memories and best people. Yet, I have never dared to come to this city again, I was afraid that I may encounter him, and I never wanted to see him again.   I parked my car for a moment on the other side of the road in front of my university and went into a flash back to how this place changed me; from denying my feelings to accepting them, from hating love to falling in love, from Hitler to jolly girl, and from crying baby to smiling doll. The place transformed me or quite possibly love transformed me. I remembered the last day when I dared to defeat my fears, broke my rules, ego and shyness to confess; for the first and last time. Although I knew that he no longer loved me or maybe he never loved me, but I wanted to leave no regrets.

 It was our final Viva day when everyone was worried about viva and I had this one question in my head—should I talk to him or not?

He was looking same sarruuu (arrogant) whom I loved from the first days of our university life. The day when we collided; I was lost, and he gently showed me the way by the gesture of his arm. What a filmy start! But that was the only sweet start because there was a lot of drama awaiting for us ahead. I didn’t know what was his problem, he never missed a chance to tease me, and I was a girl who was intolerable to any joke. He knew that, but he never stopped, from my make-up to my clothes, he made fun of everything. Although he never meant to make any offense, he merely joked, but I started to hate him, or maybe I pushed myself to hate him because there was no place for love in my life. Time passed, we had many unreasonable fights, we started ignoring each other, our sweet, funny fights changed into the war of ego, and things got worse. I remembered the time when I wanted to slap him right in front of everyone because I never felt so insulted because no one had ever ignored me, but he did. He always did things that first seemed an insult to me but then changed me forever, I started becoming a normal girl who was not offended by jokes now, who loved to live, who freely laughed and started to dream.

 Suddenly, he confessed his feelings; to deny them at the end, I took it as a joke because I was afraid of dreams, and he was the most beautiful dream of my life. I prepared myself for the worst – that finally happened. "Saad, I need to talk to you." I finally gathered courage on our last day. He looked surprised, his eyes became more wide, he came close to me, and we took a side,

I started, "Best of luck for your viva, I just wanted to say thank you and sorry for many reasons” my voice shacked but I pushed myself after a sigh “there was time when I wanted to slap you, I reminded him about our hate-love story, I just wanted you to know that I still have feelings for you, I know that is not your problem and I don’t know for how long these feelings will stay with me but I just wanted to confess.” I said all that in one breath without looking into his eyes because I knew that if I had looked at him, then I would have burst into tears.

“I wanted to say sorry too.” He concluded. I ignored his words and started to go,  then stopped

“See it is proved now that I am not shy hunhh” we both chuckled. He always said that I was shy, so I proved him wrong. As for him, he was a mystery, and he remained a mystery. I didn’t know why he broke off, and I never asked. After that day we never saw each other for the coming 6 years.

“Ma'am, you have been standing there for so long, is there any problem?” The guard who was probably noticing me pulled me back to the reality from that past, the past that was full of unanswered questions. “NO, I am just leaving.” I said politely.

I started my car and called my friend’s husband to open the door as I would be there in five minutes.

I reached their place, jeejoo was already at the door, waiting for me. I entered their home when Hazel—my friend for whom I came to this city again, was busy in the kitchen, when I placed my hands on her eyes, and she recognized my touch in one moment. “Haya! You bitch, is that you?” She exclaimed with joy. We both hugged and moved into tears with a smile. It had been 6 years that I hadn’t met her. She was angry with me because I couldn’t attend her wedding as I was out of the country, but as soon as I came back, I decided to surprise her with her husband’s help. We sat together, had dinner, and I broke the big news, "I am getting married.” I said in a straight tone. “Oo-M-G... really?? Has Saad come back? Why haven’t you told me?” She asked with excitement. “No, he has not, I am marrying someone else.” I tried to cover my sadness with a smile.

She was the one who knew how much I loved Saad, she was with me throughout my story in university and knew that I was waiting for him. This news surprised her beyond words, but she was happy that I was moving on.

“Well, that is great, but are you happy, Haya?” She assured. “Well, Ahmed; my younger brother, is happy.” I smiled “Now what you mean by that, what he has to do with your marriage?” “He loves someone, and she loves him too, but their family will not agree to this marriage if I don’t marry their son. You know our traditions. So I just don’t want him to be deprived of his love; I don’t want him to suffer like me. So I have made up my mind.”

Hazel’s expressions showed her confusion, but she joked. “Have you met the boy? What is his name? How does he look? He must be handsome enough to match you.”

“Well, his name is Ali, apart from that, I don’t know anything about him. We are going to meet in Karachi next week,” I concluded.

Hazel and I spent the whole week cooking, playing guitar, visiting local parks and talked endlessly for hours. The days passed quickly.

“You have to tell me all the details after meeting him, and don’t you dare to disappear again, you won’t be forgiven now.” She hugged me and said good bye.

I started my journey towards Karachi, away from this city and its memories. Next day, I arrived at a cafe when a tall and handsome guy welcomed me. Here was Ali, in black jeans and a tight blue shirt that was showing off his biceps. Hazel was right, he was my match.

I had decided that I would tell him about Saad, but I couldn’t get a chance. Although it was our first meeting, but he possessed a frank nature. He talked about his hobbies, likes, dislikes and engaged me too while I was waiting to tell him about Saad.

Suddenly, he stopped when he recognized his old friend behind me and stood to meet him. “Oh man, what a coincidence! I tried to reach you out, but you became a ghost and disappeared!” Ali said with joy.

I turned my face to see his friend, but what I found was unexpected; the face that I saw in my dream every night and tried to forget during every day, same bright eyes, healthy hair and the cutest smile. I sat unmoved without blinking my eyes till his eyes met mine, equally surprised. I felt same pinch in my heart and just turned my face.

Ali forced him to join us, and he introduced me to him “She is Haya, who is going to be your Bhabhi (brother’s wife).”

 “Oh, nice, you both make a perfect couple, ” he seemed jealous.

I had no idea how to react. Luckily, the waiter arrived, and Ali gave the order; two teas for us. Saad looked at me because he knew I hate tea. Then Ali looked towards Saad for his order. To my surprise, he ordered juice; that was my choice. I tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence—that he must not remember what I like, and why would he! At the table we were both uncomfortable and pretended that we had just met today.  Ali broke the ice, “You know, Haya, this man is a modern Majnoo, he pushed his love out of his life himself for some reasons and has decided that he would not marry ever. Can you believe it?” He looked at me for approval. This new twist surprised me and raised many questions in my mind; is that me? Did he really love me so much? But if he did, then what were those reasons!!..  I couldn’t stop thinking and asked directly

“Is that true? What were the reasons?” For the first time I looked straight into his eyes.

“Ah, no, you don’t know him, he keeps joking” Saad lied, but his eyes revealed the truth. The truth that I ignored the last day to believe his words, but this time I couldn’t ignore the words of his eyes that clearly showed his love for me.

Weather I should have been happy or sad? I didn’t know, nor I could sit there any longer. So I excused and rushed to my home.

I hugged my pillow tightly and cried, I let all those tears run down that I was holding for the last six years. I let my heart release the burden; I let myself accept that how badly I have missed him and how endlessly I still loved him.

Then I called Hazel and told her everything, she was jumpy, happier than me, “What are you waiting for, Haya? Just go and talk to him, ask him and sort it out, life doesn’t give a 2nd chance to everyone.” She convinced me to take the step.

But instead of talking to Saad, I contacted his sister, Marina, who liked me and knew about our story. I reached out to her and wished that I had reached her few years ago because of what she said, “Haya, Saad loves you, he still does. I asked him many times to tell you, but he always said that when you love someone, you don’t confine them in a cage. He knew that you were meant to be successful, but our family would never let you fulfil your dreams. So he chose to let you free.” Marina ended. I felt the warm tears wetting my cheeks and hung up the phone. I found the answer to my questions, I found the reason, my feelings turned out to be true, which always told me that there was something more to our story. A strange smile was covering my face, the smile that I missed during all those years, the smile that only came with his name. Life seemed merciful, and I was going in the world of dreams again when my phone rang; it was Ali, my present. Reality pinched me and woke me up, but I decided to change the course of time now.

“Hey, Ali, can I get your friend Saad’s number? It’s urgent,” without thinking about the consequences, I followed my heart.

“Okay, I will send you.” Ali replied in a surprised voice. I hung up the call. Peep, my phone rang, and there was Saad’s number on my screen. I held my breath and called him. “Hello, who is there” his voice rang in my ears. I became dumb for a moment but then broke the ice, “Mr. Saad, I want to see you right now, and I don’t want any excuse, hanhh.” My tone, my words surprised me because I talked to him with same comfort and authority. He couldn’t refuse me, and we met at the same cafe. I arrived there before him, and as I saw him, my heart skipped a beat. I had no idea what I would say, and what would happen next. “Congratulations, you found someone better.” His harsh tone reached me. “Saad, did you really feel that I would have chosen my dreams over you? Had you no idea how much I loved you? I talked to Marina, and she told me everything. You had no right to punish yourself and me in that way...” I said with a breaking voice. “No miss Haya, I knew that you would choose me over your dreams, and I never wanted that. I wanted to see you fly, but you know I hoped that one day we would meet. I kept you away from me so I could make my own home for us both while you could fulfil your dreams, but I was not sure about the future. I never wanted to keep you waiting, but I had faith. But I was wrong, when I found you with Ali, then I realized that I had been living in an illusion for six years. You surprised me, Haya... you proved my faith wrong.” Tears fell from his eyes with those words. His words touched my soul, and I told him that my marriage to Ali is just a compromise.

“So your love has not changed?” He asked innocently. “Did I have a reason, Mr. Phudhoo? Yeah, If I had loved you for your looks, then it might had changed for ghorazz (English guys) or if I had loved you for money, then Ali is no less, you know” I teased then continued "Saad, I have loved you unconditionally, and no one can ever take your place.” I got emotional. “Will you marry me?” His words stopped my breath, I became cold. The words that I died to hear from him finally came.

“Be sure, okay, I will not let you go this time.” I said with wet eyes.

“I will not leave you, Haya, I will be with you till my last breath.” His eyes approved of his words.

“So you found your Lela.” Ali’s voice came from behind. He continued with a smile “I doubted that you both know each other on that day, but I was not sure. When Haya asked me for your number, then I became sure”

 Ali supported us and promised to convince his parents for my brother and his sister’s marriage without any condition. He told his family that he didn’t like me as I didn’t match his standard because that was the only way to satisfy his parents. After some days their family approved my brother’s marriage, and I was free from that burden.

“Miss Haya, don’t you think you are getting old? You won’t look good in your bridal dress.” Saad joked during my brother’s engagement ceremony.

“So, Mr. Saad, are you waiting to see me old? Go ahead, it is our turn now” I joked shyly.

Life turned into a fairy-tale from a nightmare because his family also had no objection now. Our love and patience melted their hearts and changed their ideologies too.

“You know, Saad, I have always believed that when something is meant for you, it will come back to you, and destiny proved it” My husband’s hand was in mine while we were enjoying the sunset on a peaceful beach.

“Yes, it was my destiny to bear this punishment for my whole life,” his words never failed to make me smile.


Catherine Sinclar thought there were far more frugal ways for her mother to admit she didn’t know her.

A paternity test, for instance.

But, no, as always mother needed to compensate with cash. And even though Catherine had made her opinion of gift vouchers abundantly clear, – a free pass for the lazy, dull, and uninspired – mother apparently knew best.

‘Congratulations!’ the email’s subject line read. And then, in shouty, oversized text: ‘Your six-month book adventure is (still!!) waiting for you!!!’

Catherine scowled at Barney, her unemployed border collie. Barney huffed knowingly and flopped at her feet. His plush weight pressed comfortingly against her legs.

A book subscription.

Mother could’ve just said : “Sorry, I don’t listen when you tell me what genre you read. So, here, I outsourced the problem.”

Catherine googled the price of the subscription. It was ruinous.

Typical.

To be fair though, the gift could have been a homerun if Catherine were allowed to choose the books. Instead, Mother was overpaying for the pretentious literary recommendations of this – she squinted at the email again – Ethan Tan fellow.

She googled him next.

Ethan Tan is the owner of Voyager Booksellers, a beloved independent bookshop, and the winner of the 2021 Best Australian Debut Novel Prize. Ethan was shortlisted for the 2022 Crime Writers Award, and his short story, Plot Twist, won the inaugural Solaris Prize. Ethan lives, writes and binge-watches anime above his Potts Point bookshop. His alpha reader is a judgmental cat called Tofu.

Catherine finished reading Ethan’s bio aloud and snorted for Barney’s benefit. “Sounds like a right twat.”

She peered at his bio photo suspiciously, examining the floppy-haired, bespectacled man now responsible for her reading. Ethan’s smile seemed far too jolly for someone who fictionally murdered people for a living.

Nevertheless, it appeared Ethan was the one responsible for compiling the books for his extortionate gift subscription. Or, at least, it was his name on the email signature sending her increasingly insistent reminders to fill out some daft ‘pre-journey questionnaire’ so her first two books could be selected and shipped to her.

But Catherine didn’t want some overrated crime writer to choose her books for her. And she definitely didn’t want to talk to him about it.

She texted her mother.

Catherine: One of the best things about books is that you can enjoy the human experience without having to actually interact with humankind.

Mother replied instantly with, “ Is it, darling?”

and sent her a photo of the ocean. Catherine liked the photo, leaving a little love heart beneath the message. She glanced out the window at her own stretch of cerulean blue and felt a moment of rare connection with her mother.

Mother: Oh! That reminds me. Aunty Em wants to know if you’ve received a book yet? She was fawning all over that young man at Voyager Books. She made him swear he’d take good care of you

A work email from the team she remotely project managed distracted her from her mother’s soliloquy. When she picked up her phone again, Mother had progressed from small-talk to guilt-trip without Catherine having to type a word.

Mother: A pinky promise was involved, Catherine

Mother: Em would be heartbroken if the only gift she’s ever helped me choose turned out to be a dud

Mother: :(

Catherine slipped her headphones off and stretched her tense neck. She sighed. Unfortunately, Aunt Emily was her favourite person.

Even more unfortunately, this meant she’d have to fill out that daft questionnaire.

~ ~ ~

She wasn’t doing it.

Catherine slapped her laptop shut with a satisfying thud. Barney’s ears perked up and she gave him a nod confirming impending walkies. He trotted to the back door, waiting patiently while Catherine grumbled and pulled on her boots. It took her longer than usual, mostly because she kept pausing to gesticulate her complaints.

“To say it’s invasive would be underselling it, Barns.” Catherine ripped a bindii from her sock with more hostility than it warranted.

“Which three emojis do I relate with the most? What plant would make the best conversational partner? Which insect would I swap lives with?” Catherine repeated each question, increasingly more vexed. “It’s outrageous. Is this a book subscription or a job interview?”

She finished de-burring her sock and shot Barney a savage look. “We have to tolerate a lot of stupid shit in life, Barns, but this isn’t one of them.”

Catherine slid the screen door open, and Barney launched outside, startling a pack of grazing pademelons. They thumped away and glared at him from a safe distance. Barney's tail wagged. Catherine followed him out, pausing to tip her face up to the sky. The warm sunlight countered the cut of the chilly sea breeze and Catherine let it wash away the frustrations of the day.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, an email awaited her.

Catherine, vulnerably bleary-eyed and uncaffeinated, was startled enough to trip on her slipper while reading the email on her phone. Barney stole her slipper and raced down the hallway. She’d probably find it hidden in a pot plant later.

Ethan bloody Tan.

He wrote:

I understand you’re busy, and not to add any pressure, but it’s been two months since your subscription was scheduled to start... and I fear your books may be developing abandonment issues 🙁

Why don’t you want them, Catherine??? 😢

Good lord. Did he think he was cute?

Catherine deleted the email.

 ~ ~ ~

A few hours later, Catherine was watching Barney battle seaweed when her phone chimed.

Mother: Darling, are you okay?

Catherine frowned, tugged from her worries about an impending deadline. She replied affirmatively and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Mother: Your bookseller is demanding proof of life. It seems he’s convinced you’ve been mauled by a murderous animal and your remains lay undiscovered amidst that untamed wilderness you call home

Catherine was contemplating her response when another message arrived.

Mother: Send me a picture of you and that incorrigible canine of yours so I can confirm you are my daughter

Catherine: You think murderous animals can text?

Mother: Catherin e.

Catherine called Barney over. He shook, splashing Catherine with sand and salty sea water. “Selfie, Barns,” she commanded, crouching, and Barney immediately sat in front of her, baring his teeth for the camera.

Barney counter surfed, raided the trash, and had the recall of a pebble, but the dog knew how to smile.

Catherine checked the photo. Her pale blonde hair was loose and wind-messy, dark roots revealing regrowth she’d have touched up months ago back in Sydney. Her cheeks were flushed from sun and the short, downhill hike to the beach bordering her property. She searched for the familiar sight of bloodshot eyes and undereye bags but came back empty-handed.

It was a version of herself she was still getting used to.

She sent the photo and received a sharp lecture on not wearing enough sunscreen, - “Those freckles, Catherine! ” - then mother stopped replying.

Catherine led Barney back to the sea and let the waves tickle her toes while he frolicked. She kicked her foot out, splashing Barney playfully.

The bookseller had contacted her mother.

Surely that was a violation of some policy? Protocol? Boundary?

When she returned to the cottage, she sent him a strongly worded email that began with, “You told on me? Really?” and ended with, “I’ll have a list of books to you soon.”

~ ~ ~

A few hours later, at a time most irregular for a bookseller, Ethan responded with a winking emoji and, “Ah ha! She lives. Barney is adorable, btw. But I think you’ve misunderstood the point of book recommendations, Catherine.”

There was an entirely unnecessary P.S. that added: “Tell me ONE thing you enjoy. That’s all I need.”

Mother was incorrigible. Catherine supposed that’s what you get when you put a writer in charge of a bookshop.

~ ~ ~

She replied after midnight with six carefully selected books – one for every month of her subscription.

~ ~ ~

The package from Voyager Books arrived the following Monday.

Ethan had gotten the hint after her last email and she hadn’t heard from him since, not even to confirm her book selections. Wildly unprofessional, she decided. Probably hideously entitled from a lifetime of being coddled and told he was special. It was those brown puppy dog eyes. Only a monster could kick a puppy, and it seemed Ethan Tan had yet to encounter the world’s monsters.

She used the sharp edge of her scissors to slice the box open. Inside were two book-sized parcels wrapped in brown paper and twine ribbon. Atop a stamped Voyager Books postcard there was a large bar of chocolate; one of those fancy ones from a proper chocolatier that was sprinkled with rose petals and sea salt. Snuggled in the corner of the box was a bottle of red wine.

Well. That was nice. One of his assistants probably packed it for him. She set the chocolate and wine aside and carefully unwrapped the presents. And they did feel like presents. Maybe she’d been unfair on Mother. Books, no matter the source, were always a gift. A tingle of unexpected joy fluttered in her chest.

Then she saw the titles.

‘Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow’ by Gabrielle Zevin.

‘A Deadly Education’ by Naomi Novik.

Those were not the titles she’d chosen. That she’d ever have chosen. Fiction? A kid’s book? She must have received the wrong parcel. She searched the box for a packing slip, but there was nothing but confetti. Idly, she flipped the postcard over, wondering if she’d have to ship everything back to Voyager. Catherine already dreaded it. She glanced down and noticed the sprawled words on the back of the postcard.

Catherine!!

Try these. Trust me.

Yours,

Ethan :)

Trust him ? An overenthusiastic, over-applauded crime writer with a history of questionable exclamation mark usage? No, thank you. Now that she knew the books weren’t a mistake, she could set them aside and donate them to the little free library in town. And if Mother asked her how the book subscription was going, she’d simply lie.

~ ~ ~

As circumstances would have it, Mother wasn’t the only one Catherine had to lie to.

Three weeks later, Catherine was staring out her window, trying to catch the leaves of her Claret Ash in the act of transforming from green to autumnal red, when an email from Ethan Tan arrived.

The email itself was unsurprising. What was nonplussing was the way she eagerly leant forward, unbidden.

‘Catherine,’ the email read. ‘Are you enjoying the books?’

There was a pause while she considered complaining that he’d completely ignored her list. Instead, she wrote:

They’re great.

Regards,

Catherine

She reread her message. Added a begrudging ‘thank you’.

Ethan: You didn’t read them, did you?

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She decided to be honest.

Catherine: No, they look terrible.

He replied with a wall of laughing emojis. Then:

Ethan: Read three chapters of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow.

Catherine: No. It sounds insipid. Didn’t you see my list? I read fantasy. Adult fantasy.

Ethan: It’s about a group of friends that develop a popular video game. You enjoy gaming!

Catherine: I never told you that.

Ethan: You’re right – your aunt did!! We both think you’ll love it. Ok, tbf, we have a bet. She thinks you’ll hate it. I think you’ll rate it and appreciate it for it what it is.

Catherine: And what is it?

Ethan: You’ll have to read it and find out. 😉

Catherine tapped a finger against her bottom lip.

Another email arrived.

Ethan: Look, if you hate it, I’ll send you another book. For free.

Catherine: And if I hate that one?

Ethan: I’ll stick to your list

Catherine was loathe to admit it, but she was a little intrigued . ‘ Three chapters’ she wrote.

Then she closed her emails and padded into the kitchen to make spaghetti.

~ ~ ~

Catherine placed the book on her bedside table. Turned off her light. Stretched out in the dark, Barney’s warm body tucked against her side.

She had a work deadline tomorrow.

Today.

The sun would be up soon.

“That little twat,” she whispered, staring up at the shadowy ceiling. ~ ~ ~

Catherine: I hated it.

Ethan: The first three chapters?

Catherine: No, the whole book.

Ethan: OMG if you stayed up all night, you LOVED it!!!

Ethan: You’re welcome.

Catherine: I hate you.

Ethan: Ha! Brilliant. Alright, ready for the next one???

Catherine: The children’s book?

Ethan: Young adult. Very different. It’s not a picture book, Catherine. It’s a masterpiece. Plus!! It’s fantasy!! It’s about a murderous magic school. Right up your alley.

Catherine: Does it have a happy ending?

Ethan: 😉

Catherine: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN, ETHAN?

~ ~ ~

Work was busier than usual over the next few days, so it took Catherine until the very end of the weekend to finish ‘A Deadly Education’.

She reached for Ethan as soon as the final page was turned.

Catherine: What was that ending?

Ethan: A cliffhanger, Cat!! Did you love it?

The nickname made her pause. She decided she’d allow it.

Catherine: It was okay.

She’d loved it.

Catherine: There’s a sequel. Will that be in a future delivery?

Ethan: Nope. I’ve introduced you to the series, now it’s time to try something new

Catherine didn’t hate the idea. Anything other than fantasy tended to disappoint her. But maybe, maybe with Ethan choosing... maybe there was still pleasure to be found in other places.

~ ~ ~

Somehow, emailing him became a habit. The brief pauses in her day that used to feel empty were now filled with playful banter (Ethan), far too many exclamation marks (also Ethan) and a wary but captivated enjoyment (Catherine).

Ethan: So, tell me: why did you move from Sydney to an island everyone forgets is even part of Australia???

After covid, she’d had little interest in co-existing with the unwashed masses. To be fair, things had been disastrous even before the virus had locked her down in a tiny apartment with her ex. The press had been hounding her non-stop, and the weight of being the disappointing Sinclair heir finally crushed her. So, she fled the city, and purchased a plot of land in Southern Tasmania.

Catherine: Peace.

Ethan: Did you find it???

Catherine watched the sea alchemise into gold under the day’s fading sunlight. A honeyeater flitted past, singing, while frothy waves licked Barney’s paws as he trotted off on his eternal quest for the perfect stick.

Catherine: I did.

But there were times she wondered what it’d be like to share it with someone other than Barney.

~ ~ ~

In the third month of her book subscription, Ethan sent her a hardcover edition of Leigh Bardugo’s ‘Six of Crows’. Catherine devoured it in one weekend and finally confessed to Mother that her gift was a hit.

In the fourth month, after she’d complained to Ethan about recurring nightmares, she’d received ‘DallerGut Dream Department Store’ by Miye Lee. Her bad dreams had stopped.

Catherine: I’m surprised you haven’t sent me your book yet

Ethan: HA – yet!! Nah, I won’t torture you with that 😉

That decided it. Catherine requested his debut novel be sent as her fifth book. He resisted. She firmly demanded. In fact ... She let her toothbrush rest in her cheek as she typed out: “A signed copy, thank you.”

~ ~ ~

Catherine cradled Ethan's novel, its spine firm against her palms. Opening this book felt like crossing an invisible threshold. A risk.

After four months of consistent email contact, she was fairly certain he could write well. But what if he had penned a complete dumpster fire?

Then again, she had mused, what if it was so wonderful she couldn’t talk to him because he was no longer Ethan-who-annoyed-her-every-day, but some other, esoteric Ethan she didn’t understand? The thought troubled her.

What she hadn’t predicted was that Ethan would be so unapologetically needy that he’d completely counteract the intimidating wonderfulness of his work.

Ethan: Which chapter are you up to?

Ethan: Do you like it so far?

Ethan: Did the part about toxic mushrooms make you laugh?

Ethan: Cat!!!

Catherine: Leave me alone

Ethan: Have you met Ace yet?

Catherine: I’m muting your emails

~ ~ ~

At 3.14am, Catherine messaged Ethan. He was awake, awaiting her verdict.

Catherine: I understand why you won an award

Ethan: OMG. You read SO SLOWLY

Catherine: I finished it in a day, Ethan

He sent her a grinning selfie with his cat. The cat appeared displeased.

Ethan: Tofu is so happy you liked it :)

Catherine rolled her eyes. Saved the photo.

Ethan: Ever been tempted to write a book???

Catherine: Books are like food: they’re better if someone else makes them.

She shuffled closer to Barney, borrowing his courage.

Catherine: Especially if that someone is you.

Then, because it didn’t count in the dark, Catherine googled Ethan again. She fell asleep tracing the angles of his face.

~ ~ ~

Ethan: Your subscription ends next month. Excited???

The thought made her tummy roil unpleasantly. She wasn’t ready for it to end. So, she decided, it wouldn’t. They wouldn’t.

She booked a flight to Sydney. Then, hands shaking, she sent a screenshot of her ticket to Ethan.

Catherine: How about I collect my final book in person?

The 180 seconds it took to receive his response felt like a lifetime. She was feverish. Jittery. Trembling.

She refreshed her email. Leant in.

Ethan: Catherine Sinclair, I think that is the best possible way for you to admit you’re in love with me.


I’ve always loved older architecture and I loved going to the movies. Through a friend with connections, I managed to procure a job as an apprentice union movie projectionist. In those big old theatres from a bygone era, I was in my glory. Some of the theatres in the seaside town were seasonal, only open during the summer months. Others maintained a normal schedule of evening performances with weekend matinees, and still others operated continuous showings, four or five shows from early afternoon on. My theatre was continuous. It didn’t matter if any patrons were in the house, you ran every show. In the two-hour range, most schedules featured a 2-4-6-8-10 o’clock movie start time, finishing up right around midnight. It made for a long day sometimes, and could be boring. You brought along magazines and the newspaper, along with lunch and supper, and in my case, writing paper, to keep busy. I mean, how many times can you watch a movie? In those days, film reels lasted around twenty minutes, so you couldn’t stray far from the projection booth. Older equipment was still in use, many from before sound, so you had to keep an eye on things, especially those pesky old carbon arc lamps. One night it snowed. By the time the show was over, almost a foot had fallen. It was one of those nights you wondered why we were even open, but it was the policy for continuous shows. Very few people came out to see the movie that night. I wasn’t looking forward to bundling up and walking to my car, parked over a block away. Even in the winter, this was a tourist area and parking could be at a premium, along with residents who could finally park close to their homes.  I didn’t want to have to clean off my car, drive three miles home in a foot of snow, find a place to park at home, then come out tomorrow and have to clean off my car again. I figured to stay the night at work. There was a comfortable couch in the office downstairs and I told the manager I was staying. No problem. There was a coffee maker and always a supply of popcorn in case I was hungry. Not being able to leave the booth for any amount of time, I wasn’t able to explore the place. Oldtimers told me of the system of catwalks over the ceiling, utility tunnels under the building, and the massive stage and all that went with it. I wanted to see it all. It wasn’t that I couldn’t check the place out, it was just that I wasn’t able to while I was working. I would catch hell if the screen went black and I wasn’t close by to fix the problem. So now with the place to myself, it was time to explore! Armed with half a knowledge of where the light switches were and a trusty flashlight in hand, off I went. The catwalks over the plaster ceiling were required, as seeing the flimsy structure from above, you could easily fall through. There was a hand-cranked winch, designed to lower the chandelier over the center of the auditorium for maintenance and cleaning. The catwalks zigzagged over the entire ceiling, leading to the fly loft over the stage. Right there was a massive squirrel cage blower, the largest I had ever seen, that was part of the air conditioning system. Although huge, it was curiously quiet in its operation. A little farther along, the walkway led to a hatch over the stage, with a ladder leading below. Easily sixty feet up, it was a long way down to the stage floor. Massive steel girders and trusses held the building up, along with terra cotta brickwork advertised in the old days as fireproof. So many older cinemas built of wood had burned to the ground and new construction made sure to tout its fire-resistant safety factor. I braved the air conditioning’s wind whistling through the hatch and climbed down to the stage. The huge wooden floor was once the home of many a stage show, quite a few that played as early runs before going on to Broadway or other venues. The stage featured sixty rails, the steel rails suspended by ropes from above that could lift any scenery and curtain requirements. Those vertical ropes you see along the backstage wall operated the rails. The movie screen could be flown out of the way for stage shows, and that old asbestos safety curtain was still held aloft, once tested twice a day to make sure it dropped in case of fire. More snooping found access to the orchestra pit from a room under the stage, where musicians could move in and out without the audience noticing them. The sign shop for the theatre chain was also headquartered beneath the stage. A stairway at the rear of the building led to the stage level, and then up to three levels of dressing rooms. One level down led to the utility tunnels. The tunnels were the spooky part of the tour. There were crayon marks along the walls showing where the adjacent ocean’s water level once flooded the place during a hurricane. A pair of old generators sat like old rusted dinosaurs, never to run again. A decayed metal ladder at the end of one long tunnel led to somewhere near the box office, probably unused for decades. Returning through the tunnels, the main route turned a ninety degree corner. Someone had placed a life size cardboard standee of Jack Lemmon from the movie “the Odd Couple”, his face in a wince. It was enough to scare a few meals out of you after you shined your light on him. After I caught my breath, I decided the joke was a good one and kept the standee right there for the next hapless victim to discover. Heading upstairs, it was time to look over the dressing rooms. The first one, closest to the stage, featured a star on the door. I wondered what big names occupied that room over the years. The two stories of dressing rooms were rather drab, four walls with a closet rod and shelf, a sink and a toilet, and not much else. A couple still had a makeup table against one wall. They hadn’t been used in years and the paint was peeling to bare concrete and plaster. Each had a metal grille over a window opening that overlooked the arcade that ran between the theatre and the convention center next door. At the far end of the upper floor of the dressing rooms, evidence of a fire years ago that claimed a couple of lives remained. No one had ever cleaned the rooms up afterward, happening so long ago that any smell of the fires had long dissipated. It seemed to be a memorial to those who perished, untouched since it happened so many years ago. Ghost investigators from a TV show visited the dressing rooms a few years ago, and seemed to find questionable evidence of spirits there. I could feel the presence of something and decided to leave whatever, or whoever it was, alone. All of the old theatres in the area seemed to have some sort of ghostly habitation. Many of the old buildings had succumbed to the wrecking ball for whatever reasons, and the few that remain are now home to those wayward spirits of the theatre who need a place to stay. That night of staying over due to a snowstorm proved invaluable to my curiosity of this old barn. Opening in 1929 and the first motion picture venue in the area to open with sound films, this showplace of the golden era of the movie palaces has always intrigued me. With the names of every projectionist and stagehand who worked here scribbled on various heating ducts in the booth and backstage, one can only wonder of the many films and live shows that graced these four walls over so many years.


The stars were always so beautiful to me, and as I look up at them now, I’m still pulled by them. My dad could look at them and point out the different shapes and names of the constellations. I’ve never been into the shapes of stars or the names of planets though, I’ve always been attracted to the points connecting them. I’ve always been drawn to the darkness and the vastness within the space between the stars. As I lay down about to drift off into unconscious sleep, I looked up at the unknown number of stars that night time in Alaska offered through the hotel window. It made me think about the wall of darkness that the city night sky suspended. I fell into deep sleep staring up at the sky, my heart beat syncing up with the rhythm of motor boats as they returned home. It was a cold morning in the city of Dutch Harbor when I first arrived at the lighthouse where I’d be spending the summer working at alone. The small, lone tower was located on a man-made island about a half mile off the coast of the city. It seemed like an easy enough job to me, all I needed to do was sit there and give daily reports saying that all was well. Every other part of the lighthouse job had been computerized years ago. Alfred was showing me around the living quarters when I set my duffel bag full of clothes and books down on the old, weathered sofa. The whole room was situated directly beneath the main staircase to the top of the small lighthouse. The place smelled of old oak, and the white-painted brick walls felt cool beneath my outreached hand. The room was decorated solely by brass nautical equipment. She’s old , Alfred said. But she’s true. And soon she’ll feel like home. He was in his late sixties and, from what he’s told me, he’s spent the past thirty of those years manning the lighthouse with his family. He was getting older however, and he decided to hire people to work two out of the four seasons while he lived on the mainland with his wife. He was a nice guy, and with a wave of a hand he had me follow him towards a dark oak door. Now I know you’re going to school to be a writer at the moment. So my wife and I decided to do a little something to make the stay a bit more comfortable. He opened the door to a small home office, a dark hardwood desk and bookshelf holding various paperbacks and manuals being the staples. I approached the desk and saw an old manual Royal typewriter sitting on top of it. I felt the keys beneath my fingertips and smiled. The desk chair faced a circular window that looked out over the water.

Thank you so much Alfred, I said. This is literally the nicest office I’ve ever been in. Don’t thank me yet. Working out here can be lonely, and my wife thought we should add something to help the transition a bit. Don’t worry. I don’t feel lonely too often, I said.

Well you’re also not going to like that there’s no wifi out here, that’s why I brought out the typewriter. I usually prefer not to use the internet anyways, I said. Well! Aren’t you the old soul, Alfred laughed. It was all true, every adult called me an old soul and I never really cared much about being on my own. It was hard for me to relate with a lot of people at school, they only seemed interested in things that scratched the surface. I’ve always been the one left to think on deeper questions and issues. That’s always been the difference between me and people my own age. While everyone seems so sure on where they’re going in life, I’ve always wondered if there was anywhere else to go. That was one of the reasons I decided to take this job for the summer, the other being that my dad couldn’t afford to pay for my school and I didn’t have enough financial aid to cover all the costs. Well, that seems to be all, Alfred said, breaking me from my thoughts. I’ll be by every other week with food and other supplies. Just make sure to make a list of anything you may want that I can get ya. He turned and walked out the front door. I waved to him as he got in his small boat and started heading out. Thank you Alfred! I’ll see you soon! I yelled to him. Closing the door I realized that for the first time in my life, I was truly alone and with my own thoughts. Free to read and write from sun-up till sun-down. It felt simultaneously liberating and terrifying, I was just hoping I wouldn’t burn myself out. I decided to sit down to write for a bit and see how I felt in my new environment. The paper for the typewriter was sitting to the left of it. I loaded a page and felt my fingertips slide perfectly into position. I couldn’t write though, I just could find the inspiration.

The next day, after my daily call in, I sipped my morning coffee at the top of the tower. My wool sweater was doing poorly against the breeze being blown from the Arctic. I hadn’t seen any boats for about an hour but, as I looked out over the empty water, I saw a white sailboat gliding across the sea. It was a classic, wood sailboat with the name Diane written across its side with its large sails catching the breeze on its solitary voyage across the ocean. A single white dot in the vastness of the blue sea. It was magnificent, and as I watched it I saw more boats follow. Soon they were spread out, covering the water, like stars in the sky. Seeing Diane made me think of the boat my dad had bought down in San Diego when I was thirteen.

We’re going to get her all fixed up, my dad had said.

In front of us was the most beat up sailboat I had ever laid eyes on. He had bought it for less than five hundred dollars. For five years the boat sat untouched in the San Diego Bay. Every year my dad promised that together we’d fix it up and sail up to Santa Barbara, or down to Mexico. And every year the promises fell short and the boat sat alone un-repaired and un-sailable. The damages of the past just too cemented in to fix. Every morning became the same. I’d have my daily call in and then enjoy my coffee at the top of the lighthouse waiting for Diane. And every morning I’d see her, the solitary white star in the outer space of open ocean, leading a herd of vessels out to sea. Soon I started to think of who Diane was and how she related to the sailor. Then I started to write down the story of Diane on that old typewriter in the office. I wrote about her endless adventures and potential, her relationships and unlimited knowledge. I came to see myself in Diane, all the places either of us could go became clear. We were both living in the midst of the immortality that comes with youth.  This morning Alfred came to drop off supplies right after my daily call in. I helped him unload the boxes up from the boat and gave him the list with some things I wanted him to pick up in town, one being a warmer jacket for when the morning winds came. After everything was unloaded Alfred got back into his boat and was getting ready to head back to the mainland. Just then I saw Diane head out with the boats all following her.

Who is she? I asked. Who’s who? Alfred asked, looking at me. Diane, I said. Alfred’s expression became solemn, and he let out a long sigh before he answered. Diane was a local girl. She was smart and real sweet too, he said. Was a local? What do you mean Alfred? I asked. When she was eighteen she went to Anchorage for University. One night, about twenty years ago, she was just driving home from the library and a drunk driver T-boned her. She passed almost instantly. Anyways, that’s her father. And every morning he sails that boat, that he and his daughter fixed up together by the way, out on the water. He’s always the first one out, and the only day that changed was when his wife passed too about five years ago. I could feel my eyes sting, but I refused to cry in front of this man. This man who I did not know, who did not understand my connection to Diane. He said goodbye and all I did was wave. I couldn’t speak a word in fear that I might break, might let slip why I was so damaged by the loss of someone I didn’t even know. I just walked into the lighthouse and, closing the door behind me, I collapsed onto the floor and sobbed for Diane. The sun set and I had not moved. I thought of how empty the promise of who Diane was. And I thought of all the empty promises my father had told me over the years. You and I are going to fix this boat up together. Don’t worry, I’ll get another job and we’ll all be back on our feet. You won’t have to work this summer, I’ll be able to cover the cost of school. Then there was the empty promise my dad told me five years ago, right before he bought that boat. And right after my just mom walked out of our lives. Don’t worry son, I’m sure your mother will come back. She just needs some time alone. I got up then and shuffled over to the typewriter. I didn’t know what I could write about anymore. My inspiration was dead, all the possibilities of who she could be gone. Was there any future for me, or was I destined to have all my potential possibilities end? Was there even a future? Maybe there’s only the present and the damaging past? When my mother left I just retracted into myself. My pain, isolation, and trauma boiled down to just two lonely words by everyone around me: old soul. That’s all I was anymore. So I loaded up another page in the typewriter, just needing some way to release my thoughts.

As I got ready to write though I looked through the circular window and saw the stars. There I saw Diane. I saw my mother. I saw my father finally keeping a promise. Lastly, I saw myself living a life that I craved. A life absent of isolation and pain. I saw where new light could shine, and new planets could form. I saw the endless possibility, the unlimited potential. All there, in the space between the stars. And it was all so beautiful.