Her soft brown eyes searched mine as I looked down and saw the newborn writhing in her cot. She wasn’t kept with the other babies, she was isolated. Hidden away from prying eyes and wandering hands. Nothing but the rhythmic beeping of the hospital monitors to lull her to sleep. She didn’t cry when she saw me, she remembered me. Though I knew who she was I couldn’t place her sweet innocence. As if I was staring into a mirror, not recognising the reflection. Nothing can be compared to the softness of a baby’s skin, yet there was no comfort in the poison of hers. I was born a murderer. My mother died during my delivery along with my father and every doctor who held me in that theatre. When I was older, I was told my mother had a rare disease. They thought that I was leeching her blood in the womb, a severe foetal anaemia of some sort. She necrosed slowly from the inside out as I grew inside her, a bad seed. The condition was diagnosed well before my birth, so they never expected her to survive the delivery. It was the doctors and my father dying, that confused them. They concluded that this new rare sickness did not solely affect expectant mothers but was rather a contagious one spread by direct contact with one of the infected. No further research was conducted as this would have involved analysing me, an exposure no one was willing to take, too high of a risk. I was, for all intents and purposes, the only known survivor of this disease; supposedly due to my youth and adaptable immune system. In their defence, they were along the right tracks, it was the skin to skin contact that nailed those coffins. What they didn’t realise was the sickness was me. I was sent to isolation. No one thought to name me. I was just a hospital number until a nurse began referring to me as Ceadis. Murder in Latin. They should have killed me right there, for the greater good. Sacrifice one life to save the many. But killing a newborn, no one would have deemed that ethical. Powers are thought to be a gift for chosen ones. To better their lives and those around them. But when I was younger it didn’t seem to be a blessing. In all honesty, it didn’t seem like a curse either. All I knew about life was death and I hadn’t learnt to associate it with sadness. That was the beauty of isolation. From the outside it may have seemed heartless and cruel, keeping a child locked away, no contact, but it was quite the opposite. It kept the tragedy of my birth unbeknown to me alongside the societal connections of death being bad. Being kept from the world meant I didn’t make associations between my actions and emotions like happiness and sadness. I just existed and hence surprisingly had a happy childhood; ignorance is bliss after all. I had assumed all children lived this way, to be frank, I didn’t even know of other children’s existence. When I was 16, no longer legally a child, I was freed from my isolation. It was then I understood what happened in that operating theatre many moons ago. I said goodbye to the nurse who mothered me, the lady who never let me experience loneliness. As I did, I felt sadness for the first time. Not from being torn apart, but instead from seeing her eyes dull and limbs limp from an innate hug. The only mother I’d ever known dying from an act of love. I felt afraid, fearful of who I was and what I could do. If this was the price I would have to pay for my freedom, then I wanted to be sent back to the chains of imprisonment. But that was no longer possible. So, I ran. Ran from the hospital I once called home, ran from the scene of my crimes, ran from the only thing I knew. No one stopped me. No one wanted to touch death. After my first memorable murder, the grief led me to research more about powers. Literature said there was no known cause of powers, but affirmed they were overwhelmingly good. Experimental studies into the origin of power showed they came to people in times of need or to people in positions to help others, like a doctor given powers of healing. In hindsight, I guess I was what you’d call an anomaly. My research pushed me to considering using my lethal skin for good, but I struggled to understand where death fell in the balance of good and evil. Lacking certainty as to when the use of my power was justified meant many deceased in collateral damage throughout my years as a vigilante. I was foolish to think a teenage girl could hold the scales of justice steady, and soon grasped that I was a danger to society rather than an asset. I took to wandering the earth alone, taking precautions. If I couldn’t be a part of society, I instead would be an observer. A passenger on a train looking through the glass at the world around me. Watching but never touching. I tried to live an ordinary life, one where my power didn’t control me, but I learnt that I would never have complete control of it. Even on the side lines, a hand accidentally grazing mine soon went stiff and child running into the road would still lie cold if I tried to save them. Everything was black and white in this new world outside the hospital, if I wasn’t good, I was evil. It wasn’t long before I learnt my final lesson in the new world. I could never truly exist as an outsider until I was on the other side of the glass looking in. Once I learnt that, everything became clear. My only redemption was ironically, my greatest flaw.

So now I stand here watching the baby girl with no name sleep peacefully in her cot. Unknowing of the damage she’d done and the lives she took. You must be wondering how I got here, well, I had help from a friend. Now you must be wondering where along my journey I made friends, truth be told, I didn’t have many. I’d met her whilst researching powers, she was unique. A girl gifted with the power of time travel. She embodied the true reason behind powers, her powers helped her to stop atrocities and help the world learn from its mistakes. I approached her once I made my plan, and she agreed to help me right the wrong I brought into this world. So here I stand. Focusing my attention back to the child, I watched her as I slowly I slipped my fingers out of the gloves that had become my second skin. She opened her eyes and smiled. She remembered me. Young Ceadis with an old soul, knowing that this was how it should end, this was her escaped fate from many suns over. The greater good. In knowing this, with my bare hands I picked her up, my power finally tipping the scales to good.


The day my obachan , my grandmother, died was the worst day of my life. She was my first and best friend and the person I ran to whenever life got complicated. She made me feel better, even when I struggled with my parents or did poorly in school. Even when I was bullied, she'd find a snarky way to turn it on the other person. I remember sleeping over at her house, and we'd stay up late watching movies, and she always made me hot cocoa with seven marshmallows. She said seven was my lucky number. I would tell her everything going on in my life and spill every secret to her, the words flowing off my tongue as smooth as the cocoa going down my throat.

Every year on my birthday, I would always wait to open her gift in the privacy of my room. Her presents were always thoughtful, like they were made just for me, a shared secret. The weird thing was that her gifts were never something I needed at the time. Then, something would happen, and her gift's purpose would become apparent. One year, she gave me this beautiful bamboo green fan from Japan, something ornamental that I just left on my dresser, a daily reminder of her kindness. Then two weeks later, our local temple announced the annual

bon  dance event. The temple was created to be a bamboo forest, and they hung lanterns all around the courtyard, creating a fairytale setting. I saw a flyer for the

bon

dance, and miraculously, the bamboo green matched my fan's green. The fan was also made of bamboo. When I told my grandmother, she just smiled with a twinkle in her eye, saying, "well, what do you know?"

For Christmas, we'd always do something together, just the two of us, instead of exchanging gifts. She knew I couldn't afford a gift for her, so she made it an experience just for us. We'd go to a movie, fight the crowds, and she'd buy me all the snacks I wanted, maybe because she knew my parents would never indulge me. Or she'd take me to a Christmas night event at the zoo with lights illuminating everywhere, some of the animals more active than in the day when they were just snoozing. Then we'd eat

sushi

or

ramen  for dinner together. I'd always order my

ramen  with

gyoza , my grandmother would get

udon

with shrimp

tempura , and we'd share inari sushi . She started getting sick around my junior year in high school. At first, she just seemed tired a lot more. When I'd visit her house for our sleepover, she'd fall asleep during the movie, something she had never done before. I thought maybe she was just getting older, but then she started to eat less when we went out, and more often than not, she'd just ask me to hang out at her house instead. I was happy to download a movie for us to watch together or read to her until she fell asleep. I was the one who started making the hot cocoa for us instead of her. Then a year later, right before prom, she was gone. I remember getting the call when I was standing in the dressing room at the mall. I was shopping with my friend, Bree, and she heard my hysterical sobs from her dressing room next door. She ran out and kept repeatedly knocking on the door, begging me to let her in, but I couldn't muster up the energy to peel myself off the floor. I sat on the floor, my tears staining the cerulean blue gown. All I could say was, "she's gone," repeatedly.

I barely remember the funeral. I just kept thinking I was all on my own now. Though I loved my parents dearly, they didn't understand me like my grandmother. They weren't unkind. They just didn't seem to connect with me the way she did. My mother held me tight, and I sobbed in her arms. I felt like I had taken a breath and couldn't remember how to exhale. The day after her funeral, I bought a bouquet of flowers and left one flower at each of the places that reminded me of her. I left one outside the movie theater, one outside the zoo gates, at three of our favorite Japanese restaurants, at the bookstore, at the temple, outside her home, already dreading the day my parents would put it up for sale and outside the Asian market. Finally, I stopped at the park and walked to the jungle gym, where she always brought me to play. I sat on a nearby bench and began to abs-mindedly rip the petals off one flower, one by one, in a "he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not" fashion as I remembered her running around with me. When I realized what I was doing, I ripped the remaining flowers off their stems and flung them into the air. I watched the petals float away in the wind, hoping they would take away my sorrows.

When the last petal had flown away, I dragged my feet to the trash can to throw away the stems. It felt like closing a chapter in a book I desperately didn't want to end. I stood there and threw the remaining branches in one by one as the tears rolled down my face. "Seven. What a lucky number," said a voice, cutting through my world of sorrow. "I'm sorry?" I wiped my eyes and turned to see a woman standing there. She was older than my parents but younger than my grandmother and looked to be picking up the litter around the park. She was dressed in a soft blue sweater and gray pants and wearing disposable gloves to pick up the things she found.

"Seven stems. Seven is a lucky number. It seems to be extra lucky for you, though." "Oh, I didn't count them. I don't particularly feel lucky." "You are, dear. I can sense it." "I'm sorry, I don't feel like talking much right now." "That's quite all right. That's why the phrase is 'silence is golden'," the woman replied. "Don't worry. Whatever is troubling you will work out." "We just had my grandmother's funeral, and I've never felt so lost," I said, amazed I could divulge something so personal to a perfect stranger. "You must have cared for her very much, but remember, people we love are never really lost." "Thank you, I'm sorry to bother you. I need to head home now." "It's not a bother at all, dear. I'm sure you will find that not everything is lost to us, even in death. It might not seem that way now, but there is a wonder. Here, I found this on the bench a little ways back. Maybe it'll bring you some color into your life on a gray day. Someone must have left it behind." She handed me a jeweled clip, still in its plastic packaging. The clip was gold with jeweled peach flowers inlaid with rhinestones. It was actually quite pretty. "Thank you, it's beautiful." I tried to muster up a smile and returned to my car.

"Of course, dear. Peach flowers represent luck and long life. One could even go as far as to say immortality. I'm sure you'll find a use for it soon." -- The following weekend, I let Bree take me back to the mall to find a dress for prom again. We were going with friends and had already paid for the night. My parents were also very generous and upped my evening allowance. My mom even gave me an additional $50 for my dress. "Did you want to get the blue dress? The one with the halter? It was beautiful on you," Bree suggested. "No, it brings back too many sad memories from that day. I'll just think I'm a waterfall of tears." "You can't be like that. Your obachan would want you to be happy. She would want you to go to prom and have the best day of your life. It's our senior year!" Bree was my only close friend who was full Japanese too, and she would use Japanese words in our daily conversations, like obachan , instead of grandmother. "Okay, I know. Sorry, I've been so mopey. You're right. She would want that. Let's look at a different store." We went to three different dress stores. I was getting discouraged I wouldn't find anything and resort to the blue dress with sad memories. Finally, I suggested we take a break and get something to eat. We decided to get pretzels and smoothies from Jamba Juice in the food court.

"Don't worry, we'll find you something, babe." Bree encouraged me. "I won't take you home until you find your dress."

"Thank you for dealing with me. I know I've been difficult lately," I reply. "Do not apologize. You're not going to apologize for being sad over your obachan . But, frankly, I would be upset at you if you weren't sad. It's perfectly normal, expected, and good for the soul. It shows you're human." "Thanks. How much do I owe you for my half?" I'm digging in my purse to find my wallet. "Nothing, babe. On me. Think of it as payment for letting me drag you to the mall today." "Thanks again; you didn't have to do that. Oh, I forgot I had this." While rummaging for my wallet in my purse, I found the jeweled hairclip the lady in the park gave me. I pull it out to show Bree. "Wow, how did you get that? It's beautiful." "I was at the park by my house being sad, and this random woman gave it to me. She said when I needed color on a gray day or something like that, I was too busy being sad to process. They look like the peach blossoms on the tapestry at my grandmother's house." "Shut. The. Front. Door," Bree looks like she's seen a ghost, and she nearly drops the hairclip out of her hand. "Turn around right now." "Okay, you're kind of freaking me out right now." I slowly turn around, and there's a small boutique shop behind us, and there in the window display is the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. It falls right below the knee and has an illusion neckline with long sleeves. The dress is peach-colored with peach flowers cascading all over the bodice, stopping just below the waistline. The skirt is a slightly darker peach made of what looks like chiffon. It's beautiful." "That dress is beautiful. Get your bag. We're going in." I barely have time to pick up everything before Bree is in the store. "Excuse me, can we please see that dress in the window? My best friend's life depends on it." "Well, hello, ladies. Of course, if this is a life or death situation," the woman says. She expertly peels the dress off the mannequin and guides me to the fitting room in the back of the shop. "I feel like you should hurry and put this on before your friend passes out from excitement," she winks as she closes the door. I take her advice and undress less fluidly than she did on the mannequin. It fits perfectly. The dress feels like it was made for me. It doesn't even feel like it has to be altered. The sleeves fit smoothly down my arms, and the invisible neckline accentuates my shoulders nicely.

"Well, how does it look?" Bree asks from the other side of the door.

"I can't explain it," I shakily reply as I open the door.

"Oh, my god. You are so beautiful!" "It feels like it was made for me. It doesn't itch, which I was worried about. I didn't think my shoulders and neckline would be so flattering. It all just works for some reason." "Wait, one more thing." Bree walks into the dressing room behind me and rummages in my purse. She unsheathes the hairclip from the packaging and clips it behind my ear. It matches the dress perfectly.

"Well, now. That dress was made for you. How lucky!" the boutique salesperson exclaims. "That looks like the perfect prom dress." "Thank you, it's perfect," I reply. I take a look at the price tag and gasp. There's no way I can afford this or ask my parents for more money again.

"Oh, don't worry about that, dear. It's on sale. The description said the flowers would be white instead of peach. We were able to get this one at a discount as it is different from the other ones, as you can see," she points to the rack, and indeed, this dress is the same cut and style as the ones that are hanging, but the flowers are definitely peach and not white like the others. "It seems as if it was waiting for the perfect person," she smiles at me. "Really? How much will it be?" I ask. I'm crossing my fingers behind my back, hoping I have enough.

"What about $100? This color seems perfect for you, and I see you already have a matching accessory," she points to the jeweled hair clip in my hair. "Are you sure? That would be perfect. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this dress means to me." "You're so beautiful. You're going to look like a princess at prom," Bree exclaims, wiping tears from her eyes.

I change back into my clothes and return the dress to the saleswoman. She seems oddly familiar somehow. Not just in her mannerisms but in the way she speaks too. She wraps the dress in tissue paper and puts it in a brown shopping bag with the store's logo. "I put a special store gift in there for you, too. Something tells me seven is your lucky number. Have a great time at prom, dear. You're going to look so beautiful." "Thank you so much for letting me have this dress. This means more to me than you'll ever know." "Thank you for giving this dress a wonderful purpose, dear." We walk out, and I look back as we exit the store, but the saleswoman has already retreated from the cash wrap to the back.

"Did you think she seemed familiar to you somehow?" I asked Bree. "No, not really. Just really nice. What was the store gift?" I pull back the tissue in the bag to reveal a small purse. The fabric's color matches the dress, and on the front, there are seven of the same flowers. It's beautiful. "Wow, maybe it's a gift with purchase thing. It's the same as the dress so she can't sell it like the other dresses. Also, the flowers are the wrong color," Bree says. "You're right. It just seems odd, that's all." "Babes, you're going through a tough time right now. But don't knock the kindness of strangers. It seems to all be working out too. You have the perfect outfit for the prom! Oh wait, do you have shoes to wear?" "Yes, I have these champagne-colored pumps I got for Christmas from my grandmother. It was the last gift she gave me." "See, she's taking care of you even from the beyond! But, hey, maybe she's a

kitsune  or something!" "A

kitsune ? A Japanese mythological creature? Are you being serious?" "Eh, who knows! I'm not one to denounce the possibility. There are some things in life we cannot explain. So why not just fill in the gaps with magic?" "I didn't think you'd be so open to it. I also don't know too much about the kitsune." "Well, we're at the mall. Let's check out the bookstore." Bree pulls me out the door, and I do my best to keep up. So many thoughts are swirling around in my head. I don't know what to make of it all. Am I just overreacting and trying to make something out of nothing? Is this a coping mechanism for trying to get over

bachan's  death? "Welcome to Eden Books! My name is Grant. Can I help you find anything today?" the bookseller at the door greets us cheerfully. "Yes, please. We need to find your children's section. Do you happen to have a folktale section by chance?" Bree replies. "Yes, of course. I can show it to you," the bookseller replies, eager to help. "They're broken down into sub-categories by country as well," Grant says as we arrive at the section. "Perfect, thank you so much." "Please let any of us know if you need any further assistance," Grant smiles as he returns to the front of the store.

"Okay, here we go. Mother Goose, Peter Rabbit, and a bunch of other classics. Okay, Chinese New Year, we're getting closer.

Momotaro,

Kaguya Hime … Japanese folklore!" Bree pulls the hardcover book off the shelf and immediately scans the table of contents.

"There! Page 148,

kitsune ," I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead from anticipation.

"There are 13 different types of

kitsune , and they can also be described as messengers or reincarnations of the soul. They're also shapeshifters," Bree starts reading from the book. As she turns the page, I gasp. There is a depiction of a

kitsune  in human form on the page, and the illustration looks almost like a photo. A woman smiles on a bridge, her hair faintly blowing in the wind.

"Um, am I crazy? Or does she look like a younger version of your

obachan ?" Bree asks me nervously.

I suddenly feel so dizzy and fall to the floor.


Hyperopia was a term that, in childhood, seemed to make sense to Mia. While the technicalities of the term didn’t interest her wandering imagination, the repercussions of the condition certainly did. After complaining that she could only see things far in the distance with any kind of focus, her mother took her to an optician who quickly put a name to the issue and handed her a pretty pair of golden framed glasses.              “You have a condition that means you can see much better when things are far away,” he told her, gentle voiced and kind in the way that only years of dealing with young children could forge. “With glasses, your shorter sight should improve, but you need to keep them on. How do they feel?”              They felt odd, and she told him so. She could see the letters he pointed to on a distant rectangular board, could read them out one by one, but her vision felt much the same. He squeezed her shoulder and reassured her mother that it would take a number of days for things to improve, but improve they would. There was no doubt of that.              And yet that night, disquiet in the frustration of an ever-blurry vision, Mia sat in bed and stared at her glasses, facing her in their case on her pink dresser. Why should she wear them? They hurt the bridge of her nose. Next door, she could hear the neighbours arguing again. The father – George, he was called, and the mother Lydia. They were nice people, always happy to see Mia at their door asking if Grace could come out to play when the weather was pleasant. They didn’t sound so nice when they were arguing, but that wasn’t their fault. George’s mother was dying, and through the quiet, still air of the evening, Mia could hear their anguish through the barrier of their separate windows.              The volume rose, and so did Mia’s anxiety. Should she knock on her parents’ bedroom door? She felt too old for that, too stubborn to admit her own vulnerability. Ten years old was close to adulthood, too close to the ever-nearing period of independence she yearned for. If she went to her mother now, so close to her teenage years, would it prevent her from successfully arguing for a later bedtime? Would it impact her mission to go to Emily’s birthday party without an adult supervisor? Would it mean that when the time came, she wouldn’t be trusted to drive a car? It seemed to risky, but despite her resolution to weather the storm on her own, her fear still lingered at the edges of her mind like shadows in the corners of her room.              As a last attempt, when the shouting rose to a new, horrifying pitch, she scrambled out of bed and ran for her glasses, slipping them onto her face as if to stave off what she knew was coming.              As she blinked behind the lenses, her vision came sharply into focus, and for a brief moment relief washed through her.              Things began to blur, and she knew that her hyperopia hadn’t been quelled.              Beyond her glasses she saw an elderly woman, white hair perfectly placed against the pillow, makeup flawless, clothes neat. She was dignified even in the hospital bed, tubes winding into each arm like leeches, sucking and regurgitating horrifying fluids into her veins. The woman didn’t seem to care about the leeches, but she cared about Mia. She turned to her, only slightly, as much as her weakening strength would allow, and smiled. The clock on the wall near her head was old, cream at one time, but now a dirty grey. It was four o’clock, and the sky outside of the window was dark and endless. “Time to go,” the woman whispered, and Mia blinked herself back into her own time, her own place, her own room.              Back to the echoes of arguments not her business, arguments about the life of a woman destined to die at four o’clock.              Mia took off her glasses and put them back into their case, then climbed into bed.              ‘ Hyperopia is a common vision condition in which you can see distant objects clearly, but objects nearby may be blurry.’              How common could this be, Mia wondered. How many others could see what was to come, with absolutely no clue as to what was happening in front of their eyes.

It wasn’t always death.              Sometimes she blinked and found herself in strange places where nothing seemed real, nothing familiar or grounding, like she was in the scene of a novel she had yet to read. In the distance she would see a wave, monumental in size, humbling, scarring, horrifying as it demolished the land in its path. Then she would blink, back in her own body, and her mother would call her down for dinner. She would go downstairs, eat, and talk to her parents. To her mother about Grace, Beth, her closest friends. To her father about homework, science that she hated, art that she loved. Eventually, maybe days later, or weeks, she would forget the wave. She would forget until it appeared again, this time on the television screen, from the phones of horrified onlookers as another natural disaster destroyed the part of the world that they called home. She grew into a subdued adolescent, not insecure but disillusioned. She felt incredibly small, powerless in a world full of decisions she could do nothing but watch.              A budgie would spit out its food, and hours later her grandfather would call to complain that his birds were being fussy with food again, that he missed her visits, that she should walk over for a cup of tea and a cookie.              She’d daydream about a boy in school, think about holding his hand, twining their fingers together as they walked and laughed. Then she’d blink down at her essay and see him blushing at something, another girl, his hands linked together as he clenched his fingers in a nervous gesture. She’d hang back. why even try when she knows that in a matter of weeks, he’ll be infatuated with someone else? Why attempt to do something if you know you can’t change what’s going to happen? It’s a lesson she learned young.              Why wear glasses if her vision stayed the same?

Of course, she didn’t see everything. That would be ridiculous. Impossible. No, she only saw things she couldn’t change.              If whatever forces were at work let her pick her sight, she would have seen the young woman hurrying along before she ran into her, spilling coffee over them both.              But she didn’t, and the coffee was so hot it left their skin red and prickling from the pain.              “Sorry!” the woman said, pulling Mia’s university books from the floor and passing them back. She was pretty, in a messy, chaotic kind of way. Her glasses were crooked on her long nose. “I’m so clumsy sometimes!”              “It was my fault,” Mia said, looking down. She should have raised her head from her feet, a lesson her mother had been trying to teach her for the past two decades. It had yet to sink in. the coffee burned almost as much as the curious gaze of the young woman.              “I’m Aleena,” she said. With one hand she brushed her dark curls away from her face and smiled brightly with wonderfully crooked teeth. “What’s your name?”              “Mia,” she replied, somewhat lost.              “Would you like me to buy you a new coffee, Mia?” Aleena asked, still smiling. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, as beautiful as her deep skin, as beguiling as the rest of her.              “I thought you were in a rush,” Mia said. She could feel a blush spreading from the burn on her chest, up to her neck and cheeks.              “Some things can afford to be postponed, and I’d like to go for coffee with you. What do you say?”              Mia didn’t know where this was going. She always knew where things would end up, whether she wanted to or not. In this unnamed hesitation, uncertain vulnerability that felt larger than a stranger on the street and the cooling of fresh coffee on her shirt, she was as blind as everyone else, and that scared her even more than the gift of knowing.              She never took risks. What was the point? Things were fated to happen whether she tried to intervene or not, and she’d known that since the first time she’d blinked and found herself somewhere distant. But Aleena was a stranger with a beguiling smile, and no matter how many times Mia blinked as they both waited for her to find the courage of her voice, her sight didn’t send her any clues. This future was locked behind an impenetrable door, unknown to her.              “It’s just coffee,” Aleena said, softer now. Gentler, as if speaking to a spooked animal. Calmer, despite her wild appearance and the flurry in which she moved. “It doesn’t have to be anything more or less than coffee. One thing at a time, Mia.”

One thing at a time.              She’d never dealt with one thing at a time, it was a constant stream of everything at every time, all mixed and distorted into one inky blur of distant vision.               But coffee sounded nice.              Just coffee sounded very nice.              “Okay,” she said, surprising herself. It felt like a risk, like a victory.              Aleena’s answering smile felt like a reward.

How useful it would have been to know the significance of that coffee.              How useful it would have been to know that they would spend hours talking, laughing, and only a handful of meetings later would share their first kiss outside of the doors of that same coffee shop. Mia wished she’d known what was coming, not because she would have changed it, but because she could have stopped worrying about her feelings being reciprocated, felt the ease of carelessness for longer than a fleeting moment.              In a matter of weeks she found herself resenting her sight once more, not for her vision, but her lack of. Why in this one area couldn’t she see what was going to happen? People fell in and out of love all the time, uncertain but excited. Relationships began and end, people came and went as they always did.              Mia found herself lost not in her hyperopia, but instead a haze of myopia. When she saw Aleena, she could see nothing past her. No distance, no future, just the present, the close, the heavy, significant now of it all. The way their hands linked together and matched so well, one pale and one tanned, one bare but for freckles, the other adorned in rings. The way Aleena always held open the door for Mia, the way Mia found herself enjoying hiding chocolate in Aleena’s belongings to cheer her up when stress bogged her down. The way they curled together in the cold, Aleena’s nose against her forehead, breath cloudy in front of her eyes. The way Aleena’s glasses steamed as she drank warm coffee, the way she smelt of lavender, always, because she used the oil for everything from sleep to dry skin. The way they read in silence together, danced together, lay together, smiled together. The way they seemed to be falling together, not separate or alone. Mia’s vision couldn’t stretch past the now of it all, taking in each detail one at a time until all that she saw was the present.

“I have hyperopia,” she admitted one late night. Aleena’s head was heavy against her shoulder, a pleasant, familiar weight.              Aleena hummed. “That means you’re farsighted, right?”              “Yeah.”              “Well, I’m short-sighted. I think the technical term is myopia. People always say opposites attract, right? Maybe it was fate that we met.”              Mia laughed at that. “I don’t think that whoever ‘ they’ are meant that opposing vision conditions are the recipe for true love.”              “My vision is terrible if I’m not up close to the object I’m looking at. When I bumped into you, I could barely feel the coffee. All I could focus on was you.”              Mia swallowed. Such painful honesty was still foreign to her, but she was slowly learning the benefits of being open. “I… I’ve always struggled to stay in the present. I struggle to focus on what’s close. It’s easier to look into the distance than examine the truth of the closer details.”              Aleena pressed a kiss to Mia’s neck. “Together we either have an astigmatism or perfect vision. Unfortunately, seeing into the future isn’t a task our humble, faulty eyes can perform, so only time will tell.”              “If it were?” Mia asked, suddenly unreasonably tense. “If it were possible, would you look? Would you want to know?”              Aleena laughed. “Of course not! If you’re always looking at the future, how can you enjoy the present? There’s something magical about only caring about the moment you’re living.”              “You think so?”              “I do.” Aleena sat up so that they were facing one another on Aleena’s old, sinking couch. The glow from the energy saving lightbulbs was dim, the sky outside of the window a deep unidentifiable dark. Aleena’s skin looked golden, burnished by a godly light from somewhere within her. She was the brightest thing in the room, her eyes the darkest, warm and deep. “Can’t you feel this, Mia? This moment now? What could possibly matter right now other than what we feel, what we see, hear, touch? The world outside of this room is endless. There will always be problems to be solved and troubles to be cured, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy your moments. You deserve that – everyone does.”              “I wish it were that simple,” she whispered. If only it were, if only she had the control she yearned for. If she couldn’t see where this life with Aleena would lead, why could she see the suffering of strangers? The mundane romance of the elderly? The simple life of wild birds, the laughter yet to come from a small, struggling baby – why could she see it? Why her?              Aleena touched Mia’s hand. “Life isn’t about curing all ailments; it’s just about making the best of what you have. The future will always loom, lingering on the horizon, but darling, if you spend the present worrying about it then one day, you’ll have nothing to look forward to, only back. You’ll look behind at the miles you’ve walked, the years you’ve wasted in your fear, and you’ll wish you had allowed yourself those moments of quiet. Even if they come to an end and reality finds you, the future knocks at your door, you still need to allow yourself to enjoy your moments. Allow yourself a moment of myopia.”              It felt possible while Aleena was touching her hand, absorbing her focus. Mia stared, and for the first time, felt her vision begin to narrow. Allow yourself those moments of quiet .              ‘ Myopia is a common vision condition in which you can see objects near to you clearly, but objects further away appear blurry .’              Whether Aleena or someone else, or a favourite book, a beautiful sunny day, a moment in windbreak when the air seems to still, silent for a breath, and everything has paused – whether focusing on something close to you or merely yourself, a moment of myopia might be all that is needed to find peace.              “I think you might be magic,” Mia whispered to Aleena.              Aleena smiled. “I think we both know that I’m not the magic one here, darling, but doesn’t it feel wonderful to see so clearly when the two of us are looking together?”              Myopia, hyperopia, astigmatism – they were terms that in childhood, seemed to make sense to Mia. She didn’t care for them now, however. What did labels matter? There was nothing that could fix her vision, but she had found a pair of glasses that seemed to fit her wonderfully. A new perspective and a new focus. Her hyperopia would remain, but so would her new glasses, the new lens in which to see the world.


Crimson blood dripped down into the ancient apartment stairwell. I cursed and put my finger in my mouth, sucking on the fresh cut. I had cut it on a piece of upturned metal on the railing. The whole damn apartment was falling apart; last week my shower head had fallen off. I shook my head and continued descending on the staircase, the metal groaning with each step. "Morning princess," a voice said from behind me. I whipped around to face Kane, my neighbor. I scowled and removed my finger from my mouth, wiping it on my sweater casually. "Morning asshole," I crooned. Kane grinned and swept his dark hair back. "Did you hear there's a party at Jer's place tonight? It's supposed to be quite the rager," he said while wiggling his brows. I rolled my eyes, not stopping to wait for him. Kane continued walking down the steps behind me. "You should come with me, May," he suggested. I paused and turned around. Two steps above me, he was towering over me. I was average height, but he was already tall. The stairs  made him a giant. I took a couple steps up so that I was closer to his height. "Yeah?" I said casually. Kane smirked. I shrugged. "Maybe. Now I have to get to work," I said as I began walking again. This time Kane continued in step beside me. "Got somewhere to be?" I inquired. He was beginning to annoy me now. Kane smirked and elbowed me playfully. "Nah, I just enjoy your company so much. You do have a way with people," he said sarcastically. I jabbed him in the stomach and he let out an "oof". That made me laugh. "That's what I get for being friendly?! Well, I don't want to see what happens if I'm rude," he breathed. I sped up in step until finally, I got to the first floor. "You have a good day," I said as I opened the front door to the building. Kane smiled goofily. "I'll see you at the party." I did not respond as I walked outside. The sounds of people chatting and car engines rumbling greeted me. I coughed on the fumes of a smoker standing outside the building and shot him a dirty look. I was late for work, but it did not matter much. My boss never noticed when I ditched, and I still got a meager pay check at the end of each month. It was a pretty simple way to make enough money to live in the city. It was better than living in the suburbs, where nothing much ever happened. For my whole life, I had felt like there was something waiting for me, something that would take me far away. The city was calling my name, so I answered. Now here I was, earning minimum wage at a pizza shop, living in a crappy apartment. My day was fairy simple. I worked the ovens, putting the pizzas in and pulling them out when they were ready. When my shift was over, I went home and flopped down on the bed. The springs squeaked under the weight of my body. I sighed and glanced at my dresser, which was overflowing with clothes. Maybe a party would be nice to take the edge off? It was free booze, which was better than nothing. A small part of me whispered something else, a name, but I ignored it. Yet... Kane would be there. Although he drove me crazy, there was something about him that made me feel... happy? no, that was not the word. I guess the only way to describe it was that I actually had fun when he was around. So I got up from bed and put on my favorite cocktail dress. It was way too fancy for an apartment rager, but I did not care. If I was going to show up somewhere, I would show up looking fabulous. The navy dress cut off just above my knees and had a mesh cutouts on the sides. I tied the halter around my neck and then slipped into a pair of converse. I said I wanted to look fabulous, but I was not about to walk down all those steps in heels. I picked up a lipstick tube and painted my lips a bright red. Perfect. The minute I walked into the apartment, I regretted coming. It smelled like vomit and old beer. Couples were sprawled out on couches, groping each-other and drinking themselves silly. Before I had the chance to turn right back around out the door, Kane pulled me inside and handed me a cup of beer. "This sucks," I whispered. Kane nodded. "I know right. But it's free beer!" he exclaimed. I laughed and chugged the beer. Kane cheered my name as I finished it, wiping my mouth. "What a woman," he murmured. I grinned. Kane lifted his cup and then took a deep sip. I laughed and began pulling him towards a table with bottles and cups scattered all over it. I knocked back a bottle of god knows what. Kane howled with laughter and put a hand on my shoulder. I shook him off and stopped abruptly. His touch on my shoulder felt off. It was as if his fingers against my bare shoulder were electric. Before the better part of me could stop myself, I was pulling him against me. I wrapped my arms around his neck end brought my lips up to his. He stood there stiffly, shocked. So I pulled away and stepped back. "I-I... I shouldn't have done that. I'm going home asshole," I snapped. Kane just stared at me, bewildered. I did not look back as I ran out of the apartment. The next day, I took the day off to walk around the city. It was so... grey. The skies were gray, the buildings were grey, and the street was grey. Even some of the people were grey. I passed a hotdog cart and glimpsed a large man trying to convince tourists that his hotdogs were New York's best. I began crossing a crosswalk but stopped in the middle. People passed me, ignoring me completely. I had to do something. It bothered me that my life was just... uneventful. So I turned around, making my way back to the apartment. It was as if something had just clicked. He had been right in front of me the entire time. Kane opened the door and grinned. I pushed through the doorway and kissed him. This time, he seemed less surprised. His hands wrapped around my waist. I pulled away just long enough to say, "this doesn't mean I like you, asshole." He laughed against my lips and that sound had me kissing him even harder. When I finally pulled away, we were both breathless.

Kane had a smug look on his face, so I rolled my eyes. "So, you don't hate me after all?" he asked. I crossed my arms. "Maybe."

For the next few weeks, I spent a lot of time with Kane. We even went out to dinner one night. He took me to a nice Italian place and bought me dinner, all the romantic stuff. He even bought me flowers when Valentine’s day came around. Things were truly starting to brighten up. The city seemed brighter too, with colorful billboards and happy-looking people. Maybe they had been there the whole time, but I was just too blinded by my own slump that I never noticed. All that brightness turned into dread on one Sunday afternoon. I was humming to myself in the bathroom when it struck me. I scrambled to check the calendar on my phone. I gasped quietly and quickly got dressed. I ran down the street to the pharmacy and bought what I needed, not even pausing to think. Then I was at Kane’s doorstep, crying silently. He tucked me into his chest and brushed my hair back, shushing me gently. Hand shaking, I held up what I had bought at the pharmacy. He took it with his free hand and examined it. Without a word, he pulled me inside and set me down on the couch. “I-I don’t know how this happened,” I sobbed. Kane offered one of his smirks. “I think you do,” he said. I scowled at him. “This isn’t time for joking, Kane. I could be…” I drifted off and sunk deep into the cushions.

“Hey, it’s ok. It’s going to be fine. Just… head on into the bathroom, we will find out the situation, and then we will take it from there. It’s all going to be fine,” he explained. I nodded and got up from the couch. I took his hand and we went into the bathroom to find out if this was really happening. I prayed to myself that it was not. I was too young to be a mother. I had plans! Plans that I had not yet acted upon, but I was going to. A baby would complicate everything. It would ruin everything. As we waited for the test, Kane’s foot tapped on the tile anxiously. He had never told me what his plans were, but I doubted they included a baby. Kane reached over the counter to pick up the test. He stared at it intently. “Well? What is it?” I asked. Kane flipped it around, displaying a large negative sign. I exhaled. Kane was still silent and emotionless. I smiled brightly at him and gave him a tight hug. “Thank god,” I sighed. Kane looked at me with his brown eyes narrowed. “Would being pregnant with my baby have been the worst thing imaginable?” he asked. I thought about that for a moment. Then I told him the truth. “It’s not time. I have so much ahead of me… For a year I’ve been living in this city. I came here because it was supposed to be the city of opportunity. Yet I’ve done nothing but mope around. I think… Kane, I think this made me realize something,” I explained. Kane raised an eyebrow. I smiled sadly. “And that is?” “I need to do things. I need to work hard, at a real job, and I need to motivate myself… I hope you understand, but I don’t think I can do that with you,” I said softly. Kane looked hurt for a second, but then he nodded in understanding. “I'm going to miss you, May. If you ever need me… I’m just a few floors below you,” he said. I knew he meant it. If I came running to him for help a week from now, he would help me. That was the kind of person Kane was… And I had not seen it for months of living here. Yet when I finally had, this is how it ended: a broken relationship.

But I was not broken. In fact, I felt fixed . I smiled to myself as I made my way out the door and stepped into the city. The lights were bright and people were laughing. The sky was blue with big white clouds drifting by. I glanced to my right and there was a huge billboard down the street. In big black letters, it read “It Starts Today”. I may have been crazy from an emotional day, but I began walking towards that billboard. I could have sworn it was calling my name.


I Know What You’re Thinking “George, while you were in the bathroom, we received a call from the university for you.” “I hope that they don’t want to take my degree away after having a second look at the papers I wrote way back when.” “Very funny George. This is serious. Apparently there is a group of scientists at the university who have made what they called a great discovery. So far no outsiders know about this discovery, and they want you to interview them and observe the effectiveness of what they have invented.” “Wow. Well I did take a first year foundational course in science when I was there, and I got a good mark, the highest mark that year for me.” “No George, they were apparently quite impressed with the article you wrote about the strengths and weaknesses of electric cars and self-propelling lawnmowers.” “When do they want me?” “As soon as you can get there. They are quite eager to let the world know what they have discovered.”            George grabbed his camera and his recording device, and sprinted out of the office, into his car, and sped down to the university. Although it had been years since he was last on the campus, he found his way to the science building easily enough.            He was greeted on the main floor by a university security officer, and told to take the elevator to the top floor. George was surprised by what he saw when he arrived at his destination and the elevator door opened. There were two police officers standing there, one of whom asked him whether his name was George Stanley, and did he have ID on him to prove that he was who he said he was.  He replied in the positive, took out his wallet and showed the officer his driver’s license. He was then escorted by the two officers into the room that apparently housed the experiment. Everyone in the room except for the officers, and, of course, himself, wore long white lab coats.            The one who seemed to be the leader approached him and said, “Before we explain what it is that we have discovered, we are going to demonstrate it to you, with you as the research subject.”            George began to feel a little nervous at this point. The leader then reassured him that this experiment would be painless. “I am just going to expose you to some electro-magnetic waves, that will pair up with the waves created by your brain. What we are going to show you is our lie detector. I am pretty sure that you are about to tell me that such a device has already been developed, but it really has not. What was previously invented is what we call a psychophysiological detector of deceptions, and it is not infallible. It is more an intimidator that it is a detector – no intimidation, no detection.            For our invention to work we have to influence a person’s brainwaves with the waves from our machine. Now stand still. What I want you to do after I send the waves your way is to have you say what colour comes into your mind. If it is the same one that we have programmed our wave machine to send your way, then the two of you are connected. And we will be able to catch you in a lie.            George was usually a big talker, with a sarcastic comment for every occasion. In this case he was more than a little stunned by the experience, and said nothing. When the device was turned on, he heard a kind of buzzing in his brain, that had lasted a few seconds, later to fade away. Then the scientist pointed the device at him again, and there was a different tone of buzzing, followed by the word ‘brown’ resounding in his head several times.            “Okay, George, what was the colour?”            After a few seconds, in which George seriously contemplated giving a wrong answer, he said “brown.”            “Right! Now George, we are going to ask you a question, to which you can lie or tell the truth. We will tell you which one it is. George, are you married?”            George said that he was, and the lead scientist correctly replied with “That’s a lie”. George just nodded his head in response.            “We are now going to explain to you how it works. Let us know if you don’t understand. It is highly technical of course.”            George then asked a question, “Are you not going to de-program me first?”            The reply hit him like a hammer blow.

           “Oh, we cannot do that. We tried, but could not find a way to do that, so we ended that part of the research. We feel that it would be relatively harmless to keep people programmed, as we will have absolute control of the devices. There will be no misuse.”            George recorded the explanations of different aspects of the technology, so his complete attention was on what he was learning. He had the distinct impression that when he did not quite get what they were saying, they would repeat what they had said slowly and with more explanation.

           When he was about to leave, the lead scientist asks him a peculiar question. “When are you going to be writing this piece?” He replied by telling the man that he always wrote his articles as soon as he arrived at work at nine o’clock in the morning, as he was a ‘morning person’. He gave his standard joke about that saying, “I never wrote anything intelligent in the afternoon.”            After he had left and was driving back to the newspaper office, he wondered that the repetition of the explanations that he didn’t quite follow was the product of their ‘reading his mind’. He wondered how far he would have to go to be beyond their range. Or would there be no ‘beyond the range’. He knew from his regular reading of scientific journals that electro-magnetic waves were used to travel far into space. Travelling on earth should not  then pose a significant challenge to their use.            When he got back to the newspaper office, he went straight away to talk to the editor to explain the problem he would have with writing an unbiased article on the research. The editor, whom George respected for his intelligence, particularly as it was demonstrated in his ability to write meaningful articles, presented him with a strategy that could resolve his problem.            He followed it to the letter. The next morning, at precisely nine o’clock, he first wrote an article that was solidly supportive of the research, and the researchers. Minutes after he was finished the draft copy of this piece, he received a phone call from the lead researcher, who stated that he was sure that whatever he wrote would be fine with them. He should not worry about “getting it right”.            Then, as the editor had suggested, he wrote what he truly felt, giving the article the title “Do you want to be programmed?” It had a powerful impact on the readers. The research ethics committee of the university soon declared that they would cut the funding of the project until such time as they found a way to deprogram those who were subjected to the waves. The committee asked George whether he wanted to be a research subject, as he was one of the very few who had been programmed, the others being university students who had badly needed the money. While he was apprehensive of the scientists ‘messing with my mind’, particularly after the critical article that he wrote, he agreed to participate as he wanted his brain purged of the effect of the waves. When he made his return to their research room, his first words were “I know what you’re thinking.” There was an initial silence. Then they laughed.


"It's been what? Fifteen years. Yeah." "What is or was? I no too sabi this English thing." "What made me me." "Ahhh. This one you're making sense of today. What happened Kay?" "I never talked about my twin right?" "Yeah. I didn't want to probe. It was like you wanted the past to remain where it was. Although, I did want to know." Mide says a bit thoughtful. "Well... Here we go." "I'm the different one in the family. (Some people may replace the different with ugly if you get the gist.)" Mide knows better than to interrupt but he still does. "What! Mide screams. You've got to be kidding me. Or did you do plastic surgery and I'm not aware? How can you look like this and you say you are ugly? I can't believe you. Let me see pictures." "Nah. I didn't do plastic surgery. But here's a picture of us all." "If that's the case, then your family must be fine. Like superb. Spec. That kinda thing." I show him a picture that never left me and for a moment he is stunned into silence. He just stares at me then back at the picture. His mouth agape with shock. "Your family is beautiful. At this point, I think I know what beauty is". He says. I blush. But continue. "So, everyone had light. They were so fair. They even had strands of brown hair scattered around. And I was like this. Their hair was a crown. Mine was more like a comedy. They took me for a joke. I mean a joke. There were several jokes. But, I could not forget one, it said, we know God doesn't make a mistake, but when we see you, we doubt that. Everyone always laughed. And the joke never lost its humor. Tai was the sun and I was just a reflection of him. The moon. The closer I was to him, the more I shone but I still could not be as bright as he was. The farther, he went from me, the less I shone.

Just like the sun, everyone loved Tai. He was like warmth. Shining. Even jollof rice could not compete with him. He was loved. He was smart. And you already know he's a head-turner. He was approached by several modeling agencies but he turned them down. He said he wanted to be Doctor. He was so ambitious. I hadn't figured a thing about how my life would go. He was just perfect. He could run so well, when he ran, you would feel his breeze past you.

When we were fifteen, we had a small birthday party. More like Tai had a birthday party. After the party, Tai said he had a headache. Mum gave him painkillers. And just as he was about to put the water in his mouth, he fell Mum screamed. Everyone rushed down. It was so scary. Tai never fell ill. If we had known there were scarier things ahead, we would have prepared our hearts. But no. He was going to be a doctor and everyone held on to that.

Tests were run on him and we waited. We were asked to go home but we just couldn't. We waited. The tests results came out and mum and dad were called into the Doctor's office.

When they got out, mum couldn't look up and we knew something was wrong. Dad was still cool. He was cool in the storm kind of man. Keeping it all together till it fell away. He said it was fine but Tai would not be coming home with us that night.

After much persuasion, we agreed to go home but it was obvious that the sun was absent on our planet.

Tai kept his cool. He knew he had cancer. He knew he was close to the end of his life. He knew he couldn't be a doctor anymore but he still kept his light on. He was fighting cancer armed with a smile.

When I found out, I became numb and dumb. I couldn't feel. I couldn't speak. I forgot how to. I just didn't how I was living all before then. The only word that kept on spinning in my head was cancer. It was ironic. He wanted to be a doctor but now, he would need several. Days passed in a blur and when the pain could no longer be masked, when his hair was gone and his face looked gaunt, Tai began to crack. It wasn't as quick as an egg. It was a slow and painful cracking. He couldn't keep up with the bits of himself that were lost. As each hair fell, so did his spirit drop till nothing was left of him. He and I now shared the same feeling. We were united in our numbness and dumbness. No one could make us speak. Not even ourselves.

It was this time that I turned to self-harm. Blades, hot iron, fire were used. I enjoyed the only sensation I could feel.

One day, no one knew why but Tai talked. He emptied his empty soul. And I received the only piece left of him. The next day, he died. He knew. He knew he was going to die so he left a piece of himself as a legacy in my heart. When I heard, I screamed or maybe howled. It was an ear-splitting sound that only meant pain. I tore at myself. I grabbed my hair, intending to pull it off. I couldn't do much more because I was sedated.

When I came to be, I wept and wept. I did all types of crying. Loud. Silent. Tears only. The sound only. Whichever way. The numbness had left and the feelings that had been accumulated needed an escape. Seeing my state, mum and dad decided to take me to my aunt. I was always happy in her presence. She hated the jokes made about me. Affirmed me. Loved me.

She's who I call Mum. She nursed me to full emotional health. I became the crazy happy person that I am. So unlike then when I had no words and no tears, I now have words. A lot of them. And as for the tears, I've become an expert in shedding tears in public without being seen. So, Mide that's what made me me." "Wow. Wow. You went through all that? I'm so sorry" "No, need to be sorry" I said. He gave me a hug and when I looked at his face, I saw tears in his eye. Tears for me.


"La Femme Fatale of the Frontier" By AJ Lemos “La Femme Fatale of the Frontier” is what she calls herself. Or maybe that’s what “they” call her. Not entirely sure. Either way, she’s causing quite a stir, from what I hear. “I swear she owns the town,” the young female ranch hand Bobbi Sue semi-giggled as she uttered the words, and I continued our interview. We strolled along on horseback along the long, dusty dirt trail. “How she ended up here, I got no idea. Don’t figure a town of this size would show up on any of them maps they sell in the downtown shops, know what I mean?” I was a middle-aged investigator in my second year at the local county sheriff’s department who had been assigned to look into reports of what appeared to be organized crime involving a young, up-and-coming female who was making quite a name for herself in our small-town community. To investigate someone like this deserves – and requires - multiple perspectives. This young rancher named Bobbi Sue was a lead I had gotten from a local women’s social club. Apparently, Bobbi and “la femme fatale” were seen socializing together a time or two. “Acquaintances…nothing more, I can assure you,” was Bobbi’s response to any assumption there were any social or other ties between the two. I think Bobbi is aware of “La Femme’s” criminal ties. “How did y’all meet again?” She paused for the first time during our interview. Her horse was stopped abruptly in its tracks. I highly doubt she stopped to let a deer cross the path. Sudden stops like these are usually not a good sign in my line of business. Bobbi Sue looked down at the ground. Her golden blonde braids of hair fluttering in the breeze under her chocolate brown wide-brimmed hat. “We both belong to the same women’s social club, but I honestly don’t exactly remember,” Bobbi tried to recall, as she and her horse came to a complete stop on the path. “We were never formally introduced, if that’s what you mean.” “Seems to me you would remember having met someone like this person…” “Sorry; don’t remember.” We continued as the day got hotter. The unforgiving high country heat out here in this part of the west can put a beating on even the most healthy of humans, which I admit I am not one. “She just showed up one day at one of our meetings, acting like she was all in charge,” Bobbi Sue continued, in an annoyed tone of voice. “You know, like she was the president or whatever.” “I’m guessing that was not a welcome sight?” “Noooooo.” “Then I saw her a few nights later in one of our gambling halls, talkin’ all sorts of crazy things about, like, her husband and stuff.” “What sorts of crazy things? Care to explain?” “Oh, like, how he don’t say much, especially ‘round her. Almost like she was braggin’.” “And that’s crazy?” “Well, out here, in the frontier culture and such, a lady kind of needs to know her place. Not always male-dominated necessarily, but a wife shouldn’t be talkin’ such negativity and down on her husband like that.” I could tell by her facial expressions and gestures that these words were driven as much by personal belief and conviction as they were by societal norms. “Do you know when she came to town and where she came from?” “When I have been around her, I have noticed a slight Irish accent, I’d say. Maybe she was born in Ireland? My family came here from Scotland originally, so we know a little about western European history. She reminds me a little of the stories I’ve heard about Anne Bonny, that famous lady pirate. Heard of her? “I have.” “Yeah, just the attitude and stuff. Nah, you’d have to ask someone ‘round here who knows her better about when she came to this town. I’d guess a few years back.” “Her nickname…’La Femme Fatale’…given to her or she created it herself?” “Ahhh, now that’s one I can help you with!” Bobbi almost seemed appreciative that that was my next question. “Come to find out, anyone who spends any more than, say, 20 minutes talkin’ with her will learn that her nickname is self-proclaimed.” “….And the reason….or reasons?” “Hah!” There was an unexpected long silence that followed. Perhaps our interview on horseback had reached its conclusion, albeit abruptly and without warning. Perhaps I had crossed a line I didn’t know existed. Or perhaps my guest was thoughtfully considering her response. Either way, patience was my ticket to the answer I so craved. That much I knew. “She breaks all the rules, that one.” “Huh? Would you care to….” I didn’t even have time to finish asking my…. “We all know it’s not a matter of ‘if,’ but how many? You know, men, I mean. Don’t take the ‘fatale’ part literally. From what I hear, she’s being funny with that part. But she goes through them. Some married, some not.” Her tone of voice ranged from that of a stern, no nonsense courtroom judge to a high-pitched, Sunday morning church pew gossip. “Affairs you mean?” I asked her. “Adultery?” “And her charm…my god, that charm!” Bobbi Sue said with her voice rising, as she looked out over the horizon. “Not to me, but to them…those men. I feel so sorry for their wives, girlfriends, and such!” “So, she’s a homewrecker, I take it?” “More than that! She has money. Or her husband does. She’s bought 2-3 businesses here locally. She’s driving out the originals, too. Disgusting! Business savvy, I tell ya! Out for blood, more like it!” “Wow, doing damage both publicly privately. And she’s younger, yes?” “Um, wanna say early 30’s maybe? So, yes. I’m in my mid-20’s.” Whatever the reason, this interview felt at this point more like casual conversation between old friends or two family members. Maybe it was because we were on horseback? Maybe it was the scenery….the landscape…not much to offer that was pleasing to the eye. Patches of brown grass. Cactus scattered about. Old, wrought iron fences that indicated property boundaries and wind direction with its creaking noises as it responded to the wind’s gentle push.

I continued my interview. “So….know anything about her supposed ties to criminal activity?” “Nope! Can’t help ya there, friend,” her response as quick as the weather patterns change where we live. “’Cause I’ve heard…” “Look, she hangs out with ‘em in gambling halls, know what I mean?” “From what I’ve heard and what you’ve said, yes.” “All I can say is…she probably shouldn’t run for public office ‘cause of all the dirt they’ll dig up on her, know what I mean?” “Any specifics?....” “You don’t give yourself the nickname ‘la femme fatale of the frontier’ if you’re sitting around your home all day, doin’ the dishes, lookin’ after the kids, cleanin’ the house, and such.” “Probably not….” Another long pause. I continued the interview. “So, anything else I need to know before I head off?” “I don’t know. Is there? Like I said, I swear she owns the town,” Bobbi Sue semi-giggled yet again as she uttered those now eerie words again, and I finished our interview. We strolled along back to her ranch so she could get back to her afternoon job duties. As I was leaving to head back to my office, I know my search for “La Femme Fatale of the Frontier” was far from over. And I was also determined to find out who “they” are. Not entirely sure. Either way, she’s causing quite a stir, from what I hear.


The Bigger Problem "Houston, we have a problem." William Travis, leader of the American forces, was worried. He had reason to be worried. It was the thirteenth day of the siege, and thousands of armed Mexicans were on the point of overwhelming the outnumbered defenders of the Alamo. The communicator crackled. The holographic image of Sam Houston materialized. The wrinkled forehead of the commander threatened to swallow up his bushy eyebrows. "Yes, Travis. What's the problem that we have?" He emphasized the we . General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna had surrounded the village of San Antonio and the ancient Franciscan mission of El Alamo. For the last twelve days the army had poured in soldiers and cannon and subjected the American outpost to daily bombardment. Santa Ana had swiftly taken control of the village and mounted several assaults on the mission and outlying buildings. So far, every attack had failed. "I think this is it," said Travis. "This is the final assault. We're down to our last powder, we have no more cannonballs, all we can see are rank upon rank of soldiers converging on the walls." "Yes," said Houston. "I understand you have a problem. But how is that our problem? "My God, Sam! We're in the same army. We've signed up for this war. This is our war of Independence. This is how we establish the glorious Republic of Texas. I am a regular soldier as are so many others, and we are allied with volunteer militia and with sympathetic Mexicans, and we have pledged to oppose the regular Mexican army and its desire to take away our rights and impose an unacceptable government, a foreign government. That all makes it our problem. Houston paused a moment before replying. "I still don't see it as my problem. Enlighten me." " You are our commander in chief!" "Yes, I am your commander. And what does a commander do? Travis sighed. "He commands. He issues orders." "To who?" "What?" "To whom ̶ excuse me, for a moment I forgot my education." "Why, to us. To we followers. To we subordinates." "To us followers. To us subordinates" "What?" "Sorry, I just forgot the question. What was your answer?" "I said," said Travis, "you issue orders to your subordinates." "Right. Now we're on track. And what do subordinates do? Think carefully." "I think," said Travis, "I know where this is going. Listen, Sam, some weeks ago, you ordered us to abandon the Alamo, to fall back and regroup, that Santa Anna was amassing forces to the south, and that we were in danger of being outmaneuvered. But, we had our reasons for staying. We had twenty cannon, we had a fortified position, we had a sizeable group of doughty defenders, and most of all, as you know, any Texian is a match for ten Mexicanos." "But what if," said Houston, "there are eleven, or twelve, Mexicanos?" "What?" "Never mind. What does Jim say?" "Jim?" "Colonel James Bowie. Leader of the volunteers. Lieutenant Colonel William Travis, pray tell me, what does Jim Bowie say? If I know Jim, he has half a dozen pistols, primed and ready, and is picking his teeth with that butcher knife of his." There was a burst of static on the communicator. Sam Houston's image wavered, then steadied. There were scattered volleys of shots. Travis glanced away from the screen to take in hundreds upon hundreds of uniformed soldiers forging in, some carrying ladders. Cannon from the walls of the fort blasted away. "Jim Bowie is . . . indisposed." "What do you mean, 'indisposed'? That doesn't sound like Jim Bowie. Bowie is no malingerer." "Well, he's sort of lingering . . . in bed." "Explain that, dammit. In bed?" "Bowie fell sick just after the siege began. He's deathly ill. But he'll fight to the last breath." "Dammit. Dammit. What about the other Jim?" "Other Jim?" "Captain James Fannin. I understood you sent for him to reinforce your ranks." "A few of Fannin's men made it through. The countryside is overrun with cavalry, but Crockett liaised with a small group and helped them into the fort. But that's it. No more help is coming. We have a problem. A big problem. We have no more balls. We're loading cannon with hinges and nails and chopped up horseshoes in lieu of canister." "So, Davy Crockett is doing his bit? Tell me, is he still wearing that leather hunting outfit and that wacky coonskin cap?" "Colonel David Crockett never changes. He's solid. If we didn't have him and his thirty volunteers and their long rifles, we'd have succumbed days ago. But, back to our problem. As our commanding officer, what's your backup plan? Are you going to relieve us? "Now, Lieutenant, that's kind of hard to do. You see, I'm calling from the Lone Star. You know, the starship. We're a gazillion light years from planet Earth and orbiting the planet Xerxes. Xerxes, as you know, is a candidate for colonization. After which we'll annex Xerxes to our new republic. It's part of our grand master plan. Stevie's in Washington now, conducting diplomatic talks with the American Congress . . . " "Stevie? Who the H is Stevie?" "Commander Stephen F. Austin. Soon to be named Secretary of State to the new Republic of Texas. You know, Stevie is more of a lover than a fighter, so he's the right man for the right job. And there's the future to think about. Part of the plan is to annex the eventual territories of Colorado, the highest state, and big Wyoming, and salty Utah, and silvery Nevada, and delightful New Mexico, and of course, California. "California, right. Sunny California." Travis paused and collected himself. Bullets whizzed past him, many clipping the adobe walls. He brushed dust and chips off his epaulets. "But, Sam, we have a more immediate problem. We  ̶ " "Of course, Bill, of course. I'm fully aware of your predicament. But who created your predicament? Not me." Volleys of gunfire pulsated through the communicator. "Sam, for the love of God, are you going to relieve us? I see them clambering over the north wall now. We need relief now. Now!" "Yes, Bill, I'd help you if I could. But, even utilizing hyperspace and a dozen shortcuts that I know of, we wouldn't arrive till tomorrow morning. Even then I couldn't commit our troops to a hopeless cause. So, you see, you do have a problem." "But surely, surely, you have a backup plan. You do have a backup, right?" "I always have a Plan B. I've ordered several batteries of Patriot missiles. A single Patriot can account for several dozen Mexicanos. You'll have the advantage then. But there is a problem." Travis strangled a cry as soldiers poured over the low parapet into the courtyard. He fired both barrels of his pistols and drew his sword. Davy was swinging his long rifle like a club, no one had time to reload. "The problem," Houston continued, "is that the missiles are on back order. Delivery date estimated to be a hundred and fifty years. Sorry." Volleys of gunfire overwhelmed the transmission. "Sorry," whispered Houston. "So sorry."


Content warning - Wholesome Couple Cuddles "But there's so much Evidence!" Penny said emphatically, hoping to bring their "discussion" to a close. Joe smiled and tried not to look too pleased with himself, though he didn't try particularly hard and his smile wormed across his face. "Yeah, that isn't evidence for ghosts. You got to hit me with intelligent responses or nothing." Joe said. "They say names and stuff!" Penny said. "Getting it once through that thing is not good enough, not by a long shot. I wanna hear, can you say your name, can you say my name, where are we, what happened to you, all in good time and with accurate responses." Joe said. "Well that's ridiculous no ones ever going to get that." "Exactly, the burden of evidence is too high, why is that?" Joe said . "Because you're an ass." Penny said, without much conviction. "No...." Joe said. "Because Ghosts aren't real." Penny said. "There it is." Joe said. "But what about The walking noises on the roof? In that hotel in New Orleans? What about that?" Joe said. "I don't know, maybe there was a big fat bird up there." Joe said. "A big fat bird! Making human stomping noises that's ridiculous." Penny said. "Less ridiculous than ghosts? I think not." Joe said. "So you admit that you don't know what it was." Penny said. "Yes, I admit that I don't know what it was." Joe said. "So, it could have been a ghost." Penny said. "Could have? Sure. Was it? No." Joe said. "You are so unreasonable sometimes." Penny said. "Almost always, like, look. I get it, you think this thing is real but I don't. I'm willing to be convinced but you have to do a lot better than stomping footsteps and one word answers from a spirit box to win me over." Joe said. There was a moment of silence in their shared flat, the scatter of blankets and pillows that had formed around them reminding them both of the cosy life they lived. "What about apparitions?" Penny said. "Like full body appearances." Joe said. "Yeah, me and my mum have both seen them. Do you believe me?" Penny said. Joe paused and scratched at his chin. He didn't want to let the discussion evolve into a full blown argument and they were close to it getting out of hand. He needed to be delicate in his response, but he also needed to make sure he didn't encourage this sort of tactic. "I believe that you believe you saw it." Joe said. "What kind of half-assed answer is that. " Penny said. Joe winced, as soon as he said it he knew it had been a wet noodle of an answer. "I feel that if I saw a ghost, or something that looked to be like a ghost, that I would assume that I was seeing something that wasn't there." Joe said. "Oh How convenient the old I'm crazy defence. That will never hold up in court." Penny said. "Oh but a ball rolling towards someone's name in graffiti is compelling evidence for the Jury?" Joe said. "It was uncanny!" Penny said. "It was uncanny. Dare I venture into confirmation bias?" Joe said. "I'll confirm your bias in a minute." Penny said. Then paused. "I didn't mean it that way, I won't confirm your bias." Penny said. "I was gonna say, is the debate settled?" Joe said, laughing. "But like, what about Aliens?" Penny said. "Well, what do you mean by aliens?" Joe said. He was leaning back on the sofa and he pulled Penny into a tight embrace. She nestled against his chest and wiggled until as much of her was touching him as possible. He sighed in deep contentment. "Like little green men or UFOs." Penny said. "Little Green Men? No, not really. UFOs like a flying saucer, probably not. There is something to the tic tac thing though." Joe said. "Tic Tac thing?" Penny said. "I'll show you the videos, it's really weird." Joe said. "Weird like Aliens weird?" Penny said, her voice rising with hope. "Yeah, maybe, or maybe it's just really advanced military technology." Joe said. "So you believe in Aliens but not Ghosts?" Penny said. "I mean, yeah? But also no, not really. I believe that there's other life in the Universe, it's too damn big for that not to be the case. I would be seriously surprised if Aliens have made contact with humans though." Joe said. "Why?" Penny said. "Do you have any idea how many amateur astrologists there are? People who just look at space for fun. If there was contact happening it'd be so hard to keep all those people quiet. MK Ultra wasn't even a real secret-secret and there were only a few people involved in that. We'd be talking about a conspiracy that thousands of people would be involved in." Joe said. "Arbitrary Sceptic." Penny said. "Delusional conspiracy theorist." Joe said. They both laughed and Penny turned so that he could kiss her. He was lost for a time in the soft skin of her lips. After a couple of minutes, or hours as far as Joe could tell, she snuggled back into his chest. "So no afterlife for Joe boy?" Penny said. "Doesn't seem like there will be my love. If there is, I'll find you there." Joe said. "More like I'll find you." Penny said. "Yeah, it seems more likely that I'll go first." Joe said. "We'll go out in battle together like a pair of Valkyrie." Penny said. "I think Valkyrie are all women." Joe said. "You can be an honorary one in light of your contributions to feminism." Penny said. "Why, cause I'm not the absolute worst." Joe said. "Yeah, it's a pretty low bar." Penny said. They sat together for another long moment, Penny's hand entwined with Joe's and her fingers played with his knuckles. "Sounds very serious to me. Like this is it." Penny said. Joe started to shrug but didn't want to disturb the delicate balance of their cuddle. "Yeah, I guess, I think of it as being kind of freeing. Nothing matters so only the things I want to matter actually do." Joe said. "Like us?" Penny said. "Like us." Joe said. He kissed her again. "Hmmm I like that. Penny said. "Me too." Said Joe. I love you, Joe boy." Penny said. "I love you too Penny girl." Joe said. They lingered on the magic of those words for a long time, lost in the feel of one another pressed so close together. "But ghosts are totally real." Penny said.


In the dimly lit apartment, where shadows lurked in the corners, and the flickering light cast eerie shapes on the walls, she wandered aimlessly, lost in the labyrinth of her own mind. Her spectral figure moved like a ghost, haunting the space she inhabited, as the beguiling ballet of shadows ensnared her thoughts and distorted her grip on reality. Haunted by the conviction that unseen eyes watched her every move, judging the frailty of her mortal body, she found herself trapped in a relentless cycle of self-doubt and despair. Getting dressed for work became an insurmountable feat, a Herculean effort fraught with anxiety and dread as she forced herself out of her apartment and onto the streets, the weight of her existence bearing down on her like a boulder.

As days turned into weeks, she languished in the suffocating cacophony of her own mind, a prisoner to the invisible venom that corroded her psyche, poisoning every facet of her being with its insidious influence. Her bewildered parents watched in helpless anguish as their once-vibrant daughter succumbed to the ravages of her unseen tormentor, unaware of the depths of her suffering.

Eventually, she was transported to the sterile confines of the mental hospital, where she wandered the labyrinthine corridors like a lost soul, her fractured mind a mosaic of shattered dreams and fragmented memories. ‘‘She isn’t like herself, stern and rigid, silent, and frail,’’ her mother wept to the doctor. ‘‘We will keep her for the night for observation,’’ said the white-coated professional. The mental hospital was a place of stark contrasts, where bare white walls echoed the muted sounds of suffering. From the moment one stepped through its doors, the scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of sweat and fear. The corridors stretched out endlessly, narrow and suffocating, lined with doors that hid the broken souls within. The constant hum of activity reverberated through the building, punctuated by the occasional cry, or scream that echoed down the halls.

Doctors and nurses incessantly typed on their computers behind a glass window, refraining from mingling with the patients. There was to be no conversation without an appointment.

In the common areas, patients shuffled aimlessly, their eyes vacant and haunted, lost in the spiral of their own minds. Some muttered to themselves, their words a disjointed symphony of madness, while others sat in silence, staring blankly into the void. Amidst it all, there was a sense of unreality, as if the world outside had ceased to exist and time had lost all meaning. It was a place of extremes, where hope and despair waged an eternal battle for dominance, and the line between reality and madness merged into nothingness.

She wandered the narrow corridors of the hospital, a ghost among the living, shackled to the demons that tormented her. In the depths of her despair, she renounced all semblance of humanity and starved her body as her soul withered away. Instead of opening herself and asking for help and guidance, she closed myself off deeper in silence and isolation. ‘‘It is too scary for my family and friends to know the insides of my vulnerability,’’ she thought. As doctors murmured their diagnoses, schizophrenia, their words fell on deaf ears as she retreated further into the abyss that enveloped her. The darkness within consumed her, drowning her in a sea of madness and paranoia. Without understanding what was happening, she refused medication and grew victim to the cacophony of voices that taunted her relentlessly. ‘‘It is poisonous, you are not sick’’, the voices commanded. Alone and adrift in her torment, she reached out to the one she once loved, a plea for understanding in a world gone mad. But the mirage of connection shattered; the light of her beloved, the source of awe and joy, disappeared completely, leaving her more isolated than ever, a stranger even to herself.

Weeks turned into months, each day a battle against the relentless tide of darkness that threatened to engulf her. She fought, clawing her way back from the brink of oblivion, but the scars of her descent remained etched upon her soul. With each passing day, she descended further into illness, her grip on reality slipping ever further from her grasp as the darkness closed around her like a suffocating shroud.

Yet, even in the depths of her psychosis, a flicker of hope remained—a distant light that promised salvation from the abyss that threatened to consume her whole. With shaking hands, she reached for the lifeline that dangled within her grasp, determined to reclaim her lost humanity from the clutches of the darkness that threatened to engulf her. One day, out of despair, she embraced the promise of the medication. Her doctor prescribed antipsychotics, anxiolytics, antiparkinsonians, and antidepressants. Orange pills, yellow pills, green pills. The list continued as the professional tried different concoctions to repair her fragile psyche. It was small at first, barely noticeable amid the chaos of her mind, but the medication helped her grow steadily brighter with each passing day. The drugs helped to manage symptoms of her psychosis and reduce her hallucinations and her disorganized thinking by acting on the dopamine and serotonin pathways. So, she welcomed the light, the connection to other human beings, and her remedy, which attenuated the existential angst that gripped her. For she knew that though the shadows may linger, and the demons may whisper their insidious lies, she was not alone in her struggle. Though the scars of her ordeal would always remain, they served as a testament to her resilience, a reminder of the strength that lay within her heart. And now, three months later, after what felt like an eternity trapped within the confines of her own mind, she stood at the threshold of freedom once more. With a heart heavy with anticipation, she bid farewell to the sterile confines of the hospital, leaving behind the ghosts of her past and stepping out into the world beyond. She would later be glad to fall into her friends and family's arms, well-surrounded to begin a new life journey.


"Well I'm drunk. The multiples of you and the shovel confirm it." I staggered a few steps and then asked in a bemused tone, "and why the hell is this very flat lawn so extremely uneven?" "It's the booze you need to stop." "Don't you knock booze, Mother at least it brings relief." That was obnoxious—and rather ironic considering the resulting hangover—but I was mourning and therefore allowed. "It can also makes people violent. That you know full well. You think you're the only one hurting?" "He tried to kill me, Mother!" "He's still your father." "So everyone keeps telling me," I replied sarcastically. "He's always been there for you ..." "Yeah and so is the Captain, for only $14.99 he helps me forget, but you want too much. How can I forgive that man?" "He's your father," she stated matter-of-factly like there could be no other logical alternative. I didn't agree. "I have no father." "He took care of you. He raised you, clothed you and fed you. There was a roof over your head because of him. Many fathers don't even bother after they've zipped up their pants." "And he also never taught me how to throw a ball or ride a bike. The only thing I can throw is a fit, Mother. Ever seen me on a bike? No? That's because I never learnt to ride. The one thing I could do well was to run in a straight line. Imagine that! Running away was the only thing I was good at." "You were running to the finish line, a goal." "Yes and the goal was to get away from my daddy." "You're being dramatic." The force behind the words was made meaningless by her downcast eyes. "Dad was busy, I get it. He was busy providing for his family, but kids need more than just a warm meal." "It does make life easier," she replied with a smile. I didn't reciprocate, still there was truth in her words. A silence hung uncomfortably between us before mother continued, "I didn't teach you either. I worked as well ..." "No but you taught me how to feel, to love, to care. I'll never forget that." We digested the words awhile. 'These damned silences are prevalent tonight,' I thought. 'Must be something in the air, or my drink.' I checked the glass for some hidden revelation. "Do you think I am a good mother?" "The best," I confirmed and then cried. To hell with it, I sobbed. "You also fed me, clothed me and gave me a place to sleep, but you taught me how to be human. When he was indifferent you were the one who tried to understand your child." "Your father is a product of his time." "Don't defend him! Growing up in the sixties does not give him the right to act like a bastard." "No, it doesn't but it does make him human. We all have our faults." "Murderers have plenty don't they?" I retorted venomously. "He's not a murderer." "Not convicted anyway but I could've been a murder victim. Now I'm only a victim of assault but If I hadn't stopped him I would've been dead. Why is it that an attempt at murder isn't seen as bad as murder itself, huh? If I hadn't put my finger in his eye I wouldn't be here now. How could that be better than actually killing someone? 'That's okay,' the court seems to say. 'You're still breathing aren't you? There's no real harm in only attempting to kill someone.' Never mind that someone actually tried to take your life! And there's the real rub, he's not even being punished. I'm the victim but got charged with assault by my own father!" "I know I'm sorry. Maybe had we gone to the police sooner ..." "And whose fault is that?" I cut her off. "All of you, my aunts, uncles, all my elders and even my mother," I pointed at her, "told me: 'he's your father. You can't do that.'" There was another pause. I needed the words to set in. "And then the wounds healed. It all became hearsay, and his brother! They both lied. Your husband lied to save his own skin. His brother wasn't even there but suddenly I was the ungrateful son, the layabout who assaulted his oh-so-saintly father. That supposed Christian lied through his teeth and praised his Lord with that same forked tongue." I squarely looked at my mother as I flung the accusations, but she didn't meet my gaze. "I'll never forget how he looked at me. The malice edged in his eyes that day at the police station. He would've killed me that day. That self-righteous martyr would've gladly ended me because I, a child, dared to pick on his brother. Why would you marry into that?" "He's my husband. I love him ..." "And I'm your son. You carried me, raised me and your husband tried to kill me just because I told him he's acting like a child. How's that justifiable mother? How?" I wanted to know. "Yes I disrespected him but I didn't do it for a laugh. He was drinking himself to death. Hurting you in the process. How are you still willing to put up with that?" "He'll change. He promised." "They always do, Mother. But you said it yourself he's a product of his time, a man, a real one supposedly. A man which was born right. A man who never shows his feelings and therefore doesn't understand how to resolve conflict without his fists. Yes things will be better for a while but you think he'll stay that way? Let's see what conventional wisdom has to say about this: you can't teach an old dog new tricks, right?" I asked. "Or what about the horse and water? You think he's going to drink? No Mother he won't change." "Everyone has issues with their parents," she defended. "What would you know of daddy issues? Your father was wonderful." "He wasn't perfect." "At least he could show love and had more than one feeling. Chronic grumpiness isn't fun to put up with!" She cried. My mother was close to breaking point, but she made a final sally. "He's my husband! Life changed him and me, all of us. Do you think we wanted this to happen? Do you think your father dreamed of folding his fingers around your throat?" "It was his knee, Mother." I corrected her disdainfully. "Fingers or knee, he didn't intend to kill you." "He also wasn't planning on stopping. Ever been strangled? Ever realized you're about to die?" I added forcefully. "No mother, intent is not important. He tried to kill me and you helped him to get away with it!" I was right but was it worth? My mother's knees struck the ground. I'd picked at the scabs and the foul puss, the truth, the resentment and hurt came pouring out. I'd hurt my mother. The truth hurts but seeing your mother sobbing on the floor doesn't make it easy and it certainly isn't pretty. It was painful. My heart ached and I wanted to embrace her but my stubborn head told me: 'you're the victim, not yet.' Instead I teetered to fill my glass trying hard to ignore the one woman I unequivocally loved. My indignation didn't last. It never could with my mother. Finally I told my logical self to shut up and I poured her a drink. It was a silly peace offering but she accepted it all the same. The true mark of a mother, a woman: to accept the tools in their lives unconditionally, even to their own detriment. She didn't drink but poured the rum little by little from the glass. A right waste but what did I care? I had a hole to dig. "What are you doing?" she asked after a while. "I thought you'd recognize a hole Mother, you live in one." "That's very mean." It was and I regretted it instantly. "I know," I said remorsefully, "that's why I'm here, to bury the meanness." "So why the hole?" she asked. Mother was always good at picking up on my regret. "That's where you put corpses right?" "You're going to bury your father?" she wanted to know with eyes wide. "No, I have no father. I'm digging the hole for our relationship." "Bit dramatic wouldn't you say?" She chuckled. "Still mind burying a few of his Hawaiian shirts while you're at it?" "Ha, ha! It's cathartic and I already have his precious records to dump inside." "Good, but it's also a bit much wouldn't you say? Why don't you just ignore him like a normal resentful adult?" "I'm trying to heal Mother, and besides that's the plan until I join him in hell." "Why can't you just forgive him?" "Let's ask dad to kneel on your throat and let's see how forgiving you'll be afterwards." There was no reply. "No Mother, our relationship is like this hole, empty. I'm done." "And what about me?" she demanded. "I'm in the middle. I hurt as well! I'm tired, so tired. I just want everything to go back to the way it was." Mother fell to the ground—it was becoming a habit now. I dropped the bottle and helped her up. I never was heartless enough to simply let her be in agony. She's my mother. I held her tight. She was right wasn't she? I didn't think of her. She too needed to deal with his. The betrayal of her husband and the subsequent hate of her son. My moist eyes noticed the heart she had edged in the ground. The one she made with the droplets of rum. "Ever asked why he did that?" she wanted to know as she wiped her tear-stained eyes. "Every damn day, Mother. And yes life wasn't easy for him either. That's why he drank and that's why he didn't like it when I told him he's acting like a child, because it was the truth." "And now you're drinking." "Like father like son, eh?" "That's not funny." "We have to laugh mother. What else am I supposed to do?" "We can try to understand." "I've done that! What have I been saying? I know why he did it. I know about his childhood, his perpetually pissed father. I know about work and how it depressed him to see others promoted above him. I know he grew up believing a man is all that and everything else needs to just shut or suffer a beating." "You're still his son," she reaffirmed tenaciously. "Why do you think I'm drinking? That's what I want to forget." "It's too late for that now, but this could've been avoided. Why did you lose your temper?" she persisted. "Because I was protecting you." The words were laced with emphasis. "The one person I truly love." There was no further exchange but the mood was heavy and needed alleviating. "Dad was helpful though. He was searching for my temper with me on the floor. 'Have, you, found, it, yet?' he seemed to say as he kept pushing his knee onto my throat." She laughed. "Only you could joke about this." "I'm trying to get over it. The jokes help." "You never really connected with him did you?" "About what, racism and how good the Cowboys will be this year? Yes, Mother I'm different, I'm like you. Is it so strange that your son turned out to be like his greatest role model? That I looked at my mother who always cared, even if it hurt, and then compared her to my Neanderthal of a father and found him wanting. Which do you think I decided was more venerable? I'm you, Mother. I looked at the world and realized that's who I'd like to emulate not my emotionally stunted father who believes shouting at the TV is a profound way of expressing yourself." She hugged me but she wasn't done. The decent ones never give up. "What about God?" "What of him?" "He'd like you to forgive him." "Really? Have you been having coffee with him behind my back?" "Must you be so facetious?" "Mother I fully respect your choice to believe in God. I know it keeps you going, gives you a reason to get up in the morning but please don't use those Jedi tricks on me. 'This is the father you have to forgive.' I waved my hand in front of her face the same way Sir Alec Guinness had done. She didn't much care for it or understand. I wiped her tears before saying, "Mother please understand this wasn't some whim. I didn't just wake up and say, 'today I'm burying my father.' I'll always be thankful to him for raising me, but I'm done. All I ask is that you try to respect it. You don't even have to understand just respect it, please." She wavered, opened her mouth but then simply nodded. "Okay," she said before taking the shovel, "let's fill this hole." We stood in silence as we dropped the records in the hole—and a few on my dad's most unfashionable, Hawaiian shirts. Nothing else was said as a buried my relationship with my father. I know she'll try to reunite us again someday, but I won't.