Jessie and Mary are identical twins. They look so much alike that ever since they were young, they perfected the ability to impersonate each other, fooling even their mother. However, they left such pranks aside, long ago. They are not children anymore. They are young adults now and their personalities have grown very different. Jessie is in art school, she’s laid-back and likes to think she’s the fun sister, but Mary doesn’t like her sister’s idea of fun. Mary is the “good” twin, at least that’s what their mother says. Jessie thinks her sister is entitled and acts superior, especially since she got in a very prestigious culinary school on a scholarship. However different the sisters may be, they were always close. Mary used to be bullied a lot, but Jessie always had her back. In return, Mary used to help Jessie when she would get in trouble with the teachers or their mother. Nothing can change the fact that they are sisters, but sometimes they wish they could. They rarely speak to each other now, as they live in the dorm rooms of their school. Last year, they only saw each other on Christmas, but that’s about to change. They are going home for their birthday, their mother demanded it. Neither is very excited. They would rather stay where they were, with their friends. At least, Jessie would, she thought that maybe Mary didn’t have friends to celebrate with, since she had always been a loner. Mary would probably stay in her room, alone, on their birthday, and Jessie didn’t want her sister to go through that. Jessie looked at the door of the house she had lived in all her life, she didn’t want to admit it but she missed home, she missed her mother and she even missed her sister, not that she would ever tell her that. Anne, her mother was sitting by the window, enjoying the breeze coming from outside, but she turns when she hears someone arriving. “Jessie, darling! Welcome home.” She speeds to hug her daughter. That big empty house made her feel alone without her girls, and she felt sad that they didn’t share anything with her or each other. Her babies were always close and now they feel like strangers to one another. “Hi, Mom. Is Mary in yet?” Anne noticed the awareness with which her daughter asked about her sister, as if she was afraid of seeing her again. Jessie was always the strongest daughter, and that would cost her more than she imagined. “She’s getting ready for dinner in your old room.” “Alright. I’m going upstairs too, ok?” “Sure, honey. But please, both of you come down to help me when you can, alright?” “Of course, Mom.” Jessie hugged her mother before going upstairs to the room she used to share with her sister. The house has more than two rooms, but they always liked to share one, since they could talk until sunrise. They hadn’t done that in so long making it nothing more than an old memory. Mary was too busy talking on the phone to hear her sister come into the room. “Yes, babe, I know.” “Babe?” Mary turns around at lighting speed to see the look of shock in her sister’s face. “Uhm…Vince? Yeah, I have to call you back later.” She hangs up without another word. That would get her in trouble later, but she had to deal with her sister now. “Jessie! Long-time no see.” Her sister looked the same. Once, they thought the way to be distinguished would be with distinct hairstyles, so her sister decided she would have short hair for the rest of her life. It suited her personality, especially since she started curling it. Other than that, they looked the same, at least to other people. However, Mary and Jessie knew where to look for differences. The lighter colour of Mary’s eyes, or the birthmark Jessie has on her shoulder, were just examples that no one seemed to notice. Nonetheless, even though they look the same, Mary always felt inferior to Jessie. She wasn’t as strong or bold as her sister, and she envies her for that. “Who is ‘babe’, Mary?” Mary didn’t like the accusatory tone in her sister’s words. “That’s how you greet me, after almost a year? I don’t owe you any explanations.” Jessie sighs. When Mary refuses to talk about something nothing could make her. Unfortunately, that usually means it is something she knows Jessie would disapprove of. Jessie decides to let it go. Later she would ask her mother if she knew anything about this subject. “Hi sis, how is everything?” She smiles ironically at her sister. “Everything is good. How about art school?” “Interesting.” “That’s rare, you always find everything boring except partying.” Jessie knew her sister thought she was a party girl. It was true but not to the extent that Mary thinks. Nonetheless, that was the idea that she wanted her sister and everyone else to have of her. Less pressure that way. “That’s because everything is a party there.” “I guess you are in the right place then. Don’t let mom here you.” The sisters talked for a bit, before going down and help their mother. The dinner was smooth and even pleasant. However, at the back of Jessie’s head the drilling question about who “Vince” was kept nagging her. She volunteered to help her mother with the dishes which shocked both Anne and Mary. Once in the kitchen, Anne was the first to speak. “What do you want?” It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Anne to figure out the subtle worry in her daughter’s eyes. Jessie didn’t bother asking how she knew, she just jumped into the subject once she saw her sister go upstairs from the corner of her eye. “Who is Vince?” Anne paralyzed for a second. “Wha-what?” “You heard me. Who is Vince, Mom?” Her mother wouldn’t meet her eyes, so she knew something was wrong. “She told you about him?” Anne’s voice was hushed and trembled slightly enough to go unnoticed, but Jessie noticed it. “No. I heard her on the phone. She hanged up when she saw me. Who is he?” Anne took a deep breath and looked at her daughter with tears in her eyes. This was the real reason she wanted the girls back home. Perhaps Jessie could do something about this matter. “He is her boyfriend.” “Then why do you look so upset? Why is she keeping secrets?” Anne whimpered and told a grave story to her strong daughter. A story Jessie would not be able to accept. At the same time, Mary grabbed her phone and called him. He was furious that she had hung up on him but understood when she told him about her sister. Mary missed her sister. Jessie has always been her rock, and that’s why she was glad when they got separated, it forced her to grow. However, seeing her sister again, makes her want to run to her, cry on her shoulder and vent about everything that happened this past year. She couldn’t do that. She was an adult now, and her sister wouldn’t understand. Jessie was a good sister but tended to be a little judgemental and she often overreacted. Mary knew Jessie became curious since she heard her previous phone call, so she figured she had to tell her something. After a while Mary hung up the phone and soon after she hears her sister come in. “Hey, are we sharing the room, or do you prefer to have it to yourself?” Jessie asked quietly. “Are you serious? Why would we not share?” Jessie shrugs. “I thought that you might have gotten used to having your own space.” “I did Jess, but we are still sisters, and…well…I missed you.” Mary smiled at her sister and Jessie nodded. “I missed you too, Mare.” “Not that nickname!” “Always that nickname.” Jessie laughed as she laid down on her own bed, while Mary was sitting on hers. They turn of the lights and only the moonlight lit up their faces. “Jess…” Mary whispers after a while. “Hmm?” Jessie tries to sound sleepy when in fact she couldn’t even close her eyes. “Are you sleeping?” “Yes.” Mary laughed. “Oh come on… Don’t you want to know about Vince?” Mary tried to entice her sister. Jessie froze up but quickly covered it up. “Are you finally going to tell me about your sweetheart?” “How do you know that we are dating?” “You called him ‘babe’, genius.” “Oh, that’s true…” Mary took a deep breath. “We are dating for almost a year now.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” Jessie was hurt that Mary had been keeping such important things from her. “He doesn’t know you exist.” “What?” “He knows I have a sister…just not a…” Mary stops speaking, not sure of what to say to make it sound not so bad. “A twin? He doesn’t know you have a twin?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because you are his type while I’m not…every boy I ever liked, liked you instead, even when we look the same.” Jessie wants to refuse that notion, but it is true. However, that only happened because Mary, sweet rule-abiding Mary, always falls for the bad boys. “That only happens because you have bad taste.” Jessie tries to laugh it off and pretend that she wasn’t hurt by her sister’s words. “I get why you kept me from him, but why would you keep him from me?” A thought crossed Jessie’s mind at that second. A thought that truly hurt her. “I wouldn’t steal him you know?” “That’s not the reason! I just…I thought you wouldn’t approve.” “Why wouldn’t I approve?” Jessie knew why but wanted to know if Mary would come clean. If she didn’t, things are serious, and Jessie would have to interfere. “Not a particular reason. You just never approve of my crushes.” “The reason for that being, you always pick scumbags.” “See! That’s why I didn’t tell you!” “So are you admitting he is a scumbag?” “NO!” Mary shouted. “He isn’t! I love him.” This reaction is exactly what Anne warned her daughter about. “Then I don’t see your problem. Show me who he is.” Mary thought for a while but soon was showing her sister the photos of her sweetheart. Jessie somehow managed to control her criticism at least in from of her sister and learn what she could about him. By the time they went to sleep, Jessie knew what she had to do. She woke up early the next morning and after a quick chat with her mother she got in her car and left. Not a single word to her sister. The drive took about four hours, but Jessie was too wrapped up in her thoughts to notice. She had turned off her phone so she could drive in peace, and during the whole time, she kept reassuring herself that she was doing the right thing. However, when she finally got there, she had to force herself out of the car. Jessie wasn’t sure if she could do what she knew she had to. Was she ready to lose her sister? Twins have a bond like no other. Losing her would be like losing a piece of herself. However, Jessie knew that when you truly love someone, you have to be willing to lose them for their own good. After briefly speaking to a few people, she stood outside a door. She raised her hand, ready to knock but at the last possible second she stopped. She couldn’t do it. She turned around, ready to give up and try another way. A way she knew would fail. Suddenly, the door opens. “Mary? You got here fast.” Jessie turn around to see an average looking guy. He was definitely not her type, but Mary always fell for guy that look like rule breakers. Jessie figures she envied them. Mary should be only an hour or so behind Jessie, so she had to do what she came here to do, fast. “Hey, Vincent. I missed you, so I tried to get here quickly.” It has been a while since Jessie pretended to be Mary, and they never did it without the other one’s knowledge, but she was already here so she might as well see where this goes. His eyes analyze her, looking up and down, judging everything Jessie knew it was different from Mary. Her hair, her clothes, her make up. A few guys walked by and look at Jessie with flirtatious eyes, obviously enjoying the view of her naked legs and shoulders. She was wearing really short shorts and a strapless top. “Get in.” Vincent said and she did. As soon as she was in the room, Vincent closed the door with too much strength. He forcefully grabbed her arm. “What the hell are you wearing?! And what did you do to your hair?!” His temper coming up easier than Jessie thought it would. He was perfectly normal a few seconds ago, but Jessie could clearly see the monster within. Perhaps it was because she was prepared for it. What her mother had told her about how this guy put her sister in the hospital more than once the past year made her blood boil. Anne had tried to warn her daughter and make her leave him, but that only got her three months without any news from her. Finally, her mother had to choose between losing her daughter or sit by while she got herself killed. Jessie believed her mother. Who wouldn’t when confronted with Anne’s desperate cry for help? However, she needed to see for herself. Mary was happy while talking about Vincent, and that made Jessie second guess her instincts. Not anymore. The forceful grip that Vincent had on her arm made it clear. No more second guessing her decisions. If her sister wouldn’t make the right choice, Jessie would make it for her, even if that meant losing her. “I’m sorry, babe. My clothes got ruined so I had to borrow some from my sister and my mother insisted on going to the salon as a birthday gift.” Jessie pouted. “I thought you might like it…” Vincent’s grip weaken a little face to the harmless facade Jessie was showing. “I don’t like other men looking at you.” The threat was obvious in his tone. If other men were to look at his girlfriend, she was the one that would suffer the consequences. Jessie swallowed her disgust and smiled coyly at her sister’s boyfriend. “I don’t want anyone else looking at me either.” She states and for a split second she wanted to vomit thinking about what she would have to do. “You better.” He says and she kisses him slightly. He seems shocked but doesn’t push her away. “I can prove it to you. That I’m only yours.” She said luring him to the sofa, that thankfully was exactly where she needed it to be. Vincent took his shirt before they even get there and quickly pulled her into his lap so that she was straddling him. Jessie wanted to shudder in repulse to his touch, but she knew she wouldn’t need to endure it much longer when she saw the doorknob twist. Vincent was too busy kissing her neck to notice but Jessie got ready for what would follow. Mary opens the door and freezes in place. Her brain couldn’t process what her eyes were seeing. From her point of view at the door, Jessie appear to be naked while straddling her boyfriend that was kissing her neck passionately. Jessie looked up and notice Mary at the door and did something that shattered Mary’s unresponsive stance. Jessie smiled. When Mary saw her smile, she bolted out of the door. The bang of the door was the signal for Jessie to get out of Vincent’s grip and make her way towards the door. “Where are you going?” He said not pleased at all. “Away, and you better never show your face near me again.” “What?” The shock of having her respond to him momentarily surpass his range. “What did you say to me?!” “I already called the police. If you EVER go near me again, you’ll regret it. A lot of my friends are cops and you do not want to mess with them. Forget you ever met me and go find someone else to bully.” His ego was bruised, and he wanted to lash out. He raised his hand and Jessie looked straight into his eyes. “If you touch me, jail will be your permanent home for a long while.” Her voice was stable, and he backed down. Coward. Jessie ran out the door and saw her sister near her car in the parking lot. She was obviously crying, and it took Jessie a minute to organize her thoughts and do what needed to be done. Mary saw her before she could say anything and started to angrily shout at her. “How could you betray me like this!! You are my sister! My twin!” “Mom told me everything.” That made Mary pause. “I knew you wouldn’t leave him for yourself, so now you’ll have too.” “Maybe I won’t!” She said out of spite. “Then every time you kiss him, you’ll remember that I kissed him. Every time you get in bed with him, you’ll picture me there with him instead. You know? He knew I wasn’t you and he still wanted me. I guess you were right. I really am his type.” Jessie lied, but what was a lie next to what she had already done? “I’ll never forgive you.” Mary says with finality as she gets in her car. “That’s ok.” Jessie murmured. As Jessie watched her sister drive away, her only hope is that one day she’ll realize that she did it for her.


“Welcome to Day 1,247,” a voice billows through an invisible speaker. “It’s a new day,” I say through gritted teeth. I take the same three steps to grab the same backpack that sits in the same corner of the same room where I have started every day for the last 1,246 days. You see, 1,247 days ago, an almighty force which still remains unnamed announced to all of us humans of the world that it would destroy the concept of time. Everyone thought this was just another crazed cult leader thinking he was God. We were wrong. This force actually followed through on its promise and has had us all living the same day every day. We can only do one days work over and over and over again for the rest of our lives. We can’t celebrate holidays. We can’t predict tomorrow’s weather. We can’t pick up where we left off yesterday. We can’t grow. We can’t die. So how do I spend my time? I spend every day trying to find the damn force that killed my baby. Since this all started, I can never remember what I did the day before. I have no belongings or writings or reminders that carry over from previous days. I can’t retrace steps. I’m only told what number day it is when I wake up each morning. All I know is that I was pregnant before this but no longer am. How exactly does one find a mythical, probably intangible, godly powerful thing? Isn’t this just a hopeless mission? Along with everything and everyone else I had before, I’ve lost all hope too. I’m just doing this to pass the time. *** Yeah, yeah, yeah. I killed her fetus. If you’ve got power like mine, shit happens.

Protecting unborn humans is not my priority. Rather, teaching humans the dangers of their own narcissistic nature is. I spent millennia after millennia looking after these dimwits, assigned to pulling off miracles for the undeserving few that either showed an instance of selflessness or needed a supreme slap in the face in order to realize the basic truth that they don’t matter anymore than anyone else.

How can you tell me that a well-off woman shopping for her thirteenth onesie for her only-conceived-two-weeks-before fetus is more important than an animal tortured or a child starved? Sitting in my high and mighty office, witnessing day after day of different humans doing the same selfish shit, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I took over the highest power, destroyed the entire concept of time, blessed these lab rats with a completely self-absorbed eternity, and have enjoyed day after day of watching them drive themselves mad with the very selves they once adored. Hm. Bliss. *** I still remember everything from before time was destroyed. Before this concrete cell, there was my partner and me renovating a nursery. Before I was given only this backpack and jumpsuit to wear every day, there was us shopping for baby clothes. I was pregnant. We were expecting, but then it all stopped. I leave my cell like I do every day, hoping to find that one crucial thing that leads to the next crucial thing that leads me to that force. Maybe, on some already-lived day, I already found it. Have I seen that child before? Have I seen that man before? Have I seen that cloud before? I stand on top of the drained fountain in the middle of our gray townsquare, looking at the crowd around me, everyone looking for anything that makes sense. We all bend and wander and shuffle, twisting our eyes in the hope of turning them into magical binoculars which have the power to point out the important. “Mom?” a young boy calls out to a woman across the way. Like oil separating from water, the surrounding crowd follows the boy’s eyes to make an instant path to his mother. I know that the unnamed force already destroyed the concept of time, but when that mother hugged her son and when he cried into her shoulder, I swear I felt time freeze. Every person in that square, still and silent. The only thing moving was the wind carrying the faint smell of saltwater. *** Did you just see what happened in Territory 73? The humans made way for a mother and son. They didn’t get bitter. They didn’t pout for someone else’s happiness. They only did what they should have done. They’re learning! See? This apocalypse isn’t all negative. I’m not all horrible.

This woman wants to find me and end me, I guess. I don’t know what she wants. She doesn’t even know what she wants! She blames the loss of her fetus on me, when she should blame it on all the very humans surrounding her. They’re the ones who upset me, who disappointed me! Without them, we wouldn’t be in the mess, and she would be with child. But the humans are learning. I’ll give them that, but that doesn’t earn I’ll ease up. I’ll never ease up. *** Saltwater. Nick loved the smell of saltwater. He grew up near a beach, would spend all the time he could swimming, sea shell hunting, sand castle building. He wanted us to live in a beach house. He wanted his child to love the smell of saltwater just like he did. I can see him now like he’s walking along his favorite shore.

Wait. I can see him now. “Nick?” I stumble off the fountain’s ledge, the people around me treating me like they did that boy. “Nick!” They watch my every move to curve the path with my steps. “Nick!” The man was always hard of hearing. “Nick!” The whole crowd echoes his name and becomes my choir. He hears us. He turns the right way. We see each other. We don’t know if we’ve seen each other every day for the past 1,246 days or not yet once since this whole thing started, but we cry. *** Wow, it is a dramatic day for Territory 73! I remember these two. They threw the biggest tantrum when I separated them and seemingly ended their life together.

However, they are miraculous, and that shouldn’t be taken lightly coming from a supreme being like me. These two have somehow managed to find each other every single day for the past 1,246 days, and today, they continue their streak. They baffle me, which I thought was impossible to do. I just don’t understand how they can pull this off every single day. Is it luck? It must be luck. Luck, the one and only thing higher than me. But I can’t let them get to me. I can’t let them strike down my confidence. I can’t let them deter me from my priority. They’re nothing more than lucky. They’re nothing more than lucky. They’re nothing more than lucky.


.(This story is set in earth’s twin planet GAIA2 which is about 800 years younger and is evolving.) Once upon a time there dwelt in Rubi Isle a man named Swig who was a farmer. He lived with his wife  Sigma and their only daughter Chili who was now sweet 16.  Swig and Sigma were not very intelligent though he managed their farm well. That day Swig was seated talking to his wife. She said “I keep telling you to repair the broken window upstairs but you’re refusing. Chili sleeps alone there and it worries me.” Swig said “You know the story about the window. My grandfather killed his rival and that fellow’s son broke the window. The wizard has said the window shouldn’t be repaired as the murdered man’s ghost would keep coming to haunt the murderer. It did come a few times.” Sigma said “Okay but I would like to tell her some secrets as she is of marriageable age.” “The fellow who marries will give her suitable instructions. I remember you telling me that your mother hadn’t told you enough but immediately after the ceremony you led me on.” “That’s instinct. Anyway I feel I should keep company with Chili.” “What happens if I need you suddenly in the night? I can’t shout asking for you and embarrassing our daughter.” “She won’t be embarrassed after I educate her.” He said “You know I’ll need you. I can’t be without you.” “That isn’t very often and you’ve heard me complain.” “Doesn’t matter. You continue to sleep with me.” Soon the spring festival was celebrated when maidens gathered to dance in front of citizens. Chili was the leader and she caught the eye of a rich man Ric. He was about 30 and had lost his first wife. After the festivities, Ric said to his batman Bat that he was in love with Chili. Bat was an athletic young man with a smiling face and Ric would use him to send important messages. Ric said “You must contact Chili and tell her about my love for her and that I would like to marry her.” He knew that since Bat was of a lower social status he wouldn’t be misunderstood  talking to Chili. Bat was extra cautious and reaching her window, entered into Chile’s room one night. She was surprised but in the light of the burning torch was able to see Bat’s features. She liked the young man and sat talking to him. He spoke a lot about Ric praising him and Chili was impressed. Nevertheless her interest in Bat himself grew and she was in love with him. When he took some liberties with her she permitted him and in a short while they were playing clouds and rain. This continued for a few days as Ric was sending Chili gifts like gold ornaments through Bat and the latter was reporting that she was warming up to him. One night Sigma heard sounds upstairs and was worried. What if somebody had climbed in to handle her daughter? She spoke to Swig about an escort for Chili upstairs. He said “If we have to prevent a bad element we should’ve a male guard who can over-power intruders.” “That would be undesirable.  A male isn’t suitable. It must be a female.” He said “If you bring in an old woman it would be useless as she would be frail and whoever enters could have his way.” “That is right. It must be a well-built woman. If she proves friendly she could put Chili wise about the ways of a man with his maid. I feel Wizi would be a good choice. She is about 40 is a widow and has the build to fit guard duty.” Swig said “I’ll summon her and talk to her.” “Don’t. I’ll do the talking. You won’t know how to put in all details.” Wizi came and met Sigma. Sigma made enquiries of Wizi. Wizi said “I live alone as I have no children. You know my husband died about 4 years ago. He was a security guard and had gone to save a child being washed away. The child was saved but he died and his body was washed away in the flood. Since then I’ve been living alone. My mother was a witch and she has taught me witch practices and people come to consult me. What do you require of me?” “Wizi, my daughter Chili is 16 and sleeps alone in the room upstairs with a broken window,” Wizi laughed and said “Yes indeed. It is a cause of worry.” Sigma said “Also she needs to be educated on what happens after the wedding. We’re close to seeking a groom for her.” Wizi laughed and said “I’m the wrong person for such education. I’ve even forgotten the ways of my husband.” “Come on! Don’t underestimate your capacity.” Wizi said “In such cases the mother usually does the instruction.” “My husband needs me by his side at night and won’t let me go and sleep with Chili.” Wizi laughed and said “I can understand. So what you’re asking me to do is sleep with Chili as a guard and an instructor.” “Exactly.” The terms were then discussed and fixed. At that time Chili came that way and Sigma said “Wizi this is my daughter Chili. Chili, Wizi will come and sleep with you upstairs. Listen carefully to whatever she tells you. It will be about what happens after your marriage. You should be ready with the knowledge.” Chili said “Mom, I can sleep alone. There is no need to get Wizi to come and sleep here.” Sigma said “Child you don’t know the follies a woman faces. Wizi will explain everything to you.” Chili was unhappy at her mom installing a guard for obvious reasons, but she was a clever girl and resolved to handle the situation as it arises. The same night Wizi moved in. She said “Child do you know what .....” “Wizi I know everything. I don’t need the instruction. Please sleep well.” Chili stood at the window and when Bat climbed in she whispered to him about Wizi sleeping there. He said “I can hear her snoring. We won’t make the usual noises.” When the 2 were busy, Wizi who was hearing all that was happening got up and said “I know what is happening.” Chili said “Don’t disturb us. I’ll compensate you with money.” Wizi laughed and said “That won’t do. I want a piece of the action.” Bat said “It’s a very simple demand. I’ll meet your requirement also.” It straightaway became a ménage a trois with Wizi taking the initiatives. All 3 were happy at the way it had happened. A few days passed and Wizi was surprised to see Ric at her door. She called him in and said “You’re an important citizen. What can bring you to my hovel?” He said “I understand you’re Chili’s caretaker. I want you to influence Chili in my favour. I’ve used Bat but he hasn’t been able to influence her despite his many visits and the gifts I’ve bestowed on her through him. Can you do it? I’ll pay you for it.” Wizi tried to say she couldn’t do it, but then the promise of money tempted her. She said “Pay me in advance,” After he had made the payment she said “I’ll do my best.” Ric thought he had now almost got Chili. Sigma was getting reports about Chili having received all information regarding dealing with a husband. Wizi said “She will make a good wife.” There was now a complication: Chili was in the family way! Wizi tried out drugs she knew to end the threat but she had no luck. She then devised a plan keeping Chili and Bat in the know. Thta night Wizi screamed and Sigma with Swig rushed upstairs. Sigma saw Wizi lying nude and shouted “Cover up! My husband is also here. What happened?” Wizi said “I was raped. It must’ve been the ghost taking revenge for past happenings.” Chili who stood shedding tears said “It happened to me also.” Swig said “The ghost has waited so many years to wreak vengeance. I’ll arrange to repair the broken window. The ghost has had its revenge and may not return.” The broken window was rectified in a day preventing any further unauthorised entry. Wizi said “This rape would’ve consequences. Get Chili married quickly. I’ve a suggestion. Ric needs a wife. Chili could marry him.” Chili was very happy with the suggestion as Bat continued in service. Wizi met Bat and said “Don’t forget that I also need service.” Bat said “Sure. It will be provided depending on convenience.” All involved were happy. END


It was hard to tell the difference between fantasy and reality at Greenbrier. A few things were obviously genuine. The musicians playing quadrilles for guests engaged in the rigors of Regency dancing. The gardeners planting daffodils and tulips in showy displays along the paths where guests strolled and gossiped. And Greenbrier Manor House, which had been built to impress. And to last. Crafted of Indiana limestone, it served as a private boarding school for wealthy Midwesterners seeking a New England elite education closer to home. A private rail line ran to the station in Rochester, connecting Greenbrier to Chicago and the world. Throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century the Manor House had been used as a sanatorium for patients dying from tuberculosis and Veterans convalescing from Civil War injuries. The heirs to the Greenbrier Mining Company bought it in 1925, installed the modern convenience of electric lights, and used it as the family’s summer home. The British accents adopted by the Greenbrier Regency Faire staff, however, were decidedly inauthentic. A disturbing conglomeration of the Scottish accent you might hear in a Disney movie about dragon riding Vikings mixed with a cockney twang reminiscent of the Artful Dodger. “In need of lodgings, are you, ya Bonnie Lass? I know a respectable Mistress what’ll give you a room for a farthin’, she will,” Billy—the lantern lighter and town crier—called out to Margaret as she walked down the cobblestone road from the bakery to the dressmakers’ shop. She waved at the enthusiastic young man and pulled her shawl around her shoulders against the wind that had dislodged ringlets from her braid. Margaret loved the Faire. The air of celebration and excitement. And she treasured her role in the community. Margaret was the modiste. She transformed guests from jeans-and-t-shirt-clad modernists into chemised and corseted ladies of the ton. As enjoyable as it was to dress people in flowing gowns and fitted pelisses, she reveled in the metamorphosis of a slouching teenager into an erect and elegant peer of the realm—performed with the magical power a high collared shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and breeches. Margaret lived and worked in the heart of the village that had been assembled by the eccentric Greenbrier visionary who spent his fortune salvaging nineteenth century mercantile buildings from as far away as Niagara Falls and St. Louis. Her three-story dressmaker’s shop sat between the tiny post office and the cheerful tea shop. The bakery stood across the village green from her store, tucked between the print shop and the perfumer. The early morning sun had not yet chased away the grey light of evening when the doorbell tinkled. Alexander stepped into Margaret’s shop. “Morning Maggie.” “Sandy. What a nice surprise.” Alexander—known as Sandy to his friends—was the Greenbrier Regency Faire’s art tutor. He gave lectures on the paintings and sculptures in the Manor House, taught drawing and painting classes, and occasionally accepted commissions to paint guests’ portraits. Although Maggie’s dressmakers’ shop had comfortable living quarters occupying the third floor, Alexander lived in the studio on the far side of the Manor House. A single large room overflowing with easels, canvases, paints, and brushes. One wall, made of windows and glass-paned doors, overlooked the gardens. It provided a beautiful view of the changing landscape but made for rudimentary accommodations and miserably cold winters. “I’ve popped a button off my vest. Mister Jenkins gave me a warning this morning. He’ll force me to attend Saturday night’s ball if I don’t have it fixed by tomorrow morning. Will you lend me a needle and thread?” “Have you got the button?” Margaret held out her hand. She was delighted to have an excuse to spend time with him. “No,” Alexander said. “I’ll need a button, too. Do you have one that matches these?” He stepped toward Margaret pointing to the two remaining brown buttons fastening his blue vest. She reached out and used both hands to slip first one and then the second button through their buttonholes. She had never stood so close to Alexander. He smelled of bergamot with a hint of turpentine. They had met at the beginning of last years’ Faire season backstage at the theater. He had been hired to paint sets for the theater’s adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo . He fabricated a desolate prison cell, sumptuous dining room, imposing courtroom, deserted island, and a smuggler’s ship. Margaret had been asked to alter the costumes to accommodate the generous proportions of the leading lady. Although she found him to be both excellent company and undeniably attractive with his brown hair, hazel eyes and captivating smile, they rarely encountered each other. He worked either in his studio, the gardens, or the Manor House. She was occupied in the village which was a thirty minute walk from the Manor House. And most importantly, seeking his company would have been in direct violation of Margaret’s absolute prohibition against getting involved with the itinerants. The various lecturers, musicians, acrobats, repairmen, and laborers the who kept the Faire running and the entertainment fresh and exciting. She had suffered heartache her first season at the Faire when she had indulged in a romance with an itinerant tenor who sang his way into her affections and left when he got the lead in a dinner-theater production of Beauty and the Beast . She inspected Alexander's buttons. Placed her hand on his shirt—feeling the flat planes of his abdomen through the soft cotton—and in one smooth motion pulled up and back on the vest, slipping it off his broad shoulders. She stepped around him and took the vest to the far wall of the shop that was comprised of drawers. She pulled on the brass handle of a small square revealing a long row of small boxes filled to bursting with buttons. She withdrew three boxes. The kettle whistled from the stove in the dressing room at the rear of the first floor. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, setting the vest and button boxes on the counter, and opening the frosted glass door separating the shop from the dressing room. She inhaled the scent of lavender that hung in bundles from the ceiling. She would have to make more sachets—she was nearly out of the little fragrant pouches she packed with the clothes she sold to her customers. “I don’t want to be a bother…” He followed her as far as the doorway. “Wow. I thought my studio was crowded.” He smiled at the sight of a dozen racks loaded with clothing—each rack dedicated to one type of garment. The tallest rack bore men’s great coats. Another was full of waist coats. Others held gowns for every occasion. Promenading. Dancing at the Faire’s elaborate balls. Windows were set just below the ceiling, flooding the room with light, but protecting the privacy of customers who stood in varying states of undress when Margaret took measurements and conducted fittings. The sky darkened as rain clouds swept across the morning sky and rain fell in gentle droplets against the windows. She set the tea pot to steeping and lit the first-floor lanterns, chasing away the cloudy gloom with cheerful firelight. “Where are all your apprentices? I imagined your shop full of people wanting to learn how you create your fabric masterpieces.” He’d imagined her shop. Interesting. “They’ve all gone back to college, or jobs, or their families. Most of them left the first week of August.” She loaded a tray with the tea pot, cups, saucers, a jar of honey, and the lemon scones she had bought at the bakery. “Come. Have some tea.” She walked back through to the shop, set the tray on the counter, and withdrew a tall stool from behind the counter for Alexander. She poured the tea and set out two steaming cups and the scones. She inspected the button options. “What do you think of this one?” She held out a button made of brown stone streaked with blue veins that matched the vest. “It’s beautiful.” He took the button from her outstretched hand, drawing his fingers over her palm, leaving a scorching trail across her skin. “It’s lovely. But the others are just plain brown.” “Oh, don’t worry about that.” She snipped the strands that held the two buttons in place. He stared at her, shocked by her bold move, and then laughed. She took a sip of the fragrant tea, enjoyed the sound of his laughter. The rain pelted the shop windows. A bell rang from outside the shop. “Sounds like Billy,” Margaret said. Alexander stepped to the door and opened it a crack, trying to keep the rain outside. “This one’s fer the bonnie Miss Maggie. And I’ll just be givin’ you yours. Save me from wadin’ through muddy fields to get to your patch ‘o paradise,” the young man said as he shoved two bulky bags into Alexander’s hands. “What’s this for?” Alexander asked, water dripping into a puddle despite his efforts to keep the shop dry. “Mister Jenkin’s heard word of a severe thunderstorm warning. High winds and hailstones. They’ll keep the guests coddled ‘n cozy in the Manor House ‘till it passes.” “Thank you,” Margaret said as Billy headed to the post office, bell ringing, water sluicing off his hat and coat, a huge smile on his face. Alexander peered inside the wax-coated canvas sacks. “Bread, cheese, hard-boiled eggs, a jar of strawberry jam, a couple of apples…” “Sounds like we’re all set for lunch. Do you have to teach classes today?” Margaret asked. “No lectures or classes, today. I’m a free man.” “Well, let me fix your buttons before the rain gets worse.” He watched her as she threaded a needle, tied a tidy knot, and bent over the vest to sew the top button in place. The porcelain clinked as he set his cup onto the saucer. “Would you mind if I sketched you while you work?” She looked up, surprised by the request. She was inclined to make an excuse, but his expression was hesitant and earnest. “I’ve got a stack of newsprint you could use.” She pointed with the needle to the stash of grey paper on the far end of the counter. “Thanks, that’ll be great,” he said, tucking a small notebook into his pant pocket. He emptied the tea tray, lined it with newsprint, and rested it against his stool. She relished in the sight of him in her shop. Like an exotic bird visiting a bird bath—a welcomed and cherished visitor. But every birdwatcher knows that such creatures will continue their migration home once they’ve taken their respite in your garden. “Are you staying through the winter?” she asked. “I am. The winter is the best part of the deal.” “Whatd’ya mean?” “I only planned to come for a month. To study the Greenbrier collection of Ingibjorg Olafurdottir’s paintings. But I couldn’t afford the guest fees for a month. So, I signed on as the art teacher for a year. I really don’t like public speaking, and nearly had a panic attack before my first lecture until I realized that only two people showed up.” His arm moved with quick motions. Eyes flicking between his page and her form. “I don’t mind the lectures so much anymore. And dancing at the balls can be fun. It’s the fancy dinners that are the major downside of the job. Making conversation with strangers doesn’t come easily to me. But I have you to thank for rescuing me from many an awkward conversational lull.” “How’s that?” “I ask about the clothes my dinner partners are wearing. They’re eager to tell me all about their visit to the modiste, and how it’s one of their favorite things to do at the Faire.” “That’s lovely to hear.” “But the teaching and even the dinnertime chatting—it’s all worth it. Free room and board year-round, and the whole winter free to study and paint. I forget that it’s all make believe in the wintertime.” “What’s make believe?” “This life,” he pointed out the window. “Pretending it’s 1813. Entertaining Jane Austen fans who come here to escape the real world and live out their fantasy of a weekend fling with Darcy. There’s no electricity. The Manor House has power, but all these outbuildings are off the grid. Which means I’ve got no light. No internet. No cell phone. I can’t take a picture of a scene I want to paint. I’ve got to get it down all in one hectic rush before the light vanishes. In bed by nine so I can be up at dawn. Otherwise, I miss the light.” The words of an itinerant. Sharp and clear. A flash of lighting brightened the sky and two breaths later a crack of thunder rattled the shop windows.

“You might want to wait out the storm.” She swallowed what remained of her cold tea and turned her attention to the vest’s lining which had split across the shoulders. “Where’d you learn to sew?” “First, I learned to darn. My grandmother immigrated from Alsace to work as an underseamstress to the Kirkham family. She was only allowed to repair underwear her first year in service. She graduated to darning socks and reweaving bed linens and handkerchiefs. My grandfather came from Naples where he’d apprenticed as a tailor. They met in Central Park, waiting in line to buy ice cream on a hot summer’s day. They opened a store that was a menswear tailor’s shop on one side and a dress shop on the other side. I grew up with them.” She didn’t explain why she’d been sent to live with her grandparents after her parents divorced. The official reason was that neither of them could afford to keep her. But the real reason was that they didn’t want her. Maybe the Faire wasn’t real life, but it had been a sanctuary where she could lead a life of her own making. Helping her customers fulfill their fantasies. And to her astonishment, it was the place where her business had prospered. Her customers paid handsomely for hand-made garments made to fit and flatter their bodies. And her apprentices happily peddled the treadle sewing machines, powering the workshop even without electricity. She cut the thread on the final stitch, stood, placed her hands in the small of her back, and stretched. “Do you want to see the workshop? It’s just upstairs.” She flushed with embarrassment at what sounded like a proposition. “I mean, maybe the old sew machines might be interesting to draw.” “I’d like that. This is only a sketch, but I’m really pleased with it. There's a truth in it that’s been missing from the still lifes and landscapes I’ve been wasting my time on lately.” He set the tray on the stool, and although he could reach the newsprint from his side of the counter, walked behind where she stood. His hand rested on the small of her back as he leaned to fetch more paper. Without thinking, she pressed against his hand, keeping him fixed in place. She was violating her own rule. And happy to do so. “Here,” she said, lifting the vest. “Try this on.” She stepped behind him in the close quarters between the counter and the shelf, threaded his arms into the vest, and pulled it up across his shoulders. She spread the fabric over his upper back feeling his taut muscles under her hands. She stepped around him and carefully inserted the top button into its buttonhole. He rested his hands on her shoulders as she slowly tended to each button. “I’ve wanted to paint you since the very first day I saw you, but I’ve been too shy to ask,” his voice was low and rumbling. His hands moved from her shoulders up her neck to cup her face. “There’s something else, I’ve wanted to do…” She stepped up as he bent forward touching her lips to his. Gentle. Soft. Warm. She tugged his shirt collar, pulled him closer, and deepened the kiss. He tasted of lemons and honey. She savored the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. Eventually, he broke the kiss, tucked her head under his chin, and held her in a tight embrace as the sky flashed and thundered. “Is this make believe?” she asked. “No.” He lifted her hand, opened the button fastening the cuff of her sleeve, and brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist. “This is…,” another kiss, “wonderfully real.”


It was dark outside the locked window of the small room. The curtains were drawn and a light layer of dust covered the wooden desk in the corner. A young girl was asleep in a rickety old bed. A beat up teddy bear gripped tightly in her small arms. She was mumbling in her sleep. Another girl in a different bed started to stir and wake up. A heavy rain started to hit the thin window. All the girls in town were kept here, in this house. The community had homes for children, where they lived away from their families. The home for girls and the home for boys lived on opposite sides of the community. The adults lived in a circle around the community center. All the buildings were the same apart from the center, there was a large fountain that the children play in on hot days. The children lived alone in a large building on the edge of town. With food delivered to them three times a day, like the rest of the community. Once they turn eighteen they would be given a house in the circle and a spouse that would be assigned to them by the Chief of the community. The girls shivered and clutched their stuffed animals closer to their chests for comfort, knowing what the day ahead would bring. When they were younger, the children had dreams of happiness and freedom, now they were plagued by nightmares of childhood. Something the adults in the community don't remember, because they had forgotten. No one remembered their childhoods. Only the Chief of the community had the valuable knowledge of what it was like to feel fear. The children had to learn that fear was bad, and that it was wrong, that they could recognize fear and know how to avoid it in everyday life. Everyone in the community has the knowledge of fear inside them somewhere, they all learned it from a young age. it just needs to be called forward to appear to the average adult. Children had tried to remind people of fear, but those rebels were never seen again. It is said that they were sent to a place called, The Sanctuary. To go through more training and enlightenment. The window rattled with the rain as the girls slept, prisoners in their minds for the time being. Facing their worst fears over and over again, until they knew not to be afraid. Some were afraid of being alone, some were afraid of the dark, a few were afraid of judgment, so every day they all had to face their fears. One at a time they would go into a room with an older child and act out a scenario where they would feel fear. They ate their meals in silence, not wanting to frighten each other with words or actions. On Sundays they dressed in their fancy community issued clothes and would go into town for a service called, Cherish. Where the entire community came together in the center and told stories of joy and there was music and dancing and fresh food and everyone cherished each other. The Chief of community, who only attended once a year, in June. June was the month of sun, where the entire community and the authorities, and the workers, all came together and had a feast for a whole week. All the children looked forward to June, because they could forget about fear, forget about all the days of suffering they learned about and learned how to push fears away. And every June, at least one brave child would stand up and give a speech of fear, and once they were done, the Chief would come and her security guards would drag the child, kicking and screaming, away to The Sanctuary . Then the Chief would say an apology and everyone would go back to normal. But the children knew the apology was empty, it was not real, it was not sincere, there was no sympathy or care in the words, it was just a mask to make sure no one stepped out of line and made sure no one made the people of the community feel afraid or sad or angry or frustrated. Only happiness was allowed. But the children wondered, if all you feel is happiness all the time, do you know what happiness is? Are you happy? The children felt happy every now and then, not all the time every day, but adults didn't know any other feeling, and if they did, they just assumed there was something wrong with them and applied for medication. The children were only allowed medication for sickness, like the common stomach flu or a fever. A young feeble girl lay awake in the corner of the cold, dark room, her name was Abigail. She clutched a plush cat to her chest, just like the other girls. But she knew she was different to the other girls, and with June and the festival of sun right around the corner, she was planning on making a speech about fear, she thought she would be the one to break the grain and free emotions back into the world, free fear and let it flow through the community. She was twelve years old and the smallest of all the girls in her age group. She didn't eat much and exercised only when mandatory. She played with dolls at free time just like the other kids, and wrote in her journal before bed like everyone else, but something deep down felt different. When she wasn't playing with dolls or participating in the activities, Abigail found herself staring across the dusty landscape at the home for boys, wondering what it would be like to live there, wondering if she'd be happier with boys. She had met boys a few times, usually at Cherish or the June festivals. They seemed to understand her, be her, but better, happier. And every time the sky was clear and she could see across town, Abigail would sit by the rusty window and think what life would be like if she were born a boy. That was her fear, that was what she faced in the small room with the older girl every day, fear of not being accepted by the community. And every night, just like the other children, she had dream after dream of people laughing at her, shunning her, just for wanting to be a boy, for wanting to be happy. She wondered if anyone else in the community felt the way she did. Felt afraid secretly, deep down inside them, a rooted fear that they didn't know what lurking, in the darkest corner of their mind. If they felt afraid everyday and just thought that was what happiness was. What if someone lived in fear or sadness and just assumed that was what being happy felt like? These were the things Abigail wondered at night, staring at the blank ceiling, waiting for the nightmares of fear, just like the other girls. And soon enough they swept over her like a wave pushing a surfer back to the beach. But the beach she arrived to was not a paradise like the ones in books, it was filled with people laughing at her, shunning her, just for wanting to be happy. The morning came slowly. Abigail was the first awake, as usual. She got out of bed and went to the window, the rain had stopped and the morning glow of sunlight greeted her as she opened the shaggy curtains. A layer of rain covered everything in sight, making it shine and sparkle. Across town she could make out the outline of a tall brick building identical to this one. He sighed and opened the window and took a seat on the damp sil. She looked down and saw people starting to go about their days. The worker people delivering breakfast and newspapers to front stoops of the modern houses. The homes for children were the oldest buildings in the community, and had a different style to them. No one questioned it, they had learned not to question anything from a young age. It was the first day of the sun festival. Abigail saw workers hanging up decorations in the square. She went back into the cold room and shut the window. A worker would be there soon to escort the children to the festival. The other girls were awake now, moving about, making their beds and getting into their nice clothes. Abigail went to her small, two drawer, dresser and took out a bundle of clothing labeled, Festival of sun, day 1; Abigail. Everyone had the same outfits but in different sizes, so each clothing delivery had to be labeled with the persons name and for what purpose they were to wear the clothes. Abigail put on her blue shirt, green over shirt and a pink skirt and followed the other girls down to the food hall. They were chatting for once, picturing what it would be like to be happy for a whole week. Abigail sat with the other twelve year olds at their assigned table. Abigail did not speak, she was afraid of being judged for her words of choice. A worker came eventually and the children got into single file lines to walk to the square. There was music playing, voices singing of joy and love. People milling about freely, and fresh food, imported from the community supply chain! This was a special treat for everyone. Usually the ingredients were imported and the workers had to cook the meals. The girls broke their lines and started to walk about, taking in the outside world. Abigail stayed off to the side, preparing her speech about fear. A boy came over to her and smiled, "I'm Hugo." He said. "Abigail." She replied simply. "You know, I've always wondered what it would be like in the girls home. Can you describe it?" Hugo asked, taking a bite of a meat dish he had on a plate. "It's dark and cold, almost like the prison on the outskirts of the community. We have doll houses and assigned stuffed animals to play with at free time." Abigail shuttered just thinking about it. "Fascinating." Hugo said. "Not really. It's all I've ever known, it's normal." Abigail shrugged. "Do you ever wonder," Hugo took a deep breath and continued, "What if there are people outside the community? People unlike us, who have access to all emotions." "I've never really thought about that." Abigail admitted. "I just want to be happy. Real happiness, not like the adults here, they don't know what joy is." "What makes you think that?" Hugo asked. "They don't have anything to compare it with. They don't no sadness or anger, or fear. So they just assume whatever emotion they feel the most is happiness." "Wow. That's never crossed my mind before." Hugo looked up at the sky, as if contemplating existence. "That's why I'm making a speech this year." Abigail admitted. She held out a folded piece of paper with her speech written on it. "I've never met anyone who wanted to go to the sanctuary." Hugo's eyes grew wide. "I don't want to. I'm standing up for whats right. I'm bringing emotions back to people." Abigail explained. "You're brave." Hugo said quietly. "Don't be silly. Brave doesn't exist. Surely they teach that at the boys home." Abigail scoffed. "Yeah, they do. I just don't believe them." Hugo shrugged. "I've read books about it late at night. Bravery is exactly what you're doing." "What else is bravery?" Abigail asked curiously. "Doing things or saying things that scare you. Like, for example, not being happy with being a prisoner in your body and trying to break free." Abigail thought for a second. "I'm doing that." She muttered to the boy. "I'm breaking free and wanting to become a boy, a boy that has emotions and feelings and real happiness." The boy looked at her with a worried look. "You are brave. But, not every story had a happy ending." He advised. Abigail opened her mouth to reply, but a bell sounded, signifying it was time to feast. Everyone sat on long rows of pick nick tables laden with food and drink. Abigail took a deep breath and stood on her seat. "Hello." She said loudly. Everyone turned and looked up at her. "My name is Abigail. I want to tell you all," She unfolded the piece of paper and read out, "Happiness is not what you think it is. Sadness is not what you think it is. Fear is real, and you all need to be able to feel!" She heard footsteps and was tackled down within seconds by guards. They knocked her out and carried her away to a truck to go to The Sanctuary. Hours later she woke up in a cell, her hands were tide and her left ankle was chained to the bars of the wall. There was nothing in the room apart from her. "Help!" She called out. No one answered. She felt afraid like she had never felt it before. It was so much worse than her practice, she felt helpless and weak, like nothing could be done. "You know more than you're supposed to Abigail." A rough voice spoke from somewhere in the room, but she couldn't pinpoint it. "Who are you?" She asked the darkness. Gripping the bars of the cell tightly. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." The voice advised. "Do what?" Abigail looked behind her. "You are brave young one." The voice sighed. "So I have to do this." Abigail was puzzled for a second, then a bolt of electricity ran through the cell and into her hands, through her body, and switched off her brain. Her body hit the stone floor, twitching for a few seconds until she fell still. This was the Sanctuary. A death trap for those who break the rules of the community. For rebels.


Maddy scrolled through the Life Choice Review templates on her tablet. She nodded her head and peered over at at the old man as she did. Jerry O’Neil was his name. He looked relaxed, sitting back in his navy cardigan over a white polo. His khakis were pressed, his loafers buffed. ‘A classic look’, she thought. The man’s eyes were a piercing blue and were alert despite his age. What looked to be blonde locks had long given way to grays and an inevitable, yet forgiving, receding hairline. Jerry cleared his throat and peered around the room. B-13, like all rooms at Life Cast, was clean, maybe even sterile, but comfortable. The lighting wasn’t too offensive and the AC was set to an ideal temperature. Also, like all rooms at Life Cast, it was sparsely accommodated, with just the two chairs they were sitting on, placed across from each other, and a white table against the wall with a healthy Mass Cane sitting atop it. Crimson wall-to-wall carpeting finished off the spartan look. “Okaaaay, shall we begin, Jerry?” Maddy said. “Oh, ya, let’s get going.” Jerry remembered her, Maddy, the petite thing with caramel-colored skin and wavy dark hair. He even vaguely recalled the two-piece: red blazer and black skirt. 'Professional look,' he thought. She was tinier than he remembered though. “Wonderful. Let's do it,” she said. The young lady peered up at the ceiling. “Recording,” she uttered, and a pleasant ding chimed in the room. She smiled at Jerry. “Today’s date is August 4th, 2229. This is Madeline Bel with a Life Choice Review statement for patient 1X-L38.4. We are at site twelve, office B-13... Ok, Jerry,” she said, nodding to him, “let’s start with the boring stuff.” Jerry returned the head gesture. “Name?” “Jerrold Alexander O’Neil.” “Date of Birth?” “June 27, 2132.” “Date of death? Oh, wait,” she said, looking down at her tablet, “ I see it here. You asked for that to be an unknown, is that right?” She smiled. “Ya,” Jerry said. “I like surprises.” “Uh-huh, good. Place of birth?” “Sandusky, Ohio.” “Parents, mother’s maiden please.” “Sure. That’s Michael O’Neil and Geraldine Spencer.” “Wonderful.” Maddy looked down at her tablet. The lights there were whizzing and blinking. “Good, now, that we have that, let’s go over your input form.” she said, crossing her legs. “What are we going to talk about today?” She tapped on a few digital buttons across her screen. “Oh, I see it here. Lenore Avery O’Neil, née Grace.” Maddy made a frowny face. “Things didn’t work out, huh?” “Yea, no, umm… I mean, we were married for decades. She’s a good person,” he said, shrugging with a smirk. “Yes, of course,” Maddy said, nodding her head slowly. “But, yea that probably wasn’t one of my better choices.” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Maddy said. “But you were married fifty-eight years and raised four children together, umm, let’s see… Ronnie, Bobbi, Ricky and Mike? And there are a slew of grand kids in the picture.“ Jerry looked down at his loafers as he ran their soles back and forth against the red, commercial-grade carpeting. “Yea, well, she just, I don’t know, I think I wanted someone… different.” “I see.” “Okay, well, lets run the metrics on her, so I’m clear on what we’re looking for.” “Sounds swell," Jerry said. He felt good. Now that he was sitting there, reviewing things at Life Cast, a weight lifted. Jerry could see that he had been looking forward to this day for a while, maybe years, maybe even decades. Maddy danced her hands on her handheld computer and a screen made of holograms and lights appeared mid-air between them, just off to the side. Jerry turned in his chair and oggled the information in the blips and bleeps of the floating screen. “Ohhh-kay. So, for communication, you gave her a 42.” Jerry was nodding his head. “That’s not so good,” Maddy stated. “No, she broke down and cried any time we talked about anything difficult.” “Like what?” “Financial problems, lack of communication … infidelities.” “I’m sorry?” “Yes, well, I was out of work for a spell and —.” “No, the other bit.” “Oh yea.” He flashed a dismissive smirk as he waved a hand. “We both had trouble staying in the marriage, and we had flings. It was nothing serious.” “She wasn’t hurt by that?” “Yes, I mean, she broke down whenever we’d talked about it, but she got over it.” “I see." Maddy clicked her tongue as she mulled something over in her mind. "Is the infidelity reflected in the sexual compatibility score?” “Yes, I believe so.” “Good, we do like comprehensive numbers here at Life Cast.” She hoisted a smile to her face. Jerry grinned back. “Okay, so poor communication,” she continued, her fingers bouncing along her tablet. “Anything else you’d like to add?” “Ya. She’d spend weekends just staring out the window not talking to a soul. Not even the kids. It was miserable.” “I see. So, someone more outgoing and not so down in the dumps,” she tapped on the tablet. She shot Jerry a grin. Jerry blinked sheepishly. “Right. Moving along. Fin- an -cials.” Maddy leaned in, resting her elbow on her leg, and her chin in her hand. “Well, I handled the money in the house,” Jerry said, adjusting his cardigan. “But she was good with the budget I would set.” “Yes, I see you gave her a 73. High marks,” Maddy said, arching her eyebrows. “Yea. I mean, she wasn’t a spendthrift, thank god. At least she got that right. She took care of the groceries and ran the house within our means. That was… that was nice, actually,” Jerry said, furrowing his brows. He looked down at his lap, lost in thought. He remained like this for a few moments. Finally, he inhaled sharply and peered up at Maddy with a blameless look. “Are you, ok?” “Yea, fine," he said, with a frivolous wave of a hand. “Okay… so, moving on, moving on… oooo yea, sorry, Jerry, but I have to ask. Any abuse of alcohol or illicit drugs?” “No, no. I mean, when she was going through her bouts of staring out the window, yea, she was into the bottle a bit. But, I mean, so was I, right? I mean I’d be kidding if I said differently. So, no I don’t think it was unusual, if that what’s your asking.” “Oh, no. We just like to track anything that might be at the root of any disfunction or lack of connection.” She tapped a button. "I see," Jerry said, then cleared his throat. “Right, so, the bedrooooom. Oo la la, sexual compatibility, intimacy. The old in-n-out.” Maddy held her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know where my head is. That was completely unprofessional.” Jerry was laughing. “It’s ok. I can use a little 'unprofessional' after a lifetime in the accounting department at Qraps Products Incorporated, I'll tell ya.” “I’m soooo sorry. Go ahead, Jerry. The floor… is yours,” Maddy said, waving her hand at the rug. “Ah, yea, ok, Lenore was, uh, hot and cold. Sometimes she was fun, you know sexy. We could go out and have a good time, enjoy a few drinks, do some dancing and… well, she’d be gangbusters in the bed room after a cocktail or two. She’d… oh I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Jerry chuckled, “I’m getting carried away.” “No, this is what we’re here for, I want all of it.” “Oh, okay… well, she’d give me all of it.” He chuckled. “Yea, she’d give me everything . She’d leave my toes so curled up, I couldn’t breath. Ya know what I mean?” Maddy was busy typing away on her screen. She looked up just long enough to simper at Jerry. “So, good in bed?” “Yea, sometimes. Other times, it was like being in bed with a nun. Just, nothing there, no romance, no sizzle, nothing. And I worked hard, Maddy.” Maddy nodded her head in agreement. “And sometimes when I came home, I dont, know, a man has needs… a man has needs, Maddy.” She began typing. “A… man… has… needs.” “I don’t know. I hope I’m not making it sound like it’s all about me.” “Not at all.” Maddy shook her head. “But this is my Life Choice Review, right?” “That it is, sir. “And nobody’s gonna get hurt, right?” “Use this opportunity wisely. It’s what you paid for.” She beamed at him. Jerry smiled a small corner-of-the mouth smile at her. He couldn’t make it a full smile because he couldn’t shake this feeling inside. He wasn't sure what it was, but if he had to name it, he’d call it guilt. But it was faint. Like the sound of someone tapping on a metal pipe a mile away. “Well, I think we got what we need, Jerry." "Wonderful." "Before we run the numbers can I interest you in a half-off deal on a second Life Choice Review we’re running this month?” “Thanks, Maddy, but I’m gonna stick to my budget.” “You sure? I don’t know, Jerry, maybe you can strike oil, you know, find that million dollar pot at the end of the rainbow?" She slapped his knee with a grin. “You never know??” “That’s alright.” “OK.” She frowned. “Then, why don’t we let old SPANKO here crunch the old digits for us!” Maddy said gesturing with two hands to the screen. “Swell-ee-o,” Jerry said, leaning forward in his seat. He couldn’t wait for what SPANKO came up with. “SPANKO! Drum roll please!” The numbers on the hovering screen blipped and bleeped in a random and rapid manner. After a whirlwind of digital activity, and analyzing the infinite possibilities of two random souls on earth meeting and hitting it off, SPANKO, the error-less AI personality, spit a face up on the screen. It was an attractive middle-aged woman. She had sandy-brown skin and large hazel eyes. There was a sparkle in them that Jerry liked right away. Her curly brown hair had blonde streaks in it and was pulled back behind her ears. The name beneath it read ISADORE BELLINGHAM. “Isadore Bellingham,” Maddy said. “Okay. Says here she’s a regional sales manager at Cleveland’s Blandus Corp, loves drinking cocktails and salsa dancing, has a sizable 401k plan and... she's a freak in sheets," she said, side-eyeing him. "Should we do it?" A swarm of butterflies fluttered in Jerry’s belly. He nodded his head feverishly. "Great!" Maddy diddly-doo’d the buttons on her screen. “Alriiiight… done, and, done.” She chuckled, and waved her chestnut locks. “Well, I want to thank you, Jerry, for your candor and for choosing Life Cast.” She shook his hand. “It was my pleasure, Maddy.” She made some kind of noise that approximated a sound of appreciation, but it was hard to tell. Maddy got up, and exited the room. She walked to the elevator, casually greeting people as she walked by. When the elevator came, she took the car down to “SUB-4”. That needed a palm-ID. The elevator doors chimed and slid apart at the fourth sub-basement, and Maddy shuffled down the long corridor lined with armed security. She ducked left into a room that was marked “RESTRICTED PERSONNEL ONLY - RECYCLE AREA”. She waited just inside the doorway where the area’s security sensors buzzed and ding’d, registering her face, retina and heartbeat. The doors hissed opened and Maddy ambled into a large, well-lit room. Women and men wore hazmat suits and stood across from her behind long desks littered with buttons, blinking lights and screens. She lingered on a glowing, red, circular tile for a few moments until they gave her the thumbs up. Maddy waved back. She walked to the center of the room where a silvery, bubbling mass the size of a door hovered inches from the ground. It hummed softly as she approached it. She could feel it already pulling at her skin. Maddy held her breath. She always closed her eyes when she walked through this thing, because, goddamit, it was all scary and weird enough, wasn’t it? She stepped into the shimmering, quivering mass, then disappeared. Immediately, the pushing-and-pulling on her body made her queasy. Her fingers and toes tingled and she got light-headed. The queasiness began rumbling, intensifying towards a sloppy boil. Maddy had absolutely no clue what went on in there, and she didn't want to know. She kept her eyes closed as tight as a pickle jar. Maddy waited for her feet to hit the solidity of the floor again, and when they did, she hopped right out. She took a deep breath and straightened out her skirt. The people behind the desk in hazmat suits waved. Maddy nodded back with a smirk, then bee-lined it for the door. She shuddered involuntarily from the whole experience, as she always did. She could never get used to it. It was all so icky. But it was hard to say no to a condo in LA and a beach house in Nantucket, and all the other big and little things her paycheck provided. She wound her way from the basement up to room B-13, where she opened the door. “Heyyyy!” she said to the handsome young man waiting for her. She ran her caramel hand along his shoulders as she walked by. The young man had sandy-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. “So, I’m back!" she said. "And have I got good news!” “Really? Swell-ee-o," he said. She sat down in the empty seat across from him and crossed her athletic brown legs. His eyes were like big O's as he shifted to the edge of his seat. “Before we continue, can I interest you in a half-off deal on a second Life Choice Review we’re running this month?” “Oh, nah, this one Life Choice Review is stretching me as it is," he said, nodding his head slightly. "Wait, did I want one? I mean the other me? “No, he, I mean, you... you know what I mean, declined as well.” She frowned. “Oh, ok, he’d probably know best.” “Mmm-hmm. Okay so, looky here, looky here.” A holographic screen trickled down in mid-air between them, just off to the side. “I have Isadore Bellingham for you. Isn’t she just gorgeous,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him. Jerry’s face scrunched up. “She looks a little old for me.” “She is old for you, Jerry. You meet her in your forties. At a Blandus Corp mixer/salsa party. She —." Maddy paused, collecting her thoughts. “Your older self said that… well, we don’t need to name names here, but he said that the special someone you end up choosing wasn’t so special after all. That was the one thing he wanted to change.” Jerry nodded. “And SPANKO came up with this belle.” She slapped the young man on his knee. “She’s perfect for you. Now, we’ve charted out a course for you right here.” The display fuzzed out then fuzzed back in with a flow chart, complete with graphs, charts and lots of squiggly arrows. “So, if you go to school for computer science instead of accounting, that will put you at this firm in six years. And after you quit that firm and move in with Denise here, you’ll land at Taedios LTD. You guys get married, but she’s barren, so no kids. You do love her,” she sighed and put her hand to her chest, “but you just can’t go through life without kids, so you get divorced, switch jobs, and end up at Blandus. And that’s where you meet Isadore.” Jerry swallowed hard. His brows were furrowed and the young man was white as a ghost. He finally exhaled a breath he’d been holding in since the word “SPANKO”. “Do you like computer science?” Maddy asked. “No, actually I don’t.” “We have an app for that, Jerry, don’t you worry.”


He remembered the day God found him and the way God found him.

Under a storm-bruised sky, he was standing in uniform, shuffling after the mourners. Their voices beat back the thunder as they rose in funerary song (O, Roc, Of The Blackest Cap). The Proclaimer of Grief, a boy not yet twelve, stood with the solemnity of his elders and clashed a pair of cymbals at the door.

The God-found man did not sing. It was not very becoming of him, but he just moved his lips. He had always been self-conscious of his voice. Should he, at least, have hummed a note? Did he draw too much attention to himself? In hindsight, he suspects he was made holy to be punished by Proto Deva, but at the time, he thought little of it. He simply looked at the long black hair caught in his fingers and thought, Huh .

But once God found him, he was never left alone. His hair came out first in slithering tendrils, and then in great clumps. It fell out when he slept, when it was windy, and when he took a comb to it. His son said, “Just like when we brush the cat.” It became harder and harder to hide, and eventually, he was entirely out of vogue. His neighbours began to look at him sideways, attempting to discern if he was mad or simply ugly. Some people—almost all of them brutish and strange—saw their locks with the swords they use to kill and the knives they use for bread. These people, it is agreed, are terribly unfashionable with their jagged bangs and angled trims. Fortunately, they are also usually poor and can be tucked out of sight, where we cannot hear them say things like “I don’t want my hair to get stuck in gears or wheels and lead to my untimely death.” “Wretched,” tut the wealthy, who would dare not step out without their hair styled in the fashion du jour. For men today, the thing is to wind the braid up and up in a conical formation, a narrow mountain. For women, braided buns are favoured—the more the merrier, as a symbol of both status and health. For those who identify their gender otherwise, either approach will do, as long as they pull it off. When the sun caught the dome of the God-found man’s head, passersby flinched from the glare. He was a beacon of strangeness and drew the Church like a moth. But Proto Deva, called on to summon the God-found man to his people, struggled to understand him. “You’ve never,” he squinted, confounded, “Partaken in feta?” The God-found man’s diet omitted many Church favourites. “Nor goat?” The God-found man confessed awkwardly that he was a vegan. “What do you mean you’d rather not sing? You attend mass, and I just saw you at the service for—you mouthed the words? God, are you sure this is the one?” But he was, and bit by bit, the last of his hair fell away. His wife, in either spiritual or aesthetic agony (the God-found man couldn’t tell; she was very timid now when she kissed the top of his head), said she would weave a scarf of what he’d lost and wear it every day. Proto Deva, whose hair trailed behind him like a cape, and whose wispy beard ended at his groin, was no fonder of the God-found man, but now protective of him. He would rub the God-found man’s head in the Sacred Oil of Glory and force upon him holy literature. They listened to hymns. Even the God-found man agreed some of them were pretty good. And it took time—perhaps more time than it takes most people to accept that they are the one chosen by God—but the God-found man came around. He began to look at his oiled scalp and see, as the scriptures suggested, the moon above in him. At night, when he looked up, he saw himself among the heavens. It was true that he no longer clogged shower drains or went to sleep with wet hair. His arms had not cramped up from braiding, and his mornings were no longer wasted agonizing over fashion. He reflected on his life thus and concluded he had lived it well! He was a dutiful, loving husband who regularly went down on his wife. He was an attentive father to his young son. He had painted some nice, harmless, morally inconsequential art. He had tipped appropriately. Indeed, perhaps he had lived it so well he was God-found, God-blessed, God-bald. “You know,” Proto Deva said to him earnestly one day, after they had gorged themselves on God’s word, “What a man like you means to our people. Now you are versed in the scriptures. You were chosen for a reason—and I’m glad you’re able to think of some, because I still don’t get it—and you must go where the devout can see.” They prepared him for his debut, a process involving four Protos and a choir. One Proto polished his head until it gleamed, massaging his temples til he was both half-asleep and heavily perfumed with eucalyptus. A second Proto drew squiggly lines in oil down his back, where his hair once lay, before a third Proto robed him in the grim black gown of the Church. The Church recently condemned the straightrazer among Protos, and so the God-found man had kept the hair along his cheek and chin. Proto Deva twisted curls into the coarse hairs with his finger, adding a touch of wax to hold the shape. Finally, a choir sang From Our Crown to Earth, and off the God-found man and Proto Deva went. “We’ll start in the Barren.” On the furthest edge of town live the lowest caste of craftsman. You will rarely see a fingerman, not unless you are very poor, very daring, or evidently some religious missionary. From a bird’s-eye view, the Barren souk ripples like a sail; their stalls are tarped with thin fabric, and their alleys too. Within these curtained halls are fingermen wares for fingermen prices, fingermen families upon cushions taking coin. In the factories, wealthy men feed fingermen scraps. In exchange, they are careful with the textiles they’re given. No one has mastered ripping as the fingermen have. With magnifying spectacles, they hunch over workbenches and make slow, precise tears in the cloth. There is no fabric they cannot master, no material too thick or unwieldy for them to conquer. They wear caps on their thumbs with glass for a nail so they may rupture the skin quicker. Some close their mouths on metal dentures, with a brutal smile to saw and slice at ribbon and twine.

The fingermen’s cuts are famously exact, but the work is punishing; many leave their jobs with fingers curved like claws, with permanently rounded shoulders, and with fading eyesight, from staring so long at such dainty thread.

Most beautiful things that fingermen have touched are not here. Here, there are corns and small pots and poems and ashtrays, sold by those who can’t labour in the factories: fat-fingered infants, people with bad backs, and the blind. When the God-found man and Proto Deva entered the souk, people mostly ignored them. Proto Deva pushed the God-found man ahead of him in the aisle, urging, “Go, go,” like the God-found man knew where. The God-found man walked up to a vendor. She sold pyramids of spices and little beaded lizards for children. “Hello.” “Can you move that fucking thing? I have the sun in my eyes.” He stepped sideways into deeper shade, ducking his head from the afternoon glare.

“Do you want something?” Awkwardly, he shuffled on the dusty path. “I wondered if you wanted anything from me?” “Like what?” “Like answers. To questions like ‘How can I too be lightened of my burdens,’ or something.” “Nope.” He scurried back, “Proto Deva, I don’t think they’re the religious type.” “Maybe you’re not being holy enough.” Proto Deva raised his voice to the souk, “Do you see this man? He has ascended from his earthly burdens, and now his crown is lightened. He is a model specimen for humankind.” A fingerman squinted at them down the aisle and heckled, “What are you buying?” It took some convincing—and several more uneventful conversations with vendors—before Proto Deva agreed to quit the souk. As they took their leave, they passed a boy bleeding into the dirt. Next to him, a mature woman was on her knees, threading the wound. She felt around the dust for a knife, but, finding none, leaned into the gash, which smelled of iron and rot, and tore the suture with her teeth. “We’ll try the platz,” Proto Deva said officiously, shaking red-stained dust from his hair. “People may try to touch your head. Do not be alarmed. It is thought by some to bring fortune, and I insist that you allow it, should anyone try.” In the platz, where there is water for the earth and money for the people, the paths are laboured by flora and gossip. No one immediately attempted to touch the God-found man’s head. “You—” a woman with two large, braided buns above her ears gasped, but then had to pause to tug her dress free of thorns. There is often a quiet war against bushes, which grow into pathways and press against houses and have, at times, ripped gowns and stolen hats. “You have—” “Yes,” said Proto Deva proudly, “He is a man of God.” “No, not that,” the woman stumbled over a vines as she approached. At night, they say, a brigade takes machetes to the bark and hack at the green veins in the road. But it is never enough, and there is always a rich woman or a horse who trips, and then the bored, braided people riot. “He’s got the strangest head I’ve ever seen.” “Yes, it’s a sign from Above.” The God-found man didn’t feel holy. His head felt cold. “My, my,” the woman said, putting her hand over her mouth in glee. “It’s hideous.” “Excuse me!” Proto Deva puffed up, “This outstanding man has been recognised for his goodness. By following his example, we will all be free!” “Oh dear,” said the woman. “I hope not.” Defeated, the men slumped outside of an atelier. There was a flood of traffic and a drought of interest. The dress shops are making a killing these days. They’ve discovered how much tidier a hem can be if you fold it inward before stitching. Now, even those who can’t afford fingermen-cut cloth can buy garments without ragged edges. “Proto Deva,” ventured the God-found man. A rat ran past his shoe. Recently, an idiotic but undeniably handsome gentleman attempted to prove that rodents can be put to work too. For a fortnight, he smeared peanut butter along ribbons where he wanted a cut, then left them on the floor overnight. The result is that the rats are now better dressed than the fingermen. “Do you think perhaps that perhaps we are misreading this situation? No one but you—and, let’s be real, you’ve been a hard sell—sees my holiness. Perhaps I was not chosen by God to be a leader of men. Perhaps I am only bald.” Proto Deva looked over, affronted. “How can that possibly be? You are blessed with fortune—yes, for, again, inexplicable reasons. If we were not meant to master our hair, to bear our hair, to reconcile our hair … if we were not meant to be burdened thus, God would have given us something to cut it with.”


Down near the brook at the edge of town, an old woman sat on her honey-yellow cloth sofa watching a rerun of ‘Bewitched’ on her cable television. The woman picked up her crinkled sudoku book from under the side table and eased her mind to its repetitive deduction. Each day, she enjoyed toast paired with orange juice for breakfast, then sat on the sofa to read the Sunday paper. She would flip past the articles heading straight for the comics, her favorite entertainment, besides the sudoku on the back page, of course.            This afternoon, however, contained a change of routine to the grandmother’s delight. She was expecting a visit from her granddaughter for her monthly check in, as the grandmother’s mind became more unstable each day. She felt a deep connection with the girl, as she was reminded of herself in her younger years through the child’s felicity and youthful bliss. This also made the woman angry that her mind was leaving her soul with not a trace of that joy left to savor.            The bulky box which sat on the chestnut-brown stand shut off as the program reached the credits. Still waiting for her visitor, the woman reached for her midday medicine accompanying the cup of water waiting on the table next to her. As she took hold of the water, a tired creak was heard from the hall. The cup once in hand crashed to the ground, the water seeping into the carpet below. The old woman’s eyes squinted down the dark alley of the hall as she fixed a gaze that would not falter. Just as she gave up the staredown, a figure emerged from the doorway and her eyes fixated once again. The specter was a shadow with no owner and moved with the stride of a small child. It glided through the air, slowly, toward the woman imprisoned on the honey couch.            “Stop! Get back!” cried the old woman. The shadow became clearer now, as it stood barely an arm’s length away. Still, it remained, watching the woman closely.            The harsh buzz of the doorbell rang, accompanied by a short knock at the door. The grandmother jerked her head towards the noise, then back at the figure, no longer to be seen.            “Come on in sweetie!” she cooed. The door creaked open as a dainty little girl shuffled in carrying a Pepto-Bismol-pink bookbag. The girl’s golden eyes were wide with glee and her ponytail bobbed as she walked. The grandmother quickly wiped the fear from her epiphora and gave her granddaughter a half-smile.            Despite the efforts to hide her previous terror, the little girl noticed her grandmother’s fright and hurriedly rushed to her aid.            “Gramma, what happened?” she inquired.            “Oh, nothing honey, my show just spooked me a bit. Don’t you worry.” replied the grandmother encouragingly. The image of the specter reappeared in her imagination, but the woman focused instead on her visitor, ignoring the vision which haunted her decaying mind.            “Taken your mornings yet?” questioned the girl as she zipped open her pastel bookbag, pulling out the regimen of pills which followed the old woman’s morning prescriptions. Just as quickly as the girl’s brows tensed with worry, they were erased by her heartened smile. She was valetudinous for her grandmother and would not allow the woman’s indigent mind to be stripped by concern.            The grandmother started, “Don’t you ever go out?”  gulping down her first dose.            “What?” the girl responded as she checked off a calendar and closed her bag.            “You don’t need to come down here for me honey, I can do this myself.” The woman insisted. Despite the new acquaintance of the phantom, and not to mention her crippling psyche, the grandmother wanted more for the girl. She wanted her to get out of the desolate town, to have a life outside of shoving pills down her crippling grandmother’s throat.            “Gramma, coming here is my favorite part of the day. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” Replied the granddaughter in earnest.            “Mine too baby. I’m grateful for you.” said the old woman, still restrained from exposing her hopes for the girl.            The girl, with intent to start a meaningful conversation, asked “Aren’t you afraid of anything?”            “What’s there to be afraid of?” the grandmother responded playfully.            The granddaughter was taken aback by her elder’s unexpected confidence in the fearful. “I don’t know, like spiders, snakes, ghosts…” The woman flinched in her seat at the specter’s timely mention and hesitantly responded, “Well I suppose a phantom might trouble me. What about you, what’re you afraid of?”            “Losing you.” The girl responded abruptly; her eyes consumed with apprehension.            “I told you then, and I’ll tell you again now: someday I’m not gonna be here no more. And you’re gonna get along just fine.” The old woman answered.            But the girl didn’t want to think about how someday she wouldn’t be around. She loved what she did and never wanted to let that go. Her lips parted in order to react to the grim statement but shut again in the absence of a response. She was only able to respond with a short, “Okay.” The girl rose from the cushion to give the old woman a gentle kiss on the cheek and headed for the door.            Still sunk in the sofa, the grandmother watched as her little girl shuffled out solemnly. A phantasmic shadow formed and lingered behind the girl as she disappeared through the doorway. A month passed since the girl last visited, and the woman sat again on her wallpaper couch, watching a program until the TV shut off, patiently waiting for her granddaughter to arrive. After an abrupt round of sudoku, her mind faltered and the old woman shivered as a gust of wind burst through the window. She could feel the dying presence of something other than herself.            The girl never returned, leaving the old woman clueless to the girl’s end. Her heart failed her--despite all the love she gave--in a series of unsteady palpitations. The woman continued to follow her routine each day, mindlessly waiting for her visitor, who appeared only in the form of a phantasmal specter.


“Jee-Anne!

Jee-Anne!

Jee-Anne!”

At the sound of her name, Jee-Anne ran downstairs, red pigtails flying, into her living room. “What is it Gol-Lee?” Jee-Anne asked, panting.

“Oh Jee-Anne, you’ll never believe what I just got!” Gol-Lee exclaimed.

She had her hands behind her back, her long dark braids covering the wriggling object her hands were clutching.

“Oh!

Let me see!” Jee-Anne squealed.

If Gol-Lee was excited about something, then Jee-Anne knew it had to be something big. Gol-Lee took one big breath, then thrust the object out in front of her.

Jee-Anne’s jaw dropped.

Gol-Lee was cupping a tiny, fluffy, kitten. “Meet Fluffy,” Gol-Lee said, grinning so widely her dimples showed.

“Oh Gol-Lee!

This is too good of you!” Jee-Anne squealed.

She felt as though her heart was going to explode with joy.

She really did have the best friend in the world. “This is an early birthday present for me, isn’t it?” Jee-Anne asked, already knowing the answer. “Oh Gol-Lee, I just love it!” “Wait a second Jee-Anne,” Gol-Lee said, her dimples vanishing, her face falling. “H-he’s not for you.” “Oh Gol-Lee I just – what!?

Not for me!?” Jee-Anne’s jaw dropped.

She couldn’t believe it. “Gol-Lee, you know I’ve wanted a cat ever since I can remember!” “So have I,” Gol-Lee argued.

Jee-Anne scoffed.

“You’re kidding right?” “No, I’m not,” Gol-Lee said. “And anyway, I wanted to show him to you because –” “How could you do this to me!” Jee-Anne screamed.

The little kitten in Gol-Lee’s hands cowered in fright.

“I thought you were my friend!

I thought you knew me!” “I do!” Gol-lee gasped, “Jee-Anne, I was going to –” “Gol-Lee if you don’t give me that kitten right now, I’ll never forgive you.” Jee-Anne said, her voice stern yet quivering with fury.

Gol-Lee looked astonished.

“Jee-Anne, how could you say that?” “You know I’ve wanted a kitten for forever!” Jee-Anne sighed, tears in her eyes, “and now whenever I go to your house,

I’ll have to look at that adorable, sweet, lovable, squishy little furball and remember how my best friend wouldn't even let me have him.” “Jee-Anne, this is ridiculous!” Gol-Lee exclaimed. “No, you’re ridiculous!” Jee-Anne shot back, “I’m never talking to you again unless you give me that kitten!” “Fine!” Gol-Lee said.

Jee-Anne sealed her lips, and looked the other direction.

She heard Gol-Lee’s hurried footsteps as she ran out the front door, and slammed it behind her. The next day at school, Jee-Anne avoided Gol-Lee.

She was still furious with her, and determined to do whatever she could to get that kitten.

After history and grammar however, it became harder to stay away from Gol-Lee.

She always relied on her best friend to get her through grammar class, Jee-Anne being dreadful at the subject, and Gol-Lee extremely well.

And she couldn’t play tic-tac-toe with Nicolaus, because he would chew on her crayons and get them stuck in his teeth.

By lunch time, Jee-Anne was almost ready to give in.

Almost.

She was surprised when Gol-Lee came over to the table she had chosen, and sat next to her. “Jee-Anne, I don’t want to fight,” Gol-Lee started. “Good!

I knew you would come to your senses!

Now, when should I pick up Fluffy?” Jee-Anne asked happily. Gol-Lee sighed. “Jee-Anne, I’m not going to let you have my kitten.” Jee-Anne groaned.

Gol-Lee was still being stubborn!

This was so unlike her, that Jee-Anne had to think for a second before she made her next move.

Then, she grabbed the cookie out of Gol-Lee’s lunch bag. “If you don’t give me that kitten, I’m going to eat your mom’s homemade fudgy chocolate cookie!” Jee-Anne cried. “I’m sorry Jee-Anne, I’m not going to give you my kitten.” “Fine then.”

Jee-Anne showed the cookie in her mouth.

Several people around the table stared at her, shocked at what she had just done.

Gol-Lee scowled, surprised at Jee-Anne’s daring.

She picked up her tray, and walked to another table across the lunch room.  Jee-Anne chewed slowly, savoring the sweet chocolate flavor, then swallowed, satisfied. If Gol-Lee wasn’t going to cave easily, she was going to have to make her.

The whole rest of the school day, Jee-Anne and Gol-Lee fought over everything.

When they played dodgeball in P.E., Jee-Anne threw balls at Gol-Lee even though they were on the same team.

During science, Gol-Lee chose Sarah for her experiment buddy instead of Jee-Anne.

Right before math class, Jee-Anne stole Gol-Lee’s math homework from her backpack, and hid it in her back pocket so she couldn’t turn it in. On their walk home from school, Gol-Lee ran a few blocks ahead of Jee-Anne so she wouldn’t have to walk home with her.

Jee-Anne sighed.

She was getting desperate.

Gol-lee had still not cracked, and she had tried everything she could think of.

There was only one option left.

Jee-Anne dropped her backpack off at her house, and checked her watch.

It was fifteen minutes til four.

Jee-Anne grinned.

At exactly four o’clock, Gol-Lee would have to leave for her violin lesson.

Jee-Anne hurried across the street to Gol-Lee’s house, and, checking first that the coast was clear, snuck through the back door.

She could hear Gol-Lee’s mom talking in the living room, so she ran silently upstairs into Gol-Lee’s bedroom.

Right as she walked through the door, she saw him. Fluffy was sleeping peacefully on Gol-Lee’s bed.

Jee-Anne smiled.

Cautiously, meticulously, Jee-Anne lifted the kitten in her arms, and sprinted out of the house. “Jee-Anne!”

Jee-Anne gasped at the shout.

It was Gol-Lee!

She must not have left for her violin lesson yet!

Jee-Anne let out a terrified scream and ran as fast as she could toward her house.

However, she knew Gol-Lee was catching up to her.

Gol-Lee was taller and faster than Jee-Anne.

Just as Jee-Anne reached her front porch, Gol-Lee grabbed the back of her shirt. “Let go!” Jee Anne screeched, trying to pull away. “Put down my kitten!” Gol-Lee shouted, grabbing the kitten’s back legs. “Never!

He’s mine!” Jee-Anne screamed back, yanking on the kitten’s front legs.

The terrified kitten let out a petrified yowl, but the two girls continued to yank. “You better let go Lilias Francis Fisher!” Jee-Anne screamed. “Not until you do Annabell Gertrude Price!” Gol-Lee shouted. “You traitor!” Jee-Anne screamed. “You stealer!” Gol-Lee yelled back. “You selfish backstabber!” Jee-Anne roared. “I’m not a selfish backstabber!

I was going to give you a kitten too!” Gol-Lee shouted.

Jee-Anne stopped pulling.

Gol-Lee stopped yanking too.

The poor little kitten sighed with relief.

“What do you mean you were going to give me one too?” Jee-Anne asked, panting slightly.

Gol-Lee took a few deep breaths, then explained, “My aunt was the one whose cat had kittens.

She said I could take one over to show you, then you could come over and choose one too if your mom said you could have one.” Jee-Anne stared at Gol-Lee, utterly shocked. “I’m sorry Gol-Lee,” Jee-Anne muttered, her face turning red. “That’s okay Jee-Anne,” Gol-lee said, “want to walk over after my violin lesson and pick which one you want?” “Okay!” Jee-Anne said eagerly.

The two best friends embraced.

Fluffy meowed uncomfortably between them.

Gol-Lee ran back over to her house, waving over her shoulder to Jee-Anne. “Oh, but Gol-Lee!”

Jee-Anne said, “How about I don’t ask my mom if I can have one.

I’ll think she’ll like it more if it’s a surprise.” Gol-Lee grinned, her dimples popping out.