About fifteen Novembers ago, my mom told me during the long ride to grandma's, “People grieve in different ways.” Gray haze veiled the road and icy rain, dinged on the windshield like BB pellets. “Grieve?” Later that afternoon, I danced a metal cookie cutter around the kitchen table while my grandma dumped a heap of brown sugar into a mixing bowl. It looked a little like a sandcastle. “Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the Gingerbread Man!” I sang between pursed lips like a ventriloquist. “Remember to keep a good eye on them once they come out of the oven.” My grandma winked. “I won’t let them get away, Grandma,” I said, squeezing the cookie cutter. My grandma’s gold earrings swung from her ears like monkeys on vines as she flitted between ingredients. She poured molasses, darker as chocolate syrup, into a measuring cup. “Yuck, what’s that?” I cried. “Molasses,” she laughed. “Like Melissa , but not so sweet.” She showed me the measurements printed on the side. “Is that right?” I looked down at the recipe I’d printed at school. I’d begun learning about fractions, and my teacher had thought baking might be a good way to practice them. “M-O-L—” “I see it, I see it, Grandma. It says…half a cup.” I squinted at the lines on the cup. “Yes, half a cup.” “Very good,” she said, a smile spreading on her mulberry lips. "And then?” I beamed while I ran a finger over the steps. “Oh, we need…half a teaspoon of ‘al-spis.’ For the other bowl.” Her smile waned. “Why do we need allspice for cinnamon rolls?” I scrunched up my nose. “Cinnamon rolls? We’re making gingerbread men , Grandma.” I waved the recipe in the air. “Oh. You’re right.” Her face became pink under a film of foundation. She picked up a measuring spoon and scooped out what looked like grains of dirt from a small bottle. “Did we get everything?” she asked as she emptied the spoon. I checked the recipe. “Um, ginger.” She snatched the paper from me. “Let me see that.” Frowning, I said, “Well, for gingerbread men we need it, right?” I leaned over the table to peek at the list. At home, when my older brother and I fought, being “right” was paramount: yeah huh, vanilla is the worst flavor in Neapolitan ice cream, and duh, pancakes are better than waffles. But that day, being right didn’t feel as good. I might as well have been the weatherman watching the storm I predicted swell on the radar. Maybe my fear had something to do with what else my mom said to me on the way over. “See if it’s in the cupboard,” my grandma said, pointing over her shoulder. I jumped up and towed my chair to the cupboard. Opening the doors, I began parting the sea of half-empty spice bottles, some unlabeled, and packages of flour separating at the seams. Behind me, a Styrofoam carton squealed when my grandma took an egg out. While I scavenged, I noticed a mound of something scattered in the back like leaves. Reaching into the darkness, I pulled out a trading card with a picture of man in a baseball uniform kneeling on a field, a bat balanced on his thigh. It said “Dale Murphy” along the bottom and “Braves” on the top in steel blue. I didn’t know much about baseball then, so I assumed it meant he must be courageous. His hard squint into the stands seemed to cement the notion. "Hey, these are kinda cool!” I exclaimed, shuffling a handful of cards. “Why are these up here, Grandma?” Her reaction startled me. “Put those back!” she screeched. One of the cards escaped and sailed to the floor. “I don’t want Jerry to find them!” My eyebrows tented. “Uncle Jerry?” She cracked the egg on the bowl. The yellow goop seeped out of the shell. “He’s not allowed to take those to school.” In the car, my mom had said that if this happened to just go along with it, throw my grandma an “m-hm” if I had to. But don’t try to argue. So, no matter how confused it made me, I bit my tongue when she asked, “Did you find the yeast?” “Yeast?” I smirked from where I stood on the chair. I slipped a few cards in my back pocket and returned the rest of the stack to the cupboard. “I thought we…” “The yeast is in a little packet,” she said, attaching the whisks to the mixer. Pulling my chair back up to the table, I laid the packet beside the nutmeg. Then, I smoothed out my recipe. For the sake of the gingerbread men, I told her, “It’s not on here, Grandma. Should I put it ba--” She shook her head. “No, stay out of the cupboard.” My face felt hot with frustration when I heard the  shrrrip of the packet being torn. She shook it empty into the bowl with the spices. After combining the wet and dry ingredients, she made circles in the cocoa-colored sludge with the mixer, whirring like a buzz saw. I took the cards from my pocket and held them in a fan in my lap while the mixer flicked batter onto the tablecloth. I wondered if I only reminded Grandma about Uncle Jerry, I would be allowed to keep the cards. Certainly, if my mom saw how awesome the they were, she would understand, I thought. “Grandma, Uncle Jerry doesn’t go to school anymore,” I said over the sound of the mixer. She flipped the switch and set it aside. “He got sent to the principal for having those cards, and he won’t be getting caught with them again.” Color bloomed in her face. “M-hm.” Using a rubber spatula, she scraped the gooey batter from the sides of the bowl. Her forehead wrinkled with disgust. “He tried to say they were that boy Todd’s”—she hit the spatula off the edge of the mixing bowl— "He won’t make friends that way.” “M-hm.” “Always so stubborn,” she mused. "Always so lonely in there." I tucked the cards back in my pocket. “Well, I wouldn’t get caught with them,” I assured her. She snorted and shook her head. “You know, I tried to get him to just sign up for real baseball and he said, 'the team won't like me.' 'I'm not good enough.' Laziness, he learned it from his father.” I grew annoyed with her game. “Grandma, Uncle Jerry went to Texas.” “Texas?” she scoffed. “He’s never been there.” “That’s what dad always said. Uncle Jerry went to college in Texas before I was born.” "No, he’s only fifteen,” she seemed to say more to herself than me. “He’s never even talked about college.” She sighed and gave the bowl another whack. “Now, it has to sit for a while before we can cut it. What time is it?” I stared at the clock. “Uh, almost three.” She whispered, “While we’re waiting, why don’t you sneak back there and see if he’s hiding any more of those? Before he gets off the bus.” My shoulders fell. Just go along with it, don’t be worried , Mom had said. I headed down the hall, unsure of what “back there” meant. I poked my head around every door, buzzing with a little excitement at the thought I might find more cards. I would say to her, “I’ll hide them good, Grandma, so he can’t take them to school anymore,” and have a whole collection. I jiggled the knob of the only room I had yet to check. A rush of cool air hit me like standing at the entrance of a tomb. Discarded clothes and torn magazine pages laid scattered on the carpet. A batting helmet, CDs, and a studded leather jacket bellied out of the open closet. Posters of more “Brave” baseball players curled as the tape came loose with time. One of them said, “RUN HOME!” An unraveled yo-yo rested on the floor by the bed. Seeing a backpack slouching by the foot of the bed, I entered the room and unzipped it, fast in case Uncle Jerry somehow caught me in there snooping. “Aha,” I murmured to myself when I felt something thin and flat hidden in an inside pocket. I couldn’t suppress a smile. “Who do we have here…” When I tugged the card out, I didn’t see a suntanned player posing on the field. Instead of baseball stats, I saw a column of Ds and Fs. I wondered how Uncle Jerry could be in college for so long if he hadn’t gotten As in regular school. Standing by the bed with the report card, I thought about what to do. Like putting flowers on a grave, I took the baseball cards out of my back pocket and slipped them into the musty pillowcase. When I returned, I helped my grandma dig the dough out of the bowl and plop it onto a bed of flour she’d sprinkled on the table. I used the rolling pin to flatten it out. She didn’t ask about the baseball cards. Grabbing my cookie cutter, I felt the confusion in my heart fade. Before I could cut the shapes, however, my grandma took a stick of melty butter from the dish and rubbed it across the slab of dough. Then, she coated the surface in cinnamon. The aroma burnt my nostrils. At that age and even today, I didn’t know the difference between what she chose to forget and what she didn’t. She rolled the dough into a log and held the dough knife out to me. My mom had told me what to say, but not how to cope. Fighting the feeling of disappointment, I put the cookie cutter aside. “Cut about a dozen. About…an inch and a half thick… Is that what it says?” she asked, pointing at the recipe. My palms sweaty, I glanced at the paper, trying not to notice that it didn’t say to spread cinnamon on the dough or roll it up or pour yeast into the mix. “Yeah, inch and….” “Is it a one and a two?” I nodded. “Oh,” she chuckled. “You know what a ‘half’ looks like, you just told me half a teaspoon only a little bit ago.” “I know.” “Ah.” She rubbed her temples while I made a crooked cut in the dough. “He should have just put it down.” “M-hm.” "Out there in the street when they told him, he should have just put it down.” ` “M-hm.”


‘Frank Courtney; new resident in bed 12. Male, 81, major stroke with right-sided weakness, speech affected, discharged from hospital this morning. ’ ‘Family?’ ‘Widowed. A daughter, as far as I know. I don’t think they’re close. He was a clever bloke by the sounds of it; scientist for the government, apparently.’ The two nurses popped their heads round the door, saw that the old man appeared to be asleep and moved on to complete their handover. The old man opened one eye. Glanced around. Settled back into the pillows. ‘ Was. Hrmmph . ’ The care home would take in those who were struggling to cope in their own homes, and it would also take patients who were ready to be discharged from hospital, but weren’t able to go back home. And that’s why Frank was here. Not that he had any choice, not that he had any say, not that he could have said anything anyway. Frank was stuck. Four weeks ago, Frank had had a stroke; he woke up one day in a hospital ward wondering how he’d got there. He remembered that he’d been heading to Wiltshire to meet someone, but he couldn’t remember who or why. And now he couldn’t even ask anyone because his face didn’t work. It’s not that he didn’t know what to say. All the words were there. It’s just that he had a loose connection. He’d pulled a few faces when some young girl came in to give him a shave. He could nod, shake his head, raise an eyebrow and blink, and give a shaky half smile - not that he’d much to smile about. Other than that, speech was just frustrating. He’d pretty much given up. It was so awful, he couldn’t ever imagine it getting back to anything like worthwhile. Just twisted grunts, like the most garbled railway announcement you’d ever heard. What would be the point anyway? There was no one to talk to. The nurses and carers flitted in, did stuff to him, and flitted out to do something else to someone else. No one had time to talk. Certainly no one had time to paste a patient look on their face while they waited for him to utter something they might be able to figure out the meaning of. Not that there was probably anyone on his wavelength here anyway. They probably thought ‘erudite’ was some sort of glue. He lay back and waited for the next thing to happen. Drug round. Tea round. Supper round. Toilet round. Comes to something when your bodily functions have to happen on schedule or not at all… * * * ‘Frank?’ The chubby dark-haired nurse called in that loud and low voice they use when they know something more shrill will interfere with people’s hearing aids. Frank irritably opened his eyes as you do when you’re not asleep, not deaf, and not stupid either. ‘Oh good, you’re awake,’ she grinned. ‘Would you like to see who’s come to visit you?’ Times like this were when Frank regretted his speech loss the most. Times which were crying out for a retort, sharp and stinging as a paper cut. But no, he was forced to arrange his face in a ‘I have no idea, do please tell’ kind of expression, because that was one of the few that he could still do. Before the nurse could offer any further inanity, the door opened wider, and something tumbled into the room. He couldn’t see what it was because his bedrails were in the way, but then his daughter came in muttering her thanks to the nurse and clumsily pushing in with a bundle of carrier bags bursting with who knows what. Junk, probably. ‘Dad,’ she said. Making sure to give him a businesslike peck on the side of his face that still worked properly, and then lifting up Frank’s granddaughter and dumping her onto the end of the bed, as it was tiny girl who had made the clumsy entrance. Frank looked from granddaughter to daughter. ‘I’m sorry Dad, she wanted to come, and there was no one I could leave her with anyway. She’ll be fine, she’s got a couple of toys, and she just wanted to see what it was like here.’ Martha pulled out a couple of stuffed animals from one of the bags and planted them on the bed next to the little girl who immediately began talking to them as though they’d had a stressful journey. Chloe was an unexpected child. There was quite an age gap between her older twin brothers and her - but also, no one expects Down syndrome, do they? Frank hadn’t had much to do with Martha’s boys, and even less to do with the girl, living so far away etcetera, but it’s difficult knowing what to say in that kind of situation, isn’t it? Avoidance was always easier. And of course now, it wasn’t an option anyway. Frank shrugged at his daughter and glanced at all the bags she’d dragged in. ‘I brought you a few things from home to brighten up your room.’ Frank nodded acknowledgment. ‘Now you’re living so close by it’ll be much easier to pop in. But before I go back up north to check on your house, you’ll have to let me know what you want to keep and what can be cleared if…’ she paused, ‘well, I suppose we‘ll just have to work it out between us.’ She fumbled around in the bags, pulled out a few old framed photographs he’d kept of his wife and daughter on his desk. ‘Probably best if we hang these on the wall to save space,’ she said, casting around for the best bit of wall. They said it’s OK if we let them know where we want stuff, and they’ll hang them for us.’ Frank rolled the eye that rolled the best. ‘I’m doing my best, Dad. I’m really trying., Martha’s voice shook a little. ‘I knew you’d hate it anywhere, so I just picked the home that was nearest and didn’t smell of wee.’ He snorted. Martha had always been refreshingly honest. ‘Is that you laughing?’ Frank let out a wheezy gurgle. ‘OK, that’s better. We can agree on that then.’ She paused as the door opened again, and a care assistant popped in offering tea, coffee, and the usual biscuits you get in a family pack. ‘No jammie dodgers left, sorry,’ he said, ‘If they open a box overnight, the night staff always nick the best ones.’ ‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Martha. ‘I wouldn’t mind, only we always get left with the rubbish coconut ones,’ he shrugged, handed a small beaker of orange squash to Martha for Chloe who was still absorbed with her toys, and pushed the trolley back out of the room. ‘Well, you’ll be able to do plenty of people-watching at least,’ said Martha as she gently handed a plastic cup with a spout filled with lukewarm tea to her father. ‘Looks like it’s more milk than tea; Mum’d have a fit. I don’t think they have skimmed here.’ Conversation flagged as the adults sipped their tea, and Chloe offered her squash to her toys. When they didn’t appear thirsty, she gulped it down herself and went back to playing with her toys, making a little den for them with the bottom end of Frank’s duvet. ‘There’s some post,’ said Martha, reaching for another of the bags. ‘Perhaps I could open it for you, and then you can read through, you know, sort it and let me know if there’s anything you want me to do with it. There’s this one as well; I thought it might be important,’ she placed a small envelope with a hand-inked address on it on top of the pile. ‘I don’t recognise the writing.’ She laid the letters to one side of his bedside table so he could go through them after his supper. Frank nodded thanks. He smiled and touched her hand. The movement made Martha jump, but she squeezed the offered hand, and blinked away tears. She couldn’t remember a time when she’s felt closer to her hard-working, secretive father. The hand squeeze turned into a hug. So sad that after all her father worked for, all he achieved, this would be how it would end. She released him, and quickly sniffed and wiped her nose; Chloe noticed, her lip started to tremble and she took big gulps of air in preparation for what Martha recognised as likely to be loud bawling. ‘We’re going to go, Dad. Chloe’s tired. I’ll come back tomorrow evening. Try to rest. ' Another kiss and she bustled away with her daughter. * * * Over the next few days, Frank familiarised himself with the rhythms of the home, although his bowels refuse going to the loo on demand… The pile of post thins as he sat in his comfy chair, and first picking out the easy envelopes to bin without opening. Circulars, prospecting letters from people who sell conservatories, ‘free’ credit cards, charity newsletters. Then he put aside the bills for Martha to help with, magazine subscriptions to cancel, and condolence letters for her to help respond to. The small handwritten envelope remained until last. Then he eyed it as he sipped his lukewarm tea. Salisbury postmark. How funny, there was a slight smudge in the top corner, making it look like the postmark was dated 1951. Finally, he swept it into the bin at the side of his chair with his forearm. Done. One of the carers took him down to the ground floor library. He struggled to concentrate because of the stroke, and anyway, there wasn’t much he was interested in reading - the books were mostly murder mysteries which he found depressing; the main characters surrounded by so much death book after book - and the books themselves had probably been ‘donated’ by those who’d died too. Funny when you thought of it. A couple of the residents had died. No one mentioned it, but he noticed that he was now being washed and dressed about 20 minutes earlier in the mornings, and going to bed 15 minutes earlier too. There were a couple of empty chairs in the dining room, but he couldn’t quite remember the faces of those who were missing. The chairs would of course soon be filled with new people. Life goes on. Until it doesn’t. Martha brought Chloe again one afternoon. So awkward. Chloe went with him to watch him have his hair cut in the salon. She sat next to him swinging her short legs from the big chair and giggled at him in the mirror. He raised an eyebrow and it made her laugh harder. She pulled a face back, and he wiggled his ears. She roared with laughter. They headed back to his room. Chloe played with her stuffed animals as Martha told him family news and he nodded, shrugged or scowled in response. One day Martha brought more post, and Chloe brought crayons and a colouring book. Once Martha was clearing away the completed post and waste paper, Chloe plopped the colouring book onto his chair table and offered him the crayons. He reluctantly took a purple one. She, an orange one. Together they coloured, two heads bent over a picture of something - he wasn’t sure what it was; it was upside down for him. Quietly they worked, progress was slow, and neither was proficient at keeping within the lines, but Chloe didn’t mind. ‘Look, mum!’ she shouted as she proudly held up a seaside scene of crabs, starfish and a sandcastle coloured purple (so that’s what it was…) The colouring became a habit; on Mondays and Thursdays, Chloe would spend the afternoon colouring with him. He was bemused to notice that they were both starting to look forward to her visits, and he learned not to mind the scrappy outlines or the strange colours used. * * * ‘Frank?’ the day nurse popped her head around the door. ‘There’s a visitor for you. Dr Penrose? Would you like to see him in your room or in the day room?’ Dear, oh dear. Penrose. A long time, and he’d come after all.

Frank had a minute before his visitor arrived. He glanced around, seeing his room in the eyes of an old friend and colleague. Now an ex-friend and ex-colleague. Tidy. Beige. Uninspiring. Just like Penrose, in fact. To Frank’s shock, Penrose didn’t look a day older than when Frank had been forced to clear his desk. Not a day. ‘Caught you at last,’ a tweedy and slightly beaky chap said as he entered, holding out his hand. Glancing at Frank’s limp right hand, he swiftly swapped to his left without a word. They shook, Frank looking warily at him. ‘It’s been a long time, Frank. And not for want of trying either - I’ve written, called, I hoped you’d consider a proposal. As it is, I now realise, you’ve, ah, had a bit of a change in circumstances.’ Frank nodded. Penrose didn’t look a day over what? 36? How was that possible? ‘So, I thought perhaps my proposal might be thoughtfully considered after all.’ Penrose pulled a chair up opposite Frank, sat and placed his briefcase next to his feet. Frank looked at him stonily. ‘The project was successful. It works - and not least down to that, ah, unorthodox thing you tried…’ ‘…t hat got me fired, ’ finished Frank, in his brain. ‘You were right after all. It is possible to go back as well as forwards. Jenkins did it. Went all the way back to Waterloo, had a look around, and back to 1951 in time for tea. Government’s keeping it under wraps though, can’t let just anyone muddle around in the future or history willy-nilly . There’s a bit more to be done though, and that’s where you come in.’ He shuffled his chair forward, resting his elbows on Frank’s chair-table. ‘We want to refine it a bit, more time accuracy, and hopefully, reduce the fatigue and after effects for participants.’ He spoke quickly. Frank’s eyes widened with possibilities. ‘Hmm, thought you’d be interested,’ Penrose’s beady eyes glinted. We can do it this Friday. Pop you down to Wiltshire, and it’s back to 1951, you continue your masterwork finish what you started, and escape all this - you get to be young again. How about it?’ Penrose looked at him keenly. Frank raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath. I mean, it would would solve everything, wouldn’t it? He’d get to prove he was right all along, work on the project that had been his passion; and he’d had so many ideas over the last decades, in idle moments imagining how he could make changes, making fresh calculations and forming new hypotheses on top of old, discarded ones. Streamlining the process, improving reliability, accuracy…’ He closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. This was unexpected - and irresistible; this chance of validation, vindication even, the opportunity to test things, the scientific process… To exchange this for all that. He opened his eyes and looked squarely at the confidently expectant Penrose.

‘No.’ ‘What?’ Penrose leant back in surprise. ‘But it’s your life’s work.’ Frank shook his head. No. It isn’t.


Taking care of business. Everyday. Meg hears the three o’clock song play over the grocery store intercom like it always does. She knows it’s only meant to silently signify the beginning of rush hour at her job. Still, she enjoys its catchy and upbeat tune.

“Hello, you're Meg, right? I’m Sam” Sam, a fellow cashier, says.

“I am. You’re new. How do you like it so far?” Meg says as she turns towards her.

“I know I've only been here six months, but I love it here!”

“That’s good. I hope it stays that way.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Three long years.”

“Hopefully, I won't be here for long. After I graduate from college, I plan to leave.” Sam says with a twinge of light in her eye. Meg had plans and dreams when she was in high school, but after she reached adulthood, she realized her dreams weren’t a priority anymore.

“Hello.” Meg turns to see a regular, Mr. Lee says as he enters her line.

“Hello, Mr. Lee. How did you find everything?” Meg says as she starts to scan his groceries.

“Terrible.” Mr. Lee says with a snickering grin.

“How’s the wife?”

“Same old, same old. She sure is enjoying retirement.”

“Why don’t you retire? I’m sure your restaurant will be fine in your kids’ hands.”

“You’re probably right, but I guess I’m a stubborn old mule.”

“Your total is $12.36.” Meg says as she places the last bag on the counter.

“Here you go, darling.” Mr. Lee says as hands her the cash.

“Have a great day.” Meg says with a smile as she hands Mr. Lee his change. After Mr. Lee, Meg handles a few more customers before the clock strikes five. She hurriedly logs off her register and heads over to the time clock. She swipes her badge and waits for the confirmation message. But when the text flashes, Meg can hardly believe her eyes. Clock on at 9 a.m.

“How could that be?” Meg murmurs to herself. Meg shakes her head. She determines she must have just seen the wrong time. She must be tired from working all day, so she decides to head home.

As Meg walks to the front and starts to walk out of the door, she hears, “Where are you going?” Meg turns to see her manager, Joe, trailing after her.

“My shift is over. I’m going home.” Meg says.

“Very funny. I need you to hop on a register.”

“No, I’m going home.”

“If you leave right now, don’t worry about coming back.” Joe says. Meg desperately wants to walk out of that door, but the look in her manager’s eye tells her he’s serious. Meg knows she can’t afford to be without a job. She has enough money problems as is.

“What register?” Meg says with a sigh.

“Register three.” Joe says without hesitation. Meg trudges back to the checkout area and hops back on the register she was on before. She can’t believe she has to work her shift again. On the bright side, she will have double the money she would have earned if she only worked one shift.

Meg goes through her shift without a hassle. She has her lunch at one o’clock, then she hears the three o’clock song. Finally, when the clock strikes five o’clock again, she heads to the time clock this time with her aching back and feet. Meg leans against the time clock and swipes her badge. Her heart sinks as that dreaded message flashes once again. Clock on at 9 a.m.

“No, no! I don’t understand.” Meg cries as she slowly backs away from the time clock. “No, not again.” Meg says, shaking her head.

“What’s going on?” Joe says.

“Something strange is happening.” “ I don’t know what you’re babbling about, but I need you to get on a register.”

“This isn’t fair. I want to go home.”

“You know what isn’t fair? I’ve worked at this company for 12 years, and I’ve only got a raise a couple of times. My wife left me and got the house and the kids. I’m balding. That’s unfair. Listen, life’s not fair. You have to just deal with it, because you don’t have a choice.”

“I guess.” Meg says.

“Now I need to hop on. We have lines.” Joe says. Meg just nods and gets back on register three. This shift she decides to use her words sparingly. She doesn’t want to tire herself out any more than she already is. She also didn’t want to say anything she would regret. During her lunch, she just stares at the wall thinking, trying to stay awake. She fantasizes about walking out in a big explosive way. She imagines shouting obscenities at the customer who so happens to go in her line. She imagines flipping off Joe as she walks out of the door. As she hears the three o’clock song, she contemplates walking out. She decides to wait to see what the time clock says. She hopes for a new outcome, but her hopes aren’t very high. When the clock strikes five,

Meg trudges over to the time clock. She swipes her badge and waits for the wheel to decide her fate. As that familiar message grazes her eyes, a tear falls from her eye. She has no words as she stares at that cursed machine.

“Why are you just standing around?! I need you on a register.” Joe says from behind her.

Meg turns to look at her manager, and with a tremble in her voice, she says, “Can I please go home? I’m so tired.” A second and third tear falls from her eyes.

“Aren’t we all.” Joe says.

“I’m serious.”

“You can go home,” Joe says, “but you can kiss your job goodbye.” Hearing those cruel words, she considers actually walking out. As much as she desperately wants to, she knows she can’t afford to lose this job. She would rather work a thousand shifts back-to-back than risk homelessness and starvation. So, Meg decides to comply and jump back on register three, which she now calls home. She spends this shift taking crying breaks in the janitor’s closet and faking a half smile for her fluctuating patrons. She ponders on two questions throughout the day: Why her? Is she cursed or is this truly what life is about?

As that time comes around again, Meg goes to the time clock to receive that message she knows awaits her. Clock on at 9 a.m. Seeing that dreaded message again, makes Meg realize that there is no end to her situation. She decides to just accept her fate as denying it won’t make it any easier.

Meg hops back on her register and stops looking at the clock. Soon after, time starts to blur together. Lunch, song, time clock. She progressed through each new shift like clockwork. Lunch, song, time clock . She isn’t sure how many she completed, but she became okay with this new existence more and more as she did shift after shift. Lunch, song, time clock.

“Meg, are you okay?” Sam says from behind Meg.

“I’m great. It’s almost time for my lunch again.” Meg says, staring off into the distance with a faint smile.

“Hello.” Mr. Lee says as walks up to Meg.

“Hello, how did you find everything?” Meg says.

“Terrible.” Mr. Lee says. Before Mr. Lee can let out a snicker, Meg starts giggling. That giggle turns to a chuckle, then a cackle. She wants to stop laughing as her stomach is hurting, but she can’t stop. Suddenly, Meg drops to the ground, still laughing. Then she stops laughing all together, and she can feel her eyes start to shut. “Are you okay? Meg?” she hears an amalgamation of voices around her. As everything starts to fade, Meg can her manager say in the distance, “Move her over. We have lines.”


“ We welcome our viewers to this episode of ‘Unconventional Heroes’ and today we are in conversation with Cyril D’Souza from Durban. He recently climbed Kibo or the summit of Kilimanjaro at the age of 89, making him the oldest person alive to achieve this feat! Welcome Sir! ” The interviewer turns towards the second camera that closes in on Cyril. “I don’t understand why I am getting this coverage,” beamed Cyril “I was just doing this for her,” he said as he pointed to his heart. He blinked at the camera, the lights almost blinding him while the assistant adjusted his microphone. The crew exchanged looks of coyness and smiled amongst themselves. “Did she want you to climb the Kibo?” asked Natasha her interest piquing as she looked at Cyril. Cyril guffawed. “She knew nothing about my climbing. In fact, she despised my going out, as I would come back injured and with a lot of dirty laundry,” he smiled, “No pun intended,” he said as crowfeet appeared at the edges of his eyes. “My Nadia was a woman of letters. She only let me travel because I would tell her stories in return for all the inconvenience I caused.” “When did you feel like you should take up climbing? As in, were you always drawn to sports?” “I was always a very shy child. I used to like being outdoors for the fact that I could be alone with nature. I loved to listen to the birds sing, the rain and the river flowing. In fact, I doubt I ever interacted much with the human world,” he chuckled. “The only time I knew words were when I met Nadia,” his eyes sparkled with newly formed tears. “You speak a lot about Nadia. What would she have thought of your feat today?” “Being the oldest man to climb Kilimanjaro!” he exclaimed, bending slightly forward leaning towards the interviewer. “She would be very pleased. She always thought I looked like Hemingway anyway!” he winked. Cyril took on a more serious tone and said, “Hemingway was her favourite author and she loved that book by that bloke…something something Kilimanjaro’” “Snows of Kilimanjaro?” “Ah yes, yes. Snows of Kilimanjaro. In fact, Nadia made me read it as well. At first, I wondered what on earth Kilimanjaro was! I had not the faintest idea! But then I read all about it and was instantly taken by the place rather than the story. To me, I had to see it.” “Did you think you were going to make a record?” “Oh dear, no no! Not at all! I thought I just wanted to see the place for myself, and being the ignoramus that I am, I had no clue where it was or how to get there: but that was what made the whole thing more adventurous. While Nadia tried to show me the beauty of the story, I wanted to see the place, for what it was. I had no idea it would be such a climb. Of course, the boy in me was happy to see that there was such a beautiful place I had chanced upon because of my wife’s reading. You see, she died holding that book to her heart, and I had to live it. See it for myself before I could read it for her.” “It must have been very emotional for you?” Cyril stifled back tears and smiled through the pain as he gulped, “Of course. She was my life force and I thought only about her. Especially after I lost my leg, I actually thought I would never be able to walk again, but look, 2 years later, I am a grieving widower, old lame man holding the record for the oldest and what’s that word you used?” “Specially-abled?” “Yeah! Euphemism for lame you mean?” “Lame old man climbs Kilimanjaro for his wife, yes. I am whimsical like that!” “What is your next peak? Or next travel?” “I am saving up to see the Northern lights next.” “All the best Mr Cyril D’Souza, we hope you traverse the world and see all that you want to.” “For Nadia, I will.”  ***** The interview had got over sooner than expected and now the crew had seized his house indulging on snacks and drinks he had arranged. “You went through too much trouble Mr D’Souza. The production would have taken care of this. Although I must admit the lemon cake is yummy!” Natasha spoke in her child-like demeanor, casting aside her stiffened pose in front of the camera. “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine. It’s not everyday that I get interviewed.” “How do you manage by yourself, Mr D’Souza?” “First of all, you can call me Cyril. No need to be so formal. And I had to, simple! When we are pushed to our limits, we learn to survive. That’s what happened when I lost my leg and when I thought things could not get worse, I lost my partner for life.” “I’m sorry…but how?” “My leg was an accident, and Nadia to a heart attack two years ago.” “Oh…” “It’s alright. She had lived well and when she had been wheeled to the hospital, she had told me that she would prefer to go now than leaving me forever straddled with her to a machine and me to an incapacitated version of her. I protested, of course, I know how the body and mind can be channelized when it has gone through something…” he tapped his artificial leg with a cane. “But she thought otherwise, she wanted me to never lose my freedom to see the world.” “Wow…” “So, I had to, for her. I’m sorry if I went on a rant and upset you, that was not my intention.” “Oh no! It’s perfectly fine! It is very touching,” Natasha said, while adding, “If I may…I have a question?” “Sure” “Why the Northern lights?” “Oh haha. Well, when I had proposed to Nadia fifty years ago, I had always wanted it to be under the Northern lights, but she hated traveling and we couldn’t afford it. When we got this computer, she would stare at the images of the places she read about, but she was always too scared. But now I feel, I must.”


The Death Knell and the Vampire of Ogrencisi The Vampire of Ogrencisi witnessed how his closest ally, another immortal, was dissipated by being beheaded in the battle between the Turks and the Templars. A templar beheaded him and put a sword through his heart. Only a woman could distract him that way, Ogrencisi surmised. He slew the soldier who killed his friend and ended the battle but not without knowing where the woman was. She took refuge in a monastery among the nuns in the Balkan mountain. She was a Christian, an angel, who accompanied the Templars on battles. It was said that his ally, a moor and the Angel were lovers. Knowing where she was, an augur told him to take the child who was to be his bride in twenty- one years’ time. And so, he travelled on a lone horse to find them. Inside the monastery, the Angel had given birth to the unearthly child. But the skies filled with clouds to occlude the sun and became one in a phalanx following the Vampire of Ogrensici towards the monastery. The Angel looked out the seared shut stained glass window pane of colored saints. She found darkness descend in the middle of a bright, trilling, snow capped day. How the vampire knew of where she was is no wonder. The evil had their ways of knowing and they paid a high price for it. The angel pursed her lips as she suckled her child. There was only one thing she could do. To confront the vampire and end him before he could take her child away. A gust of wind wailed and blew off the tapers and lamplights. The younger nuns huddled together and made the sign of the cross. The elderly nuns who were more familiar of the vampire and knew of his cruelty guided the younger nuns to pray the Ave Maria. No matter what, the elders told them, do not look into his eyes. But the angel was determined not to allow the vampire to enter the convent and sow fear into the peaceful convent to whom she owed her refuge and delivery. The day turned into a starless night as the wind howled and grew restless against the stained- glass windows whose saints began to bleed tears of blood. The Vampire of Ogrencisi had arrived. As some would assume, he would be weary from battle. But he trudged up the steep mountain trail until he almost reached the peak where the monastery stood carved like a relief against the bolster of rocks. It was the most beautiful monastery anyone have ever seen with a garden of blue roses and verdant green grasses whose fertility against the cold was most unusual indeed. But there it was, the last bastion of belief the angel was prepared to defend against all odds. And what of her lover, the Turkish moor. He died as the death knell of the monastery bells tolled for the sext or the middle prayers. The angel felt the first pangs of childbirth and fell to the ground grappling the grass among the blue roses where she walked each day to lower the child from her womb. She knew then, that her lover, the moor, had died. Now, his friend was coming for her child. They both loved him, but in different ways. He would do everything to find the child and bring her back to his manor as his ward. Which only meant, she, the angel was a block to the augured future he so believed in. The angel would prove the augur made a terrible mistake and change the course of the future. Her daughter was not to become a vampire. She was to be an angel, just as darkness was to be turned to light. The angel placed her finger into the palm of her daughter and this closed about her own like a flower closing at night after a day in bloom. She kissed her daughter’s forehead and seared her forehead with holy water. When she battled with Christians against the moors, she did so with her wings folded behind her back lest they betray her for being an unearthly creature, an angel of God. The moor wanted to see her fly, but she could only cover him with her wings as he lay cold beside her when they loved. The angel placed her daughter to the care of a nun, wrapped in sheepskin. Barefoot she drew her sword from beneath the cot she had been sleeping in for the past months. It was a long sword, heavy with metal hammered to perfection by holy alchemists. She dragged the heavy sword through the dark, cold hallways of the monastery and it flickered fire from the friction of metal against stony ground. The nuns prayed for her absolution, to destroy now, being an angel of death. Soon, she was outside the front garden and the nuns opened the gates to release her towards their fate. It was a cold, heartless landscape she encountered for the wind, sleet and snow all conspired to make her turn back. But she was unearthly as the vampire was. Immortal with no end in sight, one could say, she was his equal and yet only one would remain standing before the night. Through the thickness of the dark, the angel tried to find him, walking away from the monastery until she found him before her on a horse, drawing his sword and ready to slay her. The angel ran towards him, this time with her sword raised heavy on her hands. Her wings unfolded behind her ranging a mile from wingtip to wingtip and she flew over him. With a clear sweep of her sword she slew his head and severed it from his body. He toppled down from his horse and she landed on his chest to pierce his heart with a twist to make certain, absolutely certain that he, would die. The sun, slowly appeared in accretion and the clouds dispersed into pieces until they disappeared from the sky. Brightness lay its mantle on the snow and it soon melted. Tonight, the stars and moon brightened the nightscape as the angel rocked her daughter from a chair by a warm fire knowing fully well she had saved her child from an immortal life with the Vampire of Ogrencisi.                                                            ***


I heard a thundering knock at my door that jolted me awake. I noticed the doctor wearing a blue scrub walking in a brisk movement inside my cramped space. His eyes filled with grieve and horror. As I perceived him, my mind overflowed with thoughts of panic and anxiety. I acknowledged that whatever I was about to hear was about to mortify me. The doctor calmly said, "Hello Emily, we have found some critical data, your cancer has spread to your lungs and chest, and we have found that you only have a year or so to continue your life." and at that instant, I grasped my life as I recognized it was over. “B- but what do you mean a year? Is there an antidote to this?” I said nervously; he replied, “I am afraid there is no remedy to this, I wish circumstances were different, and I can discern that you are unhappy, but there is nothing we can do.'' I praised the doctor and proceeded to my husband to notify him. I could not stop trembling, and my heart kept pounding faster and faster the more I recalled it. I kept imagining how my relatives would react if I succumbed to death, I was about to stand up, but my husband shuffled into the room, and I disclosed the news to my partner; he embraced me and told me graciously: "Do not sweat, everything will be alright at the end". When my husband left, I felt like each part of my skin and bones fused into plashes of gooey viscous liquid. I couldn't manage the devastating revelation. I wept and screamed all my sadness and depression away until I was dehydrated. I knew I needed a diversion, an entertainment of sorts from my pity-self, just something to monetary transfer my consciousness from my soul and deliver me to a fairyland of delight and sweetness, then a plan leaped into my mind, what if I just imagined that place? I closed my eyes and imagined anything that could produce me to be comfortable or deliver me a humongous smile. I look around and observe as I descend to the ground. Oh, how entertaining and exciting it is to be approaching the campground. I crash the floor feeling no pain, as I know this is my creativity, but I might also be insane. I observe the kids swinging and frolicking on the toys, all appear to make a bunch of noise. I ran toward the slide, where I slide with pride and stride. I finally felt happy for once, I could live here for months! I heard my husband calling my name, everything started disappearing like some sort of game. I uncovered my eyes and noticed my husband gazing at me and patting me. He possessed an expression of worrisome, with a perplexed stare. I released "What do you want?" from my lips; then he questioned me, "What were you doing? Did something occur? Do you want to go out?" I answer his questions calmly, "I was imagining? Nothing happened, do not worry. No, I do not want to get out. I want to stay in this room.", then he hugged me with affection. I inhaled each second of it, then As I saw him leave. I remembered when I first met him. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the words "Thursday". He had blue eyes, brunette hair. I snickered to myself and ran to him to strike a small conversation. I said, "Hello, sorry to disturb you, but I found you wearing a t-shirt with the words, Thursday? Do you know by chance that today is Friday?". He chuckled to himself, "Do you think I am just that idiotic? I did this to attract girls, and I guess it worked. My buddy will be paying me ten dollars today WOOOOO! by the way, do you want my number?". I said, trying not to smile, "Sure, I would love to!" and then time passed on, and we kept texting, calling, meeting with each other until he proposed to me, and here we are, watching him leave the room where I rest because of cancer, I shut my eyes and continued my fantasy. I open my eyes again not knowing what to expect, I see a bright light my eyes want to reject. I had no other choice but to walk towards it, and see a guy asking me "may I have your permit?". I stutter nervously checking my pockets "I- I don't have a-" I feel a paper in my bag, I drag it out like a flag, and hand it to him confidently like I'm giving him a mag, he opens the gate and I see a big sign saying "welcome to Imagiland!" my jaw dropped, I walked around, the floor was made of cotton candy, I noticed my friend in the distance and shouted "BRANDY?". "what are you doing here?" said brandy, "well a bit of explanation from you would come in handy", "I always come here when I'm feeling down", "what even is this town?", "it's a-" everything started to dissolve around- I reopened my eyes and noticed my husband's eyes filled with fury. He was approximately going to weep. He said, "THANK GOD YOU ARE AWAKE! I THOUGHT SOMETHING HAPPENED TO YOU. ARE YOU OKAY!" I gawked at him in bewilderment and said softly, "I was asleep, calm down?" he replied, "YOU WERE ASLEEP FOR FIVE MONTHS? NO, YOU WERE IN A GODDAMN COMA. I DON'T KNOW HOW THE DOCTOR DOESN'T KNOW HOW!", I said "Oh! I recalled I slept for one 7 hours?", he responded attempting to maintain his composure, "thank god, when the doctor admits you to leave, we will go outside, take a walk or something. You haven't left your room since we got here." I responded, pouting, "I don't want to leave the comfort of my room. I love it here." he answered, aghast, "You... love it in your room?" I said, "Yes, I just rest." he replied, "No, you're leaving with me." I replied, "No, what are you going to do? Drag a woman with cancer outside", he sighed and left my room in a huff. When he disappeared, I began to ponder about Brady, Brady Harlistion. I witnessed him in "Imagiland". He was similar to how I viewed him last time we spoke. He had coffee-colored eyes, brownish hair, and average height. I yearn for him so extremely. We were inseparable in high school. We would regularly hang out together, and at the weekend, we would go to our neighborhood marketplace. He was the jackpot of friends, dependable, truthful, unusual, and astonishing. I still reminisce about him every day, but now he is gone from that frightful car crash from an intoxicated driver, and if I ever discover that drunk driver. I wish to assassinate him and his family, as he took my friend away. I wanted to meet him again, at least to say goodbye, even if it was in my imagination. It was better than nothing. I closed my eyes, expecting to be exported to a wondrous land, but when I opened my eyes, I was still in the real world. Suddenly, I see brandy walk in with a tall face, looking at me with grace. He said, "Did you want to say goodbye before I reside?", I thought "Is this true, because if it's not, I will be blue. Why is everything rhyming, is it not weird timing?" I said, "Goodbye, I will miss your eyes. You will always be one of my allies. Wait but are you real?" he said calmly "Well, believe it, it's the real deal." he added, "Do you wanna come with me?" I said, "Where is it that you will be?" he said, "To the land of the heavens above, follow me to where we can fly above our worries, to a beautiful sea." he held his hand out, I caught it with no doubt. We started to fly. I closed my eyes for the last time we arrived here, a year ago.


By Dumisani khumalo He was in Cuba at the blink of an eye .The cop that sought for him could not find him ,see him ,nor was he certain of his whereabouts so  he could get his own revenge .He saw him ten years later, after buying him a beer at a bar and inquiring if he still remembered him .He said no ,and when he told him who he was ,he disappeared once again . The bags the boys found were in a secluded part of a bush and under a bridge. The one who first saw them claimed there maybe a case of baby dumping and caution was to be taken ,after a narration of how forensics would come up with evidence, from fingerprints or erroneously coming out of the belly of lies , that a dead person revealed his killer by copying him up into his eyes for the dictatives to reveal it with their gadgets , narratives that picked their bristles of the cat walking amongst them and if such be the case as in the bags ,would have the same kind of investigations . The stories were not as truthful as their desire for money,smokes and beer .The three of then agreed that if they pulled the cases out they would share the loot by thel three of them and decided to put them close by the main road so access would be easy ,then in the morning ,they would be able to try and sell them

The pernicious task of lifting them out was queer and difficult,taking more time they reached the main road at dusk .Then walking home to a silence as errie ,it made all of them go their separate ways after the his marijuana pulled them out of their skins, not a word was heard ,obviously from the fear playing on what they had seen . Not on Martin as he checked on them and on their individual ways home ,and making his way back to a friends house close by .He told him of the bags ,and the friend obliged to carrying them with and find a buyer the next day .That is what caused the whole thing to go into another nail biting moment ,as they found out the next day that the bags were gone. Martin took his two friends to the bags ,and found the were no longer there .After the same dictatives stories ,they all agreed ,someone must have been tailing them . At midday ,Martin was sharing the first fruits of the money of the bags sold to a maid in the neighbourhood at $35 ,and for the two ,it was manna dropped from heaven for both of them .

They shared $15'each ,and the five was for the beer they had all wanted lsince eaving school and fast graduating into adult life .They went to a nearby bottlestore and bought some opaque beer,and clear beer came in after that, for most, as a wash down . The police raids were reminiscent of the colonial era ,harsh and demanding for individual particulars ,and only resembled in it the power politics of blacks in blacks as finding opposition as opponents were as good as enemies of the State. Martins weight lighting and training's made him look big and awesome ,he was barely got scared as when the bags story was told to him ,and he took them and had the idea of how to sell them, and now he was not afraid of any police raid at all.A pack of opaque beer called a shake shake was sipped at will and put high up on the trusses for hiding as they played games on fruit machines and mini soccer .If the police came ,as they did so often ,they would all deny ownership of the pack as usual, and a band of youth was taken to the new, youth having money in their pockets ,and money to spend on beer like this . The patrol car was there in no time, and helter skelter ,the youth ran in all directions to escape arrest and pay a fine ,failure of which was a number of days in the cells, save for Martin whose hands were stuck at the mini soccer table and looking at the goings on a little bit ignominious danger was nigh.A three star band ranked officer came out to him and picked out the pack ,which Martin denied to be his .The overzealous office then wanted someone to take him with him as an example to his subordinates .Arrests had to be made .Martin was the culprit whom he tried pulling into the car in front of his officers who had returned after a chase for the youth but could not do so by the strength of his arms and body build. The other officers looked curiously at them and Martin gave him a punch to the face ,the officers hat going into the wind as he came down on his knees ,as Martin pulled him towards his bare knee for the final knell. The quick realisation of rank made the other officers take him from behind,putting handcuffs on him and bundling him into the van to the police station .The ranking officer who was injured was taken to hospital. At the police station ,Martin was chained to the wall ,and after an inquiry in his identity papers and age ,he was found to be under age to drink ,and they had no test kits to prove he was drunk ,and the politics in the station wanted him let loose because there was no evidence aganist him ,and moreover the ranking officer was a promotion through the thick of political rivalry and through political muscle,and working at the conviction of opposition members was some officers call of duty and persecution letter of employment. Martin was literally out of the holding area when a call came from hospital that Martin was not to be let loose .The ranking officer had more he had to prove. He arrived in the late hours of dusk and tried his hand at karate kicks and punching Martin, as Martin did not cry nor bleat  ,but demanded for a fair fight .It astounded them ,and sounded rude at the final ,it was decided that he be taken to a stops camp where both criminals ,political detainees ,and thugs were put up ,and news arrived already that a young lad had beaten his political opponent and was being brought into their holding cells. Martin was a hero when he arrived . The chief inspector was.in the following morning,and Martin s age was of concern when other political opponents were beaten black and blue and forced into submission for crimes they did not commit ,as they too ,were being trailed in their suburbs by political opponents of the ruling party. The high ranking officer was waiting for Martins release ,at his gate at home and revenge was on his breathe each day .Martins release was quick and swift ,he saw himself out on the street and heading home .His young brother approached him to give him a letter that he was going for teacher training interviews for those who wanted scholarships to Cuba . The idea was exciting but to Martin who had no proper clothes and a jogger shot and t-shirt ,how would he succeed. at such an interview nor get over his other pressing problem. He would not as his cousin who had already arrived at the interviews ,started showing off ,and laughing at him and pulling a crowd of beau's towards himself for that sake.. The interviews went on until they were all told to come the next day for their results .His cousin took the information home to their parents that Martin was a total embarrassement and failure who went in to the interviews in shorts and a t-shirt ,as he his cousin wore the latest fancy suit there. The high ranking officer was also prowling his area out for him ,,with his own troop of supporters he had to sleep at a nearby drinking hole called a shabeen for cover . The next day Martin had heard the rumours about him but still went to hear the results and hoping .

Knocking on his mind was the idea that he had seen the panel of judge's knod their heads continually as he came into the room .It was something to raise his curiosity as his zeal.Maybe his muscles impressed them or he was impressive enough or handsome enough to capture their attention ,as they too were being nice to him

2000 people were interviewed countrywide ,and they needed only 50 from here. All out of 500 ,the announcement came .The names were called and the first name to come out was that of Martin Moyo ,and Martin stepped out ,only to see another lad step out like him ,making his spirits sink . The person making the announcement said I want the one who is going to teach mathematics,and it was him ,the other person was there for biology . His cousins name was never mentioned as Martin discovered later that Cuba was under sanctions for a long time and they did not want people living the wealthy rich kind of lifestyle as in America but those trying their best to do what they can with the little they had . The prowling officer never stopped visiting their home until he got tired ,and ten years after the incidence ,Martin was a teacher enjoying his beer ,with less muscle to his body when the person who kept buying him his beer ,him thinking it must be one of his students parents who excelled in mathematics was thanking him for his efforts and finally told him that he thought so that he did not so remember him .He said he did ,and his host said no as he started a narrative of his predicament because of him in his early years as a high ranking police officer on the party's ticket and that trully ,he did not remember him .. Then out of the blue he started telling of the career that ended when his party lost and how he once beat up the wrong people because of him in his youth ten years ago .Martins mouth went dry ,and he thought of the movements he was making to the toilets and back leaving his beer unattended .He could be poisoned he thought and thought again as he excused himself pretending to be going to the toilet but out into the street and made his way out of the bar never to be seen again . The


Nefelibata, the land of the blindness. That's where we live, you only see the world as black and gray. That is until you meet your Saudade. Saudade means feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgic, but here in Nefelibata it basically means soulmate. In other words, your color undressor. As soon as you see the face of your Saudade, you’ll be able to see the world with color. As you can see, I’m not interested in meeting my Saudade. I mean, relying on someone else for the simple reason of seeing colors is absurd. I’m taking initiative in learning the colors of the world since I’m going to an all boys high school. There’s no way in a million years that I’ll find my Saudade there! Yes, I should’ve gone to a public school but I didn’t want to deal with the Orates. Orates are people who have found their Saudade and bully others for the stupid reason that they can’t see colors. I’m a Junior and so is Mikolouh. Miko, he’s my only friend. He’s a short, energetic, talkative boy. He’s been my friend since elementary school. No one can pull us apart, even if they tried. Next year, I’ll be in my last year of high school and I haven’t found my Saudade yet. I’m miserable. My mother left me when I was 4. The only thing I remember from her is that she always wore a bow on her hair. I still have the photo of her with the beautiful bow on her. The only reason I want to meet my Saudade is so I can see what color her bow was. Maybe I’ll be able to find her. “The sky is blue. The water is dark blue. Flowers have a variety of appealing colors. The grass is green. The sky is blue. The water is dark blue. Flowers- flowers have.. AGH!” I throw my index cards on the floor with rage.

“I- Ian! It’s ok! You don't have to remember the colors of the world. I don’t know why you can’t just wait until you meet your Saudade...”

Says my friend, Mikolouh. “Oh shut it, Miko.” I say jokingly.

“Hey, did you hear? We’re getting a new student in our English class tomorrow. I heard that he always wears a black mask to cover his mouth.” Miko says. “Hm? That's weird. Wouldn't you be hot wearing a mask all day?” I say with a confused look on my face. “You’re right. Well, I guess we’ll ask him tomorrow!”

“Jesus Miko. You’re always full of energy, huh?” I start to laugh at his expression.

It’s the next day already. Miko stayed over since it was too dark for him to walk home. I wake Miko up with a push and I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get changed. By the time we’re done eating breakfast, it’s 7:15. School starts at 7:30. We make our way to my car and we leave in a breeze. It’s warm outside today. I feel a spark inside of me light up and I can tell today is going to be a good day. Is this what people call a “gut feeling?” We arrive at the school at 7:34 and we make our way to our first hour. Miko and I have all different classes except for 3rd hour and 6th hour which are English and Gym. Our first hours pass by fast and now It’s English.

I see Miko saving a seat for me with the biggest smile on his face. He’s always so eager to see me.

“Hey, how were your first two hours?” I say as I sit down next to Miko. “Horrible!!” Miko whines. “My teacher made us actually do work! Can you believe it?!” I start laughing at Miko’s whining as he grabs me by the collar of my shirt and shakes me. I put my hands next to my face as if I’m getting arrested and I laugh even more. He stops so suddenly that my laugh slowly fades away. He’s still holding on tightly to the collar of my shirt. It’s like he’s glued to my shirt. I look at him with a smile still on my face and I ask him what’s wrong. He looks at me, his face is so red that roses and ladybugs can't even compare to him. It seems like he’s trying to say something but nothing comes out. He was close, too close for my liking.

When I tell you I was more confused than Patrick from Spongebob. To me, it seemed like he had a fever. I touched his forehead and It was hot. In fact, his whole face was hot but he showed no other symptoms for a fever. Then, the teacher walked in and he finally let go of my shirt and sat back down in his seat.

“Miko..? If you don’t feel well you should go home.”

“Ahhh, I feel great! Don’t worry, buddy!” Miko says as he smiles at me and throws a thumbs up.

It wasn’t real. That smile… he’s hiding something.

“Good afternoon students. Today we have a new student coming in. Please do your best to make him feel welcomed. Elijah, you can come in now.” The teacher says as he opens the door for Elijah. We all shift our heads to the door. A tall boy with black hair and a black mask walks in.

“Please introduce yourself to the class, Elijah.”

Elijah looks around until his eyes meet with mine.

“My name’s Elijah. Please refrain from calling me Eli or any other nickname. Only my lover can call me that.”

He finally stops looking at me and he goes to his seat. His eyes never left mine the whole time he introduced himself. I tried to look away but I could still feel him staring at me. It was kind of creepy. He didn’t even crack a smile! He’s practically eating me alive. You can tell he’s cold by the way he talked. His posture said it all too. He slouched the whole time and once he sat down, he slid all the way down with his shoulders touching the back of the seat. Who does he think he is? I know his type. If this were a public school with girls in it, he'd be flirting with them all over the place. I just know that he’s annoying. Miko and I should stay away from him. “Miko I don't think we should hang out with-” I stop with shockness in my eyes. I couldn’t even finish my sentence since Miko’s already walking up to Elijah. I sigh in disbelief and I put my head down to my desk. Miko’s amazing at making friends so I’m sure he’s gonna end up making Elijah his friend. “No, no, no, no, no!” I think to myself. Miko’s my only friend meaning that I’ll be forced to hang out with Elijah too. I feel someone patting my head. I automatically think It’s Miko. His touch is oddly comforting right now. I think “thank god Miko’s finally done talking to that stupid know-it-all Elijah.” I lifted my head from my desk and I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Elijah. I stand up quickly and I look around for Miko. He’s nowhere to be found. I look back at Elijah. He has a mask on but I can see his smirk. His hand is still on my head. He slides it down to my cheek. I then snap back into reality and I push him off.

“W-where’s Miko?” I stuttered.

“Down in the cafeteria. I told him that I wanted something sweet and he rushed down there like

a dog.” Elijah’s eyes shifted from the floor to my eyes. “He didn’t know I was referring to you when I said I wanted something sweet.”

I look at him in shock. I know he’s just teasing me. He probably knows that I don’t like him. That’s a good thing, right? Maybe he’ll stay away from me. I mean, I wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with someone who I know thinks I'm annoying. I roll my eyes and I sit back down on my chair. I went back to the position I was in before he came to annoy me. I rest my face on my arms. I’ve got to be honest. What he said got me a little flustered. But that’d happen to anyone! I can feel Elijah’s presence and I motion to him to go away. He sits on top of my desk and asks “Hm? Did I do something wrong, Ian?”

I can feel the smirk rising up on his face. I lift my head from my arms and I say

“Go away, Elijah. I know what you’re doing. You want to be the best looking boy in our school so you’re getting to know your competition first, huh Elijah? I don’t know why you even bother If you’re just going to wear a mask all the time.”

“Eli.” Elijah stops smirking and looks dead serious. His serious face is kind of petrifying.

“What?” “Eli. Call me Eli.” He smirks again.

“Wait but you- huh? But you said only your lover or whatever could call you that.”

Eli gets the biggest smile on his face. I can tell by the squinting of his eyes and his cheeks going up. I look at him closely. You can tell that he’s really good looking. I wonder what he'd look like without a mask.

“You lost in my face?” He starts laughing. “Am not! Hey, can I ask you something?” “Yes, of course you can get a kiss.” He starts making horrid kissing sounds. “What? No you idiot! I was gonna ask if I could see your face.”

“My face? You sure?” Why is he asking If I’m sure. I asked for a reason. I just want to see if he’s really all that. I nod at him and he starts to slowly take off his mask.

Bright. That’s all I see. Everything is bright. Where’s Elijah? Miko? Is this it? My head’s filled with questions that can’t be answered at the moment. All of a sudden I get a sharp pain on the side of my face. I hear someone in the distance calling my name. I run but I can’t find them. I call out to them, but no response.

“Ian!”

My eyes open. My first sight is Elijah. It looks like we’re at the nurses office. How did I get here? What even happened to me? I turn to Elijah with the most perplexed face. He laughs. Why is he laughing? “You’ve found me!” Elijah said.

You've found me..?


You know what's funny? Time. Well its more ironic than funny, but I've learned to laugh at it because it slips by you in what seems like the blink of an eye. I smile at my reflection, my reflection shows me that time, has caught up to me. The days have passed since I've been able to run up to my father and have him swoop me up in his arms and twirl me and dance with me as if there were music playing and and audience that cheered with admiration and awe. My smile becomes a laugh at the memory, however my gaze grows sad as the realization of that never happening again sinks in heavily. Besides the fact that I am a 27 year old woman, today is the day we lay my father's body to rest. He leaves the world full of memories, but his presence will never leave my heart. His service was beautiful. Despite the sad occasion that bought us here, daddy would be happy that everyone was able to come together to say one last goodbye. Uncle Rick, started sniffling and hiccupping, probably from trying to hold in his cry. I remember when I was about seven years old, I saw him cry over my aunt Felicia dumping him for a mechanic, though I was too young to fully understand what was happening, I do remember aunt Felicia rolling her neck so hard I thought it would fall off and pointing her finger this way and that way as if it were a wand.  This cry was nothing like that. I scan the room to see who else is here. I notice my mom hugging herself in a chair, gently rocking herself as if she is coddling a small child in her arms. When my dad was sick in the hospital and had to stay for weeks because he collapsed more than a couple times at his office and sometimes even at the dinner table, mom had the same reaction, only I now this is a thousand times worse. Dad was a strong man. Strong willed and wise, his heart, however was a ticking time bomb, doctors couldn't figure it out, so they couldn't give us how long he would have which gave me great relief. Hearing my dad would only have 6 months to live or something would have made everyone a wreck. I was 5 when Daddy got the news that his heart was a time bomb, I'm glad he got to spend 22 years of his life raising me and loving us. I still feel like that helpless little girl right now however. I feel lost and confused. Hurt. I walk up to my mom and plant a soft kiss on her head. She gives a weak smile in my direction. "would you like some air mama?" I ask her kindly. She nods, I lend my arm to her and as she links, I can feel her knees buckle, not from old age, but because loosing my father has taken a lot out of her. I end up taking her home and to my surprise I was more tired than I thought. My bed felt like a warm soft marshmallow that allowed me to sink in it and float my troubles away. I looked up at the ceiling, gave out the loudest exhale of my life, my eyes feel too heavy to keep them open, so I surrender to their will and close them. Darkness. *Screams* I jolt out of bed and run into my mom and dads room. I get a quick glance at myself who looks about 10. I can feel it in my chest, I'm terrified. I push forward in my mothers direction who is screaming hysterically. I'm too afraid to lean over and see what she's screaming about. My shaky little hands reach for the covers and as I do my mother, with such force grabs my arm. My heart thumps so loud it's the only thing I hear, I look to her and she looks monstrous. Her eyes are wide and her face terrifyingly old and damaged. She says something but all I hear is my heart. She shrieks even louder, but this time she sounds like my alarm. I forced myself up, body and sheets drenched in sweat, if my bed was a marshmallow it would have melted from the intense heat pouring from my body. My breathing was still heavy from the dream, but thank goodness it was only a dream. After my shower, I decide to take a walk down 15th street, the joyous feeling of blissful childhood churns my stomach when I hear the school bell. My dad would pick me up after school everyday. I loved that. Mom was a teacher at the school, so every morning we went in together. Dad worked as a journalist for 'Dekota Bay Dispatch' it might sound boring and displeasing but it was the best. When I was 12, he took me downtown with him to do a story on the owner of the 'Castle nova hotel', we discovered all kinds of horrible things, the owner was a racist, "against any 'kind' but his own," he was a creep too. Had minors working in the kitchen almost naked. Daddy got all kinds of hate on that story, but to me he was a pure hero of the people. **BEEEEEEP!!!** the blaring of a horn snatched me back to reality just in time, I almost walked in the road. Focus! I think to myself. I hadn't even noticed the tears that have been dripping down my face at the memory I was just caught up in. A few months and more than a few breakdowns later, my family and friends held an intervention so I, well they on my behalf decided a therapist would offer better assistance. They tell me that they're worried, concerned, and even fearful of my behavior and attitude over these past months. It's only been 2 months since my dad's passing. You'd think that things would mend somehow, like those families who can continue strong and bold when they lose someone. I was waiting for that moment but it never showed, with every memory I cry and miss my father, other people continue on and I started to get upset, " do they not care I mean truly care enough about my father to stop time, not even for a moment. " I hear replay in my ear the argument I had at the dinner table. I agreed to see a therapist, no-less because apart of me did know I got out of control, emotionally withdrawn, careless and shut down. My father wouldn't want this of me and so here I stand in front of a door that reads "Dr. Patricia Dean, psych therapist, hypno-therapist, inner-child/adult therapist". in my mind I take off but I knock instead. On my sixth visit with Patricia, she came at me with a new idea. "I'd like for us to connect with your inner child." She smiled sweetly at my raised eyebrow slightly dropped mouth reaction when I responded, "my whaa?" She continued to explain what she meant. "The child-like aspect of yourself, doing this will allow us to understand why you are responding in this way, and the best possible way to make you feel safe again." For some reason when she said those words, a hard lump filled my throat, like I wanted to cry. I could feel my eyes flood intensely with tears. When Patricia notices, she swiftly pulled out some soft tissues and patted my shoulder in a comforting manner. I laid back on the couch in her office, allowed myself to relax as much as I could, which still may not have been enough going off the number of times Patricia gently whispered "relaaaaax, you're in a safe environment, you're okay" After awhile my body did begin to settle and flashes of my life quickly flicked in and out of my closed eyes view. "Now focus on my voice." muffled at first then the words of Patricia filled my ears and head. "I want you to try and remember a moment in time where you felt unsafe." I really had to think, with dad around I always felt safe, secure, whole. Then I remember, when dad got threatened several times doing an interview for his story about the secret rape tapes involving all-star coach Denis Mclane. My body begins to twitch and fidget at the memory, Patricia's reassurance puts me back at ease. I explained to her what is happening to the best of my ability. "What did you do to feel safe again, what happened?" The images that were laid out in  my mind changed again and in front of me is the memory of my dad hugging me, but not just dad, mom is there and my family. They surrounded me and told me, that I would always have them, "even if we left we would always be there." someone says. I was 13, they gathered around me and placed a hand over my heart and said simultaneously; "right here, we will be." My dad kissed my forehead and said, "as long as you're here, we are here." What feels like a force begins pushing me and I feel like I am thrown in my body, though I never left. Patricia is right beside me, where she has been the entire time, I jump into her arms almost and can do nothing but cry. Happy tears, sad tears, then happy again. I tell her everything that transpired and although I feel amazing afterwards, I still have sessions with her every now and then. Through time I think she will still be a great friend to me. I write a letter, that includes the date, time and my current age. In the letter I keep it short and sweet. "If you ever feel sad or alone, as long as you're here, we are here."-27


“Daddy, I can’t find Hammie...” The sullen voice pulled Robert from the fog of sleep. Running a lazy hand over his face, he rolled out of bed and scooped up his 5-year old daughter. “Ok sweety, have you checked everywhere in your room?” She responded with a defiant stance of hands on hips. An annoying mimicry of her mother. “Well how about you double check everywhere while Daddy gets breakfast ready, ok?” “Mommie said you would find Hammie for me because you have nothing else to do today!” “Yaaa, well daddy’s eye’s don’t work without coffee.” The pair made their way to the kitchen, Maggie leading the charge with squeals of her hamster’s name. Robert lagged behind, yawing leisurely and finding random bits of black rock in his robe pockets. Too tired to think, be ambled through the kitchen. Rummaging through the breakfast cabinet, Roberts mood was further dampened by the lack of selection. “I thought we just went shopping...” With a shrug, Robert poured himself a bowl of bland oats and mixed in milk with ritual movement.

“Daddyyy! He’s not in the bathroom!” “Did you check the toilet? Maybe he wanted to take a bath?” “Daddy! Don’t be silly!” Chuckling, Robert slushed a big spoonful of bran into his mouth - which he immediately ejected into the sink with sputtering protests. “Blech! How did this milk spoil so fast!?” Finding no fault in the expiration date, he noticed the refrigerator unit was angled suspiciously. Noting the interior to be a disastrous room temperature, he found the unit had been unplugged overnight. “Dammit. I hope the eggs are still good.” “Daddy said a bad word!” “Yes I did, but don’t tell Mommie ok?” “Don’t tell me what?” Sasha, the missus of the house, blazed through the room with a stern aire. Already in her sleek office attire, she put Robert’s bedraggled bathrobe style to shame. As per usual. “Daddy said Bam-bit!” Maggie announced triumphantly. Sasha clomped through the kitchen in heels, shooting him a wry smile. “Oh? Well Daddy knows to put a quarter in the swear jar doesn’t he?” “Put it on my tab.” Robert grumbled. “I will, with interest. Keep it up and I’ll throw you in debtor's prison.” “Mommie, what’s dead-er prison?” “It’s a cage where we put bad people who swear too much.” “Does that mean Hammie swore too much?” “I don’t speak hamster, but if I did, I’m sure Hammie would make me sailor blush...” Sasha busily rummaged through her purse preparing for her morning commute. Robert leapt at the chance for distraction. “Apparently Hammie made a jailbreak again last night. Maybe he’s the same convict that unplugged the refrigerator?” Robert shrugged, tossing a granola bar in Sasha’s general direction. “Hmm... could the same furry convict be able to make off with my wallet?” She shot Robert a critical glance. His wife’s accusative nature was her best trait in the prosecutor’s office, and her worst trait at home. Being an out of work writer already cast a big shadow for Robert to live under. The tension between them was long brewing under the surface, and not wanting to put in the effort this morning, Robert diffused with a forced smile.

“If I happen to catch him, I’ll bring him in for questioning.” “Mommie? The pillows are all dusty...” Sasha crouched to pat her daughter and whisper with a sickly cute voice. “Really sweety? well maybe you can show your father what effort looks like and you can help clean up? Ok?” “Hey now! That’s not-” A phone rang with a noisesome chatter. Sahsa whipped the device out of her purse like a knife and yammered away as she continued the hunt for her wallet. Likewise, Maggie stormed away into the next room, grunting frustration. Robert was left to himself, feeling defeated yet again. Robert unwrapped another breakfast bar for himself, lodging the bar in his mouth and grinding away at it like an ass wearing a feed bag. The morning hours were too often filled with similar bouts, though the mounting inconveniences of today's match was needlessly irksome.

Robert was practically limping from the wounds as he stepped out to fetch the mail. Anticipating what new tragedies the papers might report, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of an unfamiliar car in the driveway. Instead of the dopey family van he was accustomed to see parked in their driveway, there was now a jet black racing machine. Complete with neon stripes and overstyled spoilers, the interior just as visibly stylish through the smashed driver side window. A scorched trail of rubber marks led down the driveway. Robert followed the tire tracks

as they trailed through the neighbors lawns, all of the neighbors lawns, on both sides of the street. The neighbors likewise found the destruction astonishing, mouths agape as they followed the trails

end to a dumbstruck Robert. Shouts arose from every direction, and were fast approaching. Granola tumbling from his mouth, Robert stumbled back inside, to an equally furious wife waiting within. “Robert! What the Hell!? You booked yourself a trip to Bermuda? With my card?!” “Bu- whu-” “You selfish sunovobitch! You call the airlines and get my refund right now! ”

“It wasn’t me! This must be some prank or something!” “Oh so this is a prank to you!? My cards are completely maxed out! ”

“Mommie?”

“ Not now sweety! Mommie's gotta tear Daddy a new asshole! ” A resounding bang at the door announced the arrival of the neighborhood. Robert shrank back against the wall as Sasha stomped to answer the mounting madness outside. He didn’t want to be there when the two met.

Robert dashed down the hall, his mind reeling in confusion.

He yelped and in surprise as he nearly knocked over his daughter, standing in the middle of the hall, cradling a dripping bundle. “Daddy... I found Hammie. Right where you said he would be...” There was no denying the mangled sponge in her hand was the beloved family hamster. Equally impossible to deny was the teary-eyed accusation of his daughter's stare.

“Sweety I... I don’t know what to say...” “I hate you.” She ran to her room wailing, leaving him numb to the bone. From around the corner, a sea of faces came rushing at him. Fury, anguish, and loathing, all focused on him. It was as if he had broken the Guinness World Record of Horribly Monstrous Crimes Committed Before Noon. None of which he could claim to have knowledge of.

In likewise record speed, Robert dove into the bathroom and locked himself inside. The shouts and pounding that came right behind him. Sasha's shrill voice carrying over the crowd. “ Robert! These What the hell is going oooon?!” “I don’t know! I don’t know!” he shouted back. Rocking on top the toilet seat, Praying for some sense. “Enjoying the party, Robbie ma boy?” Robert’s head craning around the room to find the speaker. “Wha- who said that?”

“Over here, chucklehead.” He waved at himself in the mirror. Only, he wasn’t the one waving. Terrifyingly, his reflection seemed to move on its own.

“What in the- am I going crazy?” “Hate to break it to ya pal, but your sanity has been long gone for a while now...”

Robert’s mirrored image cracked a spiteful smile, the facial muscles stretching far too wide to be his own.

“This isn’t real. This can’t be real! This is obviously just a nightmare!” “ The real nightmare is this suburban hell you’ve sunk us into! With your damn hamsters and happy camper vans! Get real pal!” Robert’s reflection pounded on the mirror angrily, the wall shaking with startling force. “We got tired of watching you waste away our best years. So while you’ve been asleep at the wheel, we decided it’s time to shake things up!” Sasha’s shrill voice leaked through the door.

“Robert! The police are on their way! They say they’ve been looking for you!? You better get out here and explain yourself!” “Speaking of shaking, how about we start with throttling that snub nosed trollop you married!” The reflection let out a howling cackle. Robert wasn’t sure what to think, or do, or believe. He inched close to the mirror, terrified but unable to do much else. “Just... who the hell are you?” “ Not obvious enough for ya? Take a gander and see. ” The Mirror Robbie rolled up his sleeves. Flexing a muscular bicep, Robert recognized the tribal tattoo design that he had planned on getting back in college, but never put the money down for.

Around Mirror Robbie’s neck hung the gold chain that Robert had once owned, but threw away when Sasha said it looked ‘too effeminate’.

The mirror flashed a toothy grin, and Robert’s eyes noticed the cauliflower ears of a boxing pro. The boyhood dream he had given up on when his father laughed at him for using a pink mouth guard, even though it was the only one in his size. “You...you’re-” “ You’re me pal. All those years of living like a chicken-shit. Doing what you was told. ” Mirror Robbie guffawed as he lunged at the image of the bathroom door.

“But, why are you doing this to me?” The mirror man made a face of mocking thoughtfulness. “Because it's what we both want.” The door lock to Robert’s bathroom clicked, simultaneous with the mirror door unlatching. “And because we can get away with it.”