“I’m coming!” Sheri sprints through the house while narrowly avoiding tripping over the unkempt floor with garments and beer bottles on the way to the door. She swings it open to see that a man who looked about 6 feet tall, dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes that looked more green, was standing there. “Can I help you?” “My name is Jared Smith. I’m a detective for the case of your missing son.” He holds out his hand for me to shake it. “Oh! I was told you wouldn’t be able to come till later to discuss the case.” I shake his hand and open the door more. “Come on in.” “Sorry about the mess, I would have cleaned up if I knew I was having company,”

She says awkwardly. As he walks through the house, she kicks the clothes and bottles under the couch in an attempt to make the room look tidier.

“It’s alright. Let’s sit somewhere to talk.” He walks through the house and sits down on a chair in the dining room. I take a seat in the chair across from him. “Alright so, I need to get some things figured out. First, when was the last time you saw your son?” “Yesterday, when we got home from the grocery store.” “Your son was with you, when you went to the grocery store?”

“Yes.”

He writes something down on a little notepad. “Will the cameras confirm that?” Did he think I was lying or something? I cross my arms and reply, “Well unless I’m a vampire, they should.” He writes something else down.

“What are you writing?” I try to glance at the pad on his lap but he covers it with his hand. “Just information you tell me. This is all going to be a big help to us.” “Um alright then. Anything else you want to know?” “Yes. What was your son wearing?” What was he wearing? What does that have to do with anything? “He was wearing a blue superman shirt and tan khakis with Velcro shoes.” The image of him that horrendous day was permanently stuck in my head. He writes that down on his pad. “On the day he went missing, how long did it take you to call the police?” “Well, I’m not sure when exactly he went missing, but when I noticed, about 30ish minutes or so later is when I called.” “Around what time was this?” “9PM.” “How about relatives?” “What about them?” “Does he usually go see them?” “He’s never met them before.”

“Alright last question then I’ll be out of your hair.” “Okay.” “On the last day you saw him, where did you see him?” “In his room playing with his legos.” He stands up from the chair. “I will call you later to further discuss everything. Thank you for your time.” I stand up and walk him over to the door. “I appreciate you helping me out.” I open the door and he walks onto the porch. “In my 28 years in this business, I’ve never failed to solve a case.” He waved me goodbye and got into his car and drove off. I walk back inside the house and walk through to his room. His legos were still laid out on the floor and his bed was still left untouched. I walk over to his bed and sit down. The bed still felt warm from when he was last on it. I pick up his teddy bear and hold it to my chest. He never went anywhere without this thing. It was stuck to him like glue 24/7. I place the teddy bear down on his pillow and stand up. “I love you,” I say. I blow a kiss toward his room and walk out. I walk into the kitchen and pop open a bottle of beer. I didn’t like the taste of it, I just liked the fact that it temporarily got rid of my pain and achiness. I gulp the beer and wipe my mouth. Most people would consider me to be an alcoholic. How does one even determine that? I take another gulp of the beer. I’ve never thought of myself as an alcoholic because I can handle my alcohol. I take another drink.

“I should order some pizza.” I place the beer bottle down and walk over to the house phone. I dial Pizza Hut. “Hi, I would like to order a large cheese pizza, with banana peppers, black olives, and mushrooms on it.” “786 Laney ST.” “Alright and about how long will that take?” “Okay sounds good, thank you.” I hang up the phone and place it back on the table. Now it’s time to play the waiting game. I walk into the kitchen and continue drinking my beer. I wonder how someone even came up with beer? Like, were they like “We need a drink that makes people feel good, but also bad at the same time for drinking it.” And how did they convince the buyers in the beginning? Well, whatever they did, it worked so cheers to them. I finish drinking the rest of the bottle and toss it into the trash can.

I walk into the living room and turn the TV on. The first thing that comes on is the news. “The little boy, last seen in his room, has been missing for 24 hours,” The news reporter said. I turn the volume up. How is this already on the news?

“The little boy, last seen by his mother, looks like this.” The TV shows a picture of her son. How did they even get that photo? “Unfortunately, the mother has not been fully cooperative.” “Wait what? I’m not cooperative?” I lean towards the tv. “How have I not?” “The mother has been ignoring the police whenever they try to ask her questions about the disappearance of her own son.” My mouth drops open in shock. Damn. I mean I know I ain’t no Megan Fox or Celine Dion, but I’m not that bad. The TV shows an old mugshot of me from when I got pulled over for being 3x over the legal limit. “Oh come on!” I pick up an old bottle of beer sitting next to me and take a big gulp of it. “At Least show them a photo of me that doesn't make kids frightened and feel the need to check under the bed for me!” I take another drink. “The police are doing everything they can in order to find the missing boy.” “And I’m not?” “If you have any information, please dial the number on your screen or call 911.” “Or dial me.” I go to take another drink, but the bottle was empty, so I threw it on the floor. I get up from the couch and turn the TV off. “I don’t need to listen to this crap.” Stupid media always thinking they know someone when they don’t.

“Tsk.” I walk into my bedroom and get undressed. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days now. I open up my drawers and start tossing shirts around. “Nope.” “Ew.” “Nope.” “Nein.” I pull out an old camouflage shirt. “Hmm this might work.” I put the shirt on and go look in the mirror. “Not bad.” I take my pants off and throw on some old basketball shorts that used to be my ex husband’s. Well, deceased ex husband’s. I walk back into the living room and turn on some Spongebob. My son loved this show, even though Spongebob’s exasperating laugh always gave me migraines. Yet, here I am, watching it. As I’m watching it, I hear a knock on the door. “Finally!” I grab my wallet from my purse and skip to the door. I pull it open and a smile creeps across my face. “Yay. And you said it was $6 right?” “Yes, $6.” He moves the bag to his other arm. I open my wallet and pull out six crumpled ones. “Here is the $6.” He takes the money and puts it in his back pocket. “Oh wait I forgot the tip!” I pull out a ten and hand it to him. “Here.” “Thanks.” He hands me the pizza box and leaves.

I open the box and say, “Not a single piece of you is going to survive.” I take a big sniff. “Mmmmmm.” I walk back inside and place the box down on the island in the kitchen. I walk over to the cabinet and grab a paper plate.

“Which piece should I eat first?” I look around at the pizza. “This one.” I pull up a piece and plop it down on the plate. I walk back into the living room and continue watching Spongebob. Out of all the characters in this show, I would have to say I relate to Squidward more. Especially the way he hates his neighbors. I grab a beer bottle on the floor and take a drink of it. I wasn’t sure how long the bottle had been here, but I didn’t mind. Beer is beer. Pretty quickly I get to the last piece in the box. “Awww man this is the last one,” I say grumpily. I place the piece down on the plate and walk back to the living room. “Planton, the secret formula is crabs.” As I eat the last piece, I notice a cat sitting on the outside of the window. It’s fur was a mixture of orange and black.

“Hey kitty.” I wave at the cat, then it jumps down. “Well, I didn’t like you anyways.” I take the last bite of the pizza. “Welp guess my dinner is done.” I walk into the kitchen, grab the pizza box, and walk outside. “I really need to change the light bulb out here.” I walk around to the side and lift up the trash can lid. I throw the box inside. “Mommy.” I freeze. Did someone just call me Mommy? No, it’s not possible.

“Mommy.” I could sense someone behind me. A ghost maybe? My imagination? Maybe I had one too many beers? I slowly look behind me and my jaw drops in utter shock. “H-how? H-how is this possible?” My legs started shaking in fear. This shouldn’t be possible. This is not possible. I looked up and down at the little boy standing in front of me. My son. He was alive. “Mommy.” He gives me a big smile that sends chills down my spine. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real. I killed you! You're supposed to be dead!” I looked in utter surprise at my son - who was somehow alive.


Today was the first day of the rest of my life, or so they say. I was supposed to be getting married in less than five hours. I was at the day spa when I get a phone call from a lawyer’s office. To say I was confused would be an understatement, I mean why would I be getting a call from a lawyer? My fiancé was the one that had to sign a prenup not me. “Hello?” “Hello, I am looking for Aundrea Gillespie.” “This is she.” “Miss Gillespie, my name is Frank Little. I need you to come to my office today.” “Wait, today? But I’m getting married in less than 4 hours now!” “I apologize Miss Gillespie, for the inconvenience but it is imperative that we speak today.” “Well then Mr. Little, you are going to have to come to me. I am not going to leave –,“ before I could say anything else, he cut me off. “Miss Gillespie, the terms of what I need to go over with you state that it must be done in the privacy of my office on May the 5 th at 3pm. Now I will send a car for you but I need you here in exactly twenty-five minutes.”  Luckily the nail artist was just finishing with my nails, thank goodness I hadn’t gone to the massage therapist yet. I go up front, pay my bill and cancel the remaining appointments for the day. I then call my fiancé and tell him what’s going on and that I may be late to the church, but I would be there. Just as I disconnect the call, the car pulls up and the driver gets out. He’s sharply dressed, and handsome, but he wasn’t my fiancé. I had to keep my mind clear, and on the day ahead. The driver opens the back door for me, I step in, the door closes and as soon as the driver gets back in the car, we leave the day spa. As I watch the scenery fly by, my thoughts drift to the day ahead. What did this lawyer want? I can’t believe that whoever this guy is he’s taking time away from my wedding. I reached up with both hands to rub my temples, as a world-famous neurosurgeon, I had saved Presidents, CEO’s movie stars, you name it, I’ve operated on them. Because my job is very stressful, I had learned stress techniques that kept me cool and collected, and today was one of those days that I had to use them. The car stopped in front of a high-rise building; another well-dressed man was standing by the curb waiting. As the car pulled up beside this other man, my door opened, signaling that my departure from the car was now eminent. Taking a deep breath to gather my nerve, because I was ready to rip some ones head off, I step out of the car. My Giorgio Armani wide legged organza pants in a dark blue and a shimmer V-neck shirt in black, the bra I was wearing today was a black strapless lace that was seen clearly through the top I wore. I wore comfortable clothes today because I knew I would have to chance into my wedding dress designed especially for me by the best designer in the world. I was still wearing my Elisa necklace & earring set that my sister had given me, granted they weren’t as fancy as what I was used to wearing but they did have sentimental value. The man that was waiting at the curb, escorted me into the building. We step on the elevator; he presses the button for twelve. As the elevator jolts into motion, I’m once again thinking about the day ahead. I should be getting my hair done, the flowers should be arriving, the cake should be coming in an hour …. UGH! I need to be there not here! I needed to get into my gown, I needed to do so many things, just then the elevator stopped and the doors opened. The young man stepped out motioning me to follow, we walked down the hall a short distance and stopped in front of an office with gold lettering on the door indicating the arrival at the law offices of Marlyn and Marlyn Attorney’s at Law. One more deep breath sigh, I open the door and walk in. Even though I knew I was not dealing with one of the partners of the office, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was here. “Good morning Miss Gillespie,” a young blonde secretary said as I walked in the door. I smiled and nodded in her direction. “I will let Frank know you are here. Please take a seat and he will be with momentarily.” She continued. ‘More delays’ I though as I looked down at my Citizen Eco-Drive diamond studded watch. I now had 3 hours before I needed to be at the church. I was starting to freak out, you want to talk about “bridezillas” I was going to turn into one in no time flat if I wasn’t on my way to the church in ½ hour. “Miss Gillespie?” I looked up and there stood a rather distinguished gentleman, he looked to be in his mid-forties, early fifties. If I wasn’t already engaged, he is someone I would typically date, instead I ended up with a world-renowned heart surgeon. Two surgeons in the household could spell disaster, but I loved him more than anything else in the world. “Miss Gillespie?” he said again, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Yes, I’m sorry.” “Please, follow me.” We walk down a short hall, as we come up to a door that’s open, he stops and motions for me to go inside. I go inside and sit at one of the chairs in front of the well-used desk. He walks in behind me, shuts the door and walks around to sit at the desk. “Miss Gillespie, I want to thank you for taking time out of your busy day to come here today. I know that I didn’t give you much time or too much of a choice, but I do appreciate your cooperation in this matter. Now let’s get to the matter at hand, shall we?” He opened up a manila folder at that point, cleared his throat and started reading a will. As I’m listening to this will, I’m very confused, I have never heard of this person, yet they are supposedly an Aunt on my father’s side. She was someone dad never talked about, being an only child, I rarely heard any stories of the family. “To my Niece Aundrea, I am leaving my entire estate. The Mansion in up State New York, the beach house in the Cayman Islands, ten million dollars, and the brand-new Sportster Jaguar, and the Land Rover. However, in order to receive this inheritance, Aundrea must spend the next 3 months in the Doctors without borders program. She must also give up her designer wardrobe to the women’s shelter before leaving, and go to the local thrift store and purchase an entire wardrobe spending no more than $200, which includes buying new suitcases. You must look the part when you are in a third world county helping others. Use some of your own money and buy the shelter much needed supplies. If these conditions aren’t met, the entirety of my estate including all monies, vehicles and houses listed will be sold and proceeds will be given to the same shelter. Aundrea will have four months from the reading of this will to have all conditions met, if at that time all the fore mentioned conditions are met, Aundrea will, at that time be handed the keys to the mansion, the beach house, both vehicles and the key to the safe deposit box that holds the cash.” As the lawyer kept reading, I couldn’t believe my luck, ten million dollars, a mansion, a beach house, a brand-new Jag and a Land Rover. Getting rid of the clothes and buying things from the thrift store! I only bought designer clothes. I mean the outfit I had on I paid over $3,000 for, this this woman must be crazy. I had heard of Doctors Without Borders but never gave it much thought, I was far too busy here. I could do that after the honeymoon, and maybe I could talk him into coming with me. And then the other shoe drops. “All this must be done while she is single.” “Wait – WHAT?? I’m supposed to do this while I’m single? Not only am I not comfortable with shopping at thrift stores, now you’re telling me I can’t get married??? I am supposed to be getting married today!!” “Well, according to the terms of the will, the wedding will HAVE to be put on hold. You will meet Jeanette at downstairs, she will take you to your apartment, there you will gather your clothes, take them to the shelters of your choosing, and then she will go with you to do your shopping.” He pauses a moment, then pulls and pulls an envelope out of a desk drawer that was to his right. “Here is your plane ticket, the flight is for day after tomorrow. Inside that envelope you will also find all the information you need for Doctors Without Borders, the Visas you will need for the locations you will be going to. Now if I were you, I would get to the church and give the new to your guests and that fiancé of yours. Oh, one more thing Miss Gillespie,” He looked at her rather sternly, “your fiancé is NOT to go with you. Should he be found in any of the locations with you, you will forfeit everything. Understood?” I warily shook my head in understanding. Sighing, I picked up my Gucci purse, and headed out of the office. The terms of the will specified my clothing, it didn’t say anything about my shoes or accessories. Doctors without borders doesn’t care about what I’m wearing, but I’m not going to take any of my nice shoes to Ghana or any place like that. It would be best if I got some walking shoes. By the time I got down to the car, it was raining and not just from my eyes. I gave the driver instructions to take me back to the church, the wedding was supposed to start in an hour, most of the guests had already started showing up, one more sigh, I went to go find Damon my fiancé. He was in his dressing room talking to his groomsmen. Walking into the room, I looked directly at him, “Damon, can I talk to you for a minute please?” Damon looked at me with a worried expression on his face, then he asked “Aundrea, is something wrong?” “I really need to talk to you, alone please.” We walked out of the room together and walked into a room that wasn’t currently occupied. “I need to talk to you about something rather important.” “What’s going on Drea?” Drea was his nick name for me, I thought it was cute and never corrected him. We’ve known each other since middle school, we dated in high school and lost touch after we graduated. Then in med school we found each other again, and we’ve been together ever since. I took a deep breath, and began explaining everything to him. After I got done with the explanation, I told him that we needed to postpone the wedding for 3 months while I work with doctors without borders. I then told him that I needed to explain to the guests that there wasn’t going to be a wedding today and invite them back in three months. “What if I were to go with you? We could do this together” “NO!” “Well why not?” I had to tell him that if he came with me that I would forfeit everything, and that I planned to give most of the money to the homeless shelters here in New York. “Are you crazy?” He exclaimed “What on earth do you mean? That shelter is in desperate need of supplies. All the shelters are in need of help, and if I can help the with the money my Aunt left me than I will.” “Look Aundrea, I know you have a good heart, but this is going too far!” I looked at him with a confused look, he knew I gave to charities every year, so this was nothing new, the only thing new was the amount. “Damon, if you can’t accept this –“ I knew the next words were going way out of my comfort zone, because I had loved him since middle school. I didn’t know what my life was going to be like without him. But I couldn’t stand by and let him dictate how and who I donate my money to. “Then I think it’s time we go our separate ways.” I bowed my head as tears started to form in the corner of my eyes, yet again. “You can’t be serious?” “I am. Excuse me, but I have an announcement to make.” I turned and walked out of the room heading to the chapel so I could make the announcement about the disposition of the wedding. After the announcement, I told the guests that the food was available, since everything was already delivered, and for them to enjoy. I walked out of the church to find the car waiting for me, inside as promised was Jeanette. We went to my flat in uptown New York, pulled out every stitch of clothes I owned, placed them in bags and then went back down to the car. The bags were placed in the trunk of the car with the help of the driver and Tony my doorman. We then headed to Lenox Hill Neighborhood House, New York City Rescue and then to Covenant House. Those were the three that I had chosen for the women’s shelters that I would donate my clothes to. Next stop Housing Works Thrift Shop, I chose them based on their mission. I liked working with places that help people with health issues of any kind. I spent my $200 and actually got some decent clothes, even thought thrift shopping made my skin crawl it wasn’t that bad. We went to JCPenny next and got a suitcase set that we suitable for my trip. Since the Jewelry I had on, minus the engagement ring wasn’t that expensive I kept it on. My last stop was to my bank, I looked at the itinerary for the trip, pulled out some money and exchanged it for local currency, and placed the engagement ring in my safety deposit box. The next three months went by like a whirlwind, believe it or not I loved doing it. I went back home to receive my inheritance and as promised the three women’s shelters that I had chosen to receive a million dollars, I went back to the thrift shop and bought more clothes. Next, I went back to New York Presbyterian and resigned, I found that working with doctors without borders was far more exhilarating that being in the hospital. Next stop was my flat, it was time to pack the things I could take and then sell the items I can’t take with me. I placed my flat up for sale and the mansion, then I listed the beach house as a vacation rental. As for the vehicles I shipped the Land Rover to Syria, which is where I was working the most. The rains made the ground muddy making it difficult for people to get anywhere, so the Rover would help out a lot. It would take about a month for the vehicle to get there, which left time for me to visit the mansion and the Relator. I contacted a vacation rental company and got that all set up, the relator walked through the mansion with me and we started putting the furniture up for sale. By the time I had sold my flat, all the furniture in both places, it was time for me to leave for Syria. I called Damon to say goodbye, I told him that I was going back, that I sold everything I owned. I ended up leaving him a message as he wasn’t answering. ‘Damon, it’s Aundrea, listen I wanted to tell you that I am going back to Syria. I will be working with doctors without borders for as long as they need me. I’ve sold everything, the jag is yours. I left the key with Tony. Good luck to you and good-bye.” Once I boarded the plane, my old life was behind me, and the life I fell in love with was now in front of me. I smiled and looked forward to the future, for the first time in my life.


"Roses are red. Violets are blue. Sugar is sweet and so are you." Napoleon’s first wife Josephine was born Marie Josèphe Rose Tascher de la Pagerie in Martinique on June 23, 1763. Like Napoleon himself, Josephine was a study of contrasts. As a child, Josephine grew up on a sugar cane plantation and developed a sweet tooth. As a result, her teeth had turned black at an early age so she learned to talk and smile without showing them. Despite this drawback, she was renowned for her grace and style. Many people in the 1700's had bad teeth. It was not the horror that it would be today, but was still an embarrassment. If a woman wanted to find a rich husband, she had to smile with her mouth closed. Don't show your teeth and let your charm take over. Josephine is walking by a waterfall in Martinique when she slipped and fell into the water. She struggles to swim to the surface when a strange cosmic force pulls her down deeper to into the abyss. She faints .... When Josephine wakes up, she is no longer in Martinique. She is in Hollywood, California. The year is 1969. The year of Peace, Love, Rock and Roll, Twiggy, Woodstock, Mini Skirts, Go-Go Boots, the Twist and lots of Groovy Music and of course, Movie Stars... Josephine is confused. Everywhere she looks, the world seems so strange and also wonderful. The sights, the sounds, even the smells. She looks up and sees an airplane flying high up to the clouds. She never saw anything like that before. She hears strange music but there is no band, no instruments. Where does that sound coming from? A girl with a transistor radio passes Josephine. "Where is that strange music coming from?", she asks. The girl has long blond hair, straight as a pin, and is wearing dark sunglasses, a white shirt, bright mini skirt and go-go boots. "Here, listen for yourself". The girl put the radio to Josephine's ear and her eyes got as big as saucers. "What kind of music is this?" The girl in the mini skirt starts dancing the Twist. "I am in the groove....Come on, try it!" Josephine imitates the girl and she started to laugh. "What happened to the waltz?" "The what? Oh, that went out with the "Mashed Potato!" Josephine scratches her head. "Where am I? Am I still in France?" "Oh no, lady. You're in La La Land. Hollywood, California! You are in America!" "How did I get here?" The girl thinks for a moment. "You were not here a minute ago. I saw a bright light and then I saw you. Do you want to get something to eat? Do you need a job?", the girl asked. May I introduce myself. "I am Josephine Bonaparte, Empress of the French. And you are?" "Oh, I am Bambi.", She replies as she looks in her compact mirror and fixes her lipstick. "I have an audition today for a commercial. I am not an Empress, but I can dance better than you. Come on Jo, let's get some food." "Don't call me Jo! I am Empress Josephine Bonaparte!" "Wow, an Empress with an attitude. It's all I need. Do you want me to help you out or not?  I am losing my patience!", Bambi bluntly remarks. "Sorry, I am so used to being adored that I take it for granted everyone loves me." "Don't worry, honey. We will get you an agent and a commercial job. We'll figure it out. I hope!" Josephine follows the strange girl with the mini skirt and looks left and right and when she looked down she saw a whole sidewalk full of stars with names on them. "What is this?" "Oh, that. It's the Walk of Fame. You see, here in America, we have no Kings or Queens. We have "Movie Stars". Famous people that star in motion pictures. "What is a motion picture?" "It would take me a week to explain. You are from the 17th century, it would be better to show you. Let's go to the theater after we get some tacos." "What's a taco? "Are you kidding me? A taco is a tortilla with ground beef, lettuce, cheese, tomatoes and salsa? I am waiting for you to ask me what a burger is. Easy with the questions, just try it." "Okay." The taco stand is nearby and the girl in the miniskirt orders two tacos. Josephine bites into one and spits it out. "It's atrocious! I want Crepes Suzette! I am an Empress! I don't want this slop. You're American food is awful! Where's the wine? Where's the champagne?" "You can't afford champagne anymore. Napoleon is dead, remember?" This is not 1803, it's 1969! And we are in the Woodstock generation!" She faints for a few minutes. When she woke up a crowd had gathered. The girl in the mini skirt took advantage of the opportunity to exploit Josephine and had a big sign telling the crowd who she is. "Back away!", Josephine screams. "Who are these people and why are they dressed so strangely. "Remember, its 1969!" Josephine starts to cry." I need a job. I want to be famous in the movies." "You need to try out for a commercial. How about a toothpaste commercial? " "Smile!" Josephine give a big smile for the crowd. The crowd is absolutely horrified. Josephine's teeth were all black and rotten! "What happened to your teeth, Josephine?" Josephine starts to panic and immediately puts her hand over her mouth. "Maybe I can be a hand model? I would surely FAIL any audition if I smile! My teeth are black!" "You can do a toothpaste commercial if you get veneers. That might work. Or you could be the "before" model and have another model for the after." "What are veneers? It sounds French!", Josephine asked. "No, it's not french. It's a kind of bright white cover for your teeth. For cosmetic reasons. For TV, the movies!", the strange man replied. A strange man with a bling suit walks over to check out what was happening in the crowd. "What's going on here? I work for a talent agency. I need a walk on for a toothpaste commercial. The name of the toothpaste is "Pearl Drops". Any takers? " Josephine raises her hand up and gives the man a great big smile. His eyes went all buggy and he backs away two paces." You have black teeth and bad breath? What happened to you?", he declares, totally horrified. How can we spin this? Don't worry, Josephine. We can sell your black teeth and bad breath as an incentive to buy our toothpaste and get white teeth!" "I will probably be a flop if I smile. I can be a model that doesn't smile. Is that groovy enough to get a part in your commercial? ", Josephine laughs at that word. "My name is Josephine Bonaparte and I fell in the water by a waterfall in Martinique in the year 1794. I woke up in Los Angeles in the year 1969! My teeth are black because my family owns a sugar plantation in Martinique. All the people have teeth like me in 1794. " "I have an idea!", the strange man said. "We can do a historical commercial. That way you can keep your black teeth and horrid breath and people will think it's history. The public likes the past and they love Napoleon and Josephine. You even have a movie with that name starring Jacqueline Bisset?" "Truly? I am known and famous in 1969?" "Yes, people like you even more than Napoleon. Napoleon died at St. Helena and he was poisoned by the British?" "Really? I didn't know that?", Josephine cried. "I miss my Napoleon. He ditched me for the Habsburg chick. She was a ditz but Napoleon wanted a son, so he divorced me and married her. She ended up going back to Papa Habsburg and left Napoleon to be an English prisoner. All that glitters is not gold. I was a better wife to Napoleon than she was." "I am sure you were. If history were a star, Marie Louise would be an "asteroid"! She ran back to Papa and took his "King of Rome" with him. The poor "Eaglet" never knew his father and was never allowed to speak his name in Vienna. He died at age 21. " "How awful for Napoleon. To lose the son he divorced me for. I had one son, Eugene and a daughter Hortense. Why wasn't Napoleon satisfied with Eugene ? Why was he always looking for royal blood when mine was more aristocratic most Parisians. He had his heart set on a Habsburg bride. A bloodline that is thin and watery from generations of arranged marriages. And I was more of a wife than Marie Louise could dream of being!" "Okay, okay. Enough of the history lesson. This is 1969 not 1795. Forget Napoleon. He is yesterday's news. Your new job is a commercial concept called Pearl Drops toothpaste! You have black teeth and you brush your teeth and no matter how much your brush with pearl drops you fail to make your teeth white. How funny is that? The target audience will just love it!" "Are you making fun of me? Do you think I LIKE having black teeth and rotten breath? It's the time I lived in. I am CERTAIN that if YOU lived in 1795, your teeth would be ROTTEN TOO! You would be eating lots of sugar, pies, cakes, sugary puddings, beef pies, wine, champagne and anything our fine cook would bring to the table! Sugar was new to Europe around 1795 and the people ate a lot of it." The strange man screamed. "I am way too vain to have rotten teeth! I assure you my teeth would be pristine white. Weren't Napoleon's teeth white?" Josephine bent over laughing. "Well, he ate black licorice. He loved licorice. So he had "gray" teeth. He used salt and a twig to clean his teeth. And he rinsed with whiskey! Josephine became famous in 1969 as the Pearl Drop's Girl. She had black teeth and bad breath and a million dollar commercial deal. She will probably always prefer the waltz to the Twist, but Josephine gave us her best shot even though she thought she had a slim chance of landing a job in Hollywood. It's just a commercial but it's a start. "Now give us a great big smile, Josephine!"


"I'm dying," Amber wheezed, tears streaking down her cheeks. She doubled over and gasped for air, her windpipe croaking dramatically as she heaved and worked to force air back into her lungs. Beth rolled her eyes. "Shut up," she said, scrolling nervously through the comments on her recent Instagram post. There were tens of thousands of them. Most were just some variation on 'The King!' but few were any wittier. She closed her eyes and shook her head while Amber continued her steady march toward an imminent death. "Your first viral post and it's..." Amber choked and sputtered, wailing like a fangirl. The last time something had set Amber off on a laughing fit like this, Beth had been more than happy to join her, but this time she was fuming. Her ears were hot and she had to fight to relax her jaw muscles. "That little..." she muttered, clenching her fist while she reloaded the app to look at the photo again. She couldn't believe she'd missed it before uploading it. The shot had slipped in between some relatively normal photos from her recent vacation, a vacation that he'd promised to stay out of. She was going to have to have a very stern talk with him. "Oh come on!" Amber cried, her gut trembling with glee. "Lighten up! It's an amazing photo! You look great, super hot girl, and..." the laughing fit seized her again and she spat, bursting at her lips trying to keep it in. Beth shrugged internally. It was true. If one of her photos was going to go viral, it might as well be this one. It was a new bikini and she loved how it showed off her curves, but obviously that wasn't what had captured the public's attention. She grunted, threw herself on her bed, let out a long, painful groan, and stared at the ceiling. If she weren't so mad, she could cry. Amber made a show of trying to compose herself and sat next to Beth. The two had been friends since middle school and they'd always dreamed of going viral. So when Amber had called ten times in a row that morning to wake up her friend and tell her the news, Beth had been excited... for a moment. Now she just wanted to beat the living daylights out of someone, but she'd have to wait for Amber to leave. "Come on ," Amber urged, pulling Beth upright. "I thought you'd be excited! This is great ! Photobombed by..." The laughing fit threatened to return. "Not just photobombed," she moaned. "He was mooning me behind my back." Beth sat up reluctantly and eyed her closet, glaring through the closed door, hoping he could feel her fury. Amber noticed the look. "What?" she said, looking at the closet. Her eyes darted back to Beth. "What's wrong?" "Nothing," Beth muttered, gritting her teeth. "Wait a minute," Amber breathed, glancing back and forth between her friend and the closet. "You're hiding something." Beth's heart started pounding. She tried to hide her panic. "No," she said. "I'm just dreading ever going out in public again. I was thinking maybe I should throw out my whole wardrobe." Amber peered at her friend, a decade of shared experiences synchronizing their neurons. Squinting, Amber's eyes shifted back to the closet. "So you won't mind if I just take a peek then," she said, getting up from the bed. "No!" Beth cried, grabbing her friend by the wrist. Amber looked down at her with wide eyes, her eyebrows raised suspiciously. Their eyes locked while Amber searched her friend's face for the truth, and suddenly her eyes bulged and she gasped. "Josh!" she cried. "You had Josh over last night? Did you two..." she trailed off, clasping a hand to her mouth and yanking her wrist free of Beth's grip. She turned back to the closet and stared. "That's not it!" Beth blurted, jumping to her feet to try inserting herself between Amber and the closet. But Amber was a step ahead of her, lunging at the door. "Josh!" she yelled, her hand wrapping around the door knob. "You dirty little..." Beth clawed at her friend's clothes, desperately trying to wrestle her away from the door. She tugged in vain, only finally succeeding when Amber let out a screech and jumped back from the open closet. Both girls tumbled to the floor, rolling on top of each other while Amber frantically grabbed at Beth, gasping in shock. Peter, as Beth had named him, waddled silently out of the closet, his huge eyes glancing around casually as he took in the scene. Amber scrambled back with her hands and feet, scooting all the way against the bed before desperately clambering up on top, trying to drag Beth with her. Beth brushed her friend's hands away and got up, scowling at Peter, who merely gazed up at her with his wide, unblinking eyes. At barely two feet tall, Peter had the appearance of a slightly disturbing children's toy and the presence of a truly unsettling doll. His body was round and it almost completely blended with his head, giving him the appearance of a curvy gourd with huge eyes and tiny feet. His short, spindly hands gave the impression that his entire species had long since forgotten how to do any kind of manual labor in the same way that his stubby, waddling feet implied his ability to fly. Gracefully, the little creature rose slowly into the air, pushing off from the ground with one of his small feet as though he had been walking along the bottom of a pool. He floated peacefully up until he was at eye level with Beth, who continued to glower at him with low eyebrows and stern lips. Amber's breathing was deep and loud, her tight chest causing her to moan and whimper as she fought to calm herself. Beth looked back at her over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, turning back to Peter. "You said you'd stay here when I went on vacation!" She said angrily. She folded her arms and glared at the creature. It flickered and shimmered, the air around it bubbling and churning as it morphed and changed. Instantly Beth found herself looking down at a sad, small little girl, wringing her hands and fighting back tears. "You're angry?" the child asked, trembling. "Oh please!" Beth moaned impatiently. "Spare me the theatrics! You followed me when I asked you to stay here! You promised !" The image of the child fizzled and swirled and grew until a charming, handsome man materialized. He smiled and raised his eyebrows into a dashing smirk. "But I thought you'd like it baby," he said in a suave, deep voice. "We're meant to be together." "Not all the time!" she cried desperately, throwing her hands up. "I told you I need some time away sometimes. You can be so annoying!" Amber sounded like she was hyperventilating. She was trying to talk, but all she could do was gasp, "it, it, it, it, it..." over and over again, her voice airy and hollow. She was on the verge of tears, and both Peter and Beth turned and looked at her with pity. Peter's form frothed and shimmered again until an oversized plush teddy bear was bounding toward Amber with its arms extended for an embrace. Amber shrieked, her eyes bulging out of her head as she shriveled into the fetal position, trembling uncontrollably. "Dang it Peter," Beth groaned, crawling onto the bed with her friend and pushing the fuzzy bear away. She held her shaking friend and hushed her. "It's OK," she said. "This is Peter. He floated through my window a month ago and..." she looked over at the thing while it swirled and twisted into something that made her eyes roll and her blood boil. "He's the reason my photo went viral." Amber peered out from the protective cocoon of Beth's embrace, through the gap in her own defensive arms, and saw the familiar white and gold jumpsuit, slick black hair, and sly, crooked smile. "Uh huh," Peter said smoothly, with that trademarked smirk. "Everybody loves the king of rock and roll, and now everybody loves my friend Beth too!" He grinned proudly. "The king is back baby!" Beth let out a tired sigh and rolled her eyes, resting her cheek on her friend's trembling head. Slowly she let a tiny smile crack on her face. After venting her frustration, she had to admit... it was kind of funny.


“Once upon a time..” “Don’t start it that way!” “Why not?” “You’re being facetious Al. I hate it.” “Fine. Yesterday.. is that better?” “Much.” “Alright, but like, it doesn’t have the same drama. The same level of intrigue.” “We’ll live.” “Now who’s being facetious, Carrie? “No, that was sarcasm. There’s a difference.” “What’s the difference?” “Do you really care?” “No, not really. So anyways, yesterday I was driving along—“ “Wow what an unusual activity for a Monday!” “Well, I was telling it in a more interesting way, but you shut me down.” “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” “Of course. How could I have forgotten? May I continue?” “By all means.” “So, I was driving along Route 9, when all of a sudden my tire blew out!” “Don’t tell me, you didn’t have a spare so you had to wait until some cute girl came along to rescue you.” “No, because that’s how you get murdered.” “Murdered? By a cute girl?” “Maybe! But also by the ten serial killers who are bound to pass by before you even get a chance of seeing a cute girl who is not a serial killer.” “I appreciate that you didn’t assume that us cute girls can’t be serial killers” “Are you including me in that statement Carrie? Never mind. I don’t even want to go there. Besides, I have a survival kit in my car, you really think I don’t have a spare and a jack?” “Fair point. Ha, I forgot about your zombie apocalypse phase.” “Okay, there are many potential types of apocalypses, and limiting it to just the zombie variety is a classic oversimplification..”

“Well, excuse me. I didn’t mean to stereotype you.”

“Thank you. I accept your halfhearted and sarcastic apology.”

“I mean sure. You’re welcome, I guess?” “I am welcome, thanks. So anyways, I was on the side of the road, fixing my tire all by myself.”

“I’m so riveted by this story Al. It absolutely does not seem completely ordinary and mundane.” “Will you stop with the sarcasm and just let me tell my story!” “Asking me to stop with the sarcasm would be like asking Shakespeare to stop writing plays. In other words, crazy, impossible, and wayyy too late. But go ahead.” “Sure. Okay. Well, I’m on the ground setting up the jack when I notice something shiny.” “Come on, Al, not another freaking coin discovery story. You’re like an overdramatic crow, I swear.” “I’ll take that as a compliment. It means my four grueling years in highschool drama amounted to something.” “Well, something, that’s for sure.” “Hey! What’s that supposed to—nevermind. So I go to investigate, driven by my natural curiosity.” “Of course.”

“Yes, naturally. And lo and behold—“ “Lo and behold? Really??” “Lo and behold, what do I find but a genuine diamond ring.” “You’re kidding.” “Would I ever kid with you, Care? Would I play your emotions like that?” “Oh absolutely.” “Good. I’m glad you know me well. So there’s this beautiful, diamond, engagement ring just sitting there on the shoulder.” “Shoulder.. I always wonder why they call it that. Does that mean we drive on the chest of the road? If so, I gotta respect her curves.” “Can you stay focused for like, one second?” “Oh definitely. Especially if there’s a diamond involved. Who even leaves a diamond by the side of the road though. Unless… was it super ugly? Was it emerald-cut ?? “Um.. I’m not really sure… about any of that. Oh wait, no. It wasn't emerald-cut. I know that much. But don’t ask me any more questions about the ring!” “Okay, but that’s pretty limiting Alex, I mean, so far it’s really the only thing remotely cool about your story.” “Limiting your questions wouldn’t be such a bad thing, Care. Besides, it’s the whole point of the story, I just haven’t gotten there yet.” “Well by all means, do go on!” “So I do the natural thing, of course, and I go to pick it up. And well, I do. I mean uh, picking it up wasn’t the hard part or anything.” “I didn’t figure… It can’t be that heavy, no matter how many carats it is. And, this isn’t like, a Percy Jackson world where the diamond might be some summoned underworld treasure that will curse you forever.” “Right, so I’m holding it, and I start to wonder, like you did, and like any rational person would. I wonder, ‘Why is this diamond ring here?’ And, because I’m a realist, the obvious answer soon presented itself to me on a perfect gold platter.” “You’re not a realist. And the expression is silver platter, idiot.” “Gold is more expensive and more dramatic. Plays with the audience’s minds, you see. Forces them to stop and think. And you’re right, I’m not a realist. But you’re a realist, and I’ve spent enough time around you to hear your shrill little voice in my head sometimes.” “My voice is not shrill, Al!” “Uh-huh, whatever. So, Ms. Realist, what’s the answer?” “What?” “I’m asking you, Carrie, what the answer is? Why was the diamond left by the side of the road.” “That sounds like the beginning to some stupid joke..” “It’s not.” “I know, I was making a stupid—nevermind.” “So?” “So? It was probably a break-up. Classic. Girl throws ring at guy, misses, guy is either too dumb or too rich to not go retreive it.” “Exactly! But come on, Care, do we really have to assume the couple is hetersexual? Are we stooping so low so as to feed the fire of such base stereotypes?” “No. I’m not assuming they’re heterosexual. I know they’re heterosexual. A girl would have picked up the ring. Gays are resourceful.” “You know, I’d like to argue with you, but I really can’t, considering I did pick up the ring.” “See? Wait, you picked up the ring! Al! Why? What if someone was going to come back for that!” “I thought we just agreed that wasn’t likely. Besides, finder’s keepers. And in order to answer your beautifully phrased question of ‘why?,’ I must first ask you to imagine my reaction, as the person I am.” “What, an optimist? Oh god. You’re a hopeless romantic. You believe in fate and all that bullshit. Shit Alex, don’t tell me you proposed to some poor helpless girlfriend of yours?” “No! Mostly because I don’t have a girlfriend right now! But you hit the mark with your talk of fate. I thought, what is this ring here to get me to do? And the obvious answer is—” “Propose.” “Exactly. But, as aforementioned, I don’t have a girlfriend to whom to propose.” “That can’t be proper grammar.” “I’m not sure. But it sounds cool, doesn’t it?” “No, not really. You never do.” “So then I started to think—hey!! I started to think, well, what is proposing, but acting on feelings you’ve had for a long time.” “I mean, that seems like a weird oversimplification, but sure.” “Well..” “Wait—no! Al, we’ve talked about this. Don’t even go there.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to go there?” “No, stop. Get up. Hands away from your pockets.” “But Carrie?” “What?” “It’s pear-cut. See, it looks like a pear.” “Damnit Al, you know I love pears. How can I resist?” “Ya simply can’t, my darling. The charm is just too great. I asked the jeweler about the ring! I learned way more about diamonds than I ever needed to know.” “Seriously though Alex, why couldn’t you have just sold it?” “Well… well, because gays are resourceful.” “Touché.”


Patricia’s not been the same since she shot that intruder a year ago. She’s not prone to violence, although she’s passionate. We’ve had heated exchanges, but they’ve never ended in bloodshed. This shooting was on cue, in the heat of the moment and in the name of art. It feels funny saying ‘in the name of art.’ I’ve always viewed films as commerce rather than art, but I’ve never been a movie buff, unlike Patricia.

# When we got married, everyone said, how on earth did you pull her, Ted? No one thought we’d last. They said I was old enough to be her father, even though I was only seven years her senior. It must be my Standhope genes. My father was old looking and his father also aged before his time. It’s the way we’re built up north.

I suppose it’s the icy wind sweeping in from the North Sea or something in the water. Anyway, Pat had ideas about tramping the boards, and all the cameramen loved her. She’s still a looker, even after living in Hartlepool for thirty years. # What was it her mother called me? A good provider is what she said. Like a house brick or a good egg, I was dependable. They both agreed that Patricia had a fine husband, and I offered her staunch support.

Ted’s not a poor catch, her mother said. It’s just a shame he looks so tired all the time. I think ‘quailish’ was the word she used, for heaven’s sake.

My hair went grey before its time, I admit, but Patricia never seemed to mind.

She said, all the silver hair makes you look distinguished, Ted. Hmm… her mother would say. I think you mean extinguished, don’t you, dear? They both had a merry old chortle at my expense, and I smiled. What else could I do?

I don’t intend to walk round with dyed hair and makeup. I’d rather be extinct than look like a cast member of The Living Dead. # Our wedding was on a glorious summer’s day and I remember the event for its lack of unexpected occurrences, blunders, or catastrophes. However, that’s only true because all the disasters happened in the hours preceding our big day. Patricia had a good time at a hen night the evening before. I mean, way beyond a few glasses of fizz.

Her version of the story is that someone spiked the drinks and her broken nose was because of an accident. The chief bridesmaid disclosed Pat had locked herself in the venue’s restroom and the wooden seat dropped and cracked her nose as she was vomiting down the pan. Either way, it wasn’t an impressive look as she waddled up the aisle. The collision with the toilet seat left a lasting impression on all those present and a lump on Pat’s nose that has remained.

# I was the serious one in our partnership, with the accountancy qualifications and a job for life with a company that manufactured prosthetic implants. We produce a whole range of artificial devices that replace many missing body parts, however, I’m sure that’s too much detail. This isn’t about me. It’s always about Pat. She thrives on the attention.

After a couple of years of wedlock, we visited a marriage guidance counsellor to discuss our relationship. She was unhappy, although I didn’t think we had a problem. I’m not satisfied with my life, she announced.

I said I had no complaints, but that fell on deaf ears.

Our arbitrator concluded Pat needed an outlet for her life’s passion.

I agreed to support her through drama school. It worked well for a while.

I got a bit of peace, and she lived the student’s life. # After graduating, Pat gained work experience using her vocal skills to provide extra screams, yelps and rhubarb for film soundtracks. Nothing too elaborate, but her name appeared at the end of the additional sound credits.

Hans Stehen, a German Art-House film director, spotted her, or she made herself known to him, and he invited her to hover in the background of his wide shots at Pinewood Studios. This was the chance she had hoped for, and she seized the opportunity to take part. Patricia had got the movie bug now, and she’d use this knowledge to help achieve her long-term goal. # We attended the cast and crew screening and Pat alerted me as her shot appeared.

Quick, Ted, look! She jabbed her forefinger at the screen. I blinked and missed her fleeting image as it passed by, but leaned over to congratulate her. Well done, I whispered. Any close ups? I asked, in innocence.

No, she said, hissing at me. I told you, they dropped that other scene. # The entertainment business is all about connections, and Pat enjoyed making as many contacts as possible. She said, you never know when the big break will happen.

Of course, I agreed. Whatever it takes, love.

Pat’s eyes flashed like the jackpot on a game machine.

In retrospect, my imprudent response was both a big mistake and her freedom pass to reach for the stars. She kissed me with an unbridled ferocity that belied naked ambition. I’d released a whirlwind that could wreak untold havoc with impunity. I’m not saying she was out every night, however, I’ve got used to kitchen duties and developed impressive culinary skills in her absence. In addition, I’m no stranger to the local markets and I’m on first-name terms with all the staff at the local Sainsbury’s; Joyce keeps fish on ice for me every Friday, and Helen reserves a leg of lamb for our weekend roast. # Patricia is what’s known as a personality. ‘A bit of a character’ is how my father described her. Pat overheard him talking about her one day and assumed he was paying her a compliment.

I always knew he liked me, she said. He was just pretending to be obnoxious.

It’s his sense of humour, I said.

I told you.

I know, love.

My father let Pat have the benefit of his thoughts at my birthday celebration last year, and she pecked him on the cheek.

See, Teddy, what did I say?

Dumbfounded and flabbergasted, the old man’s jaw sagged like six pounds of soggy plaster, and his eyes popped out on stalks. Pat was never one for deciphering the emotions of non-thespians. She read my father’s blunt put-downs as deadpan irony. He’s such a darling, Teddy, she said. Where did your mother find him? # Anyway, it was obvious she’d have to network after college, and why not? That’s what it’s about. If you want to get ahead in show biz, you need to engage with it 24-7-365, right? I turned a blind eye for years and blundered on, paying the bills and pampering her ego. Yes, I helped to bolster Pat’s self-esteem and I acknowledge my part in enabling her ego to inflate and her ambition to soar into the stratosphere. I also plastered over the cracks of her many insecurities and allowed her to reach new depths of delusion, too.

What else could I do? She was a woman on a mission and chasing a ticking clock. Patricia had a life plan and had her future mapped out. However, I wasn’t blind to the fact that she was deviating from the agreed route and going off-plan. There were one or two nights when she returned way later than expected. I’d pretend to be asleep as she snuck about the bathroom and slid under the duvet. There was no point in starting a debate so early in the morning. # Pat’s alcohol intake increased beyond acceptable levels. However, she never appeared to be out of control, despite tottering about. I heard she had to be steadied on her feet upon occasion and she’d brush those inebriated events aside. Pat would explain the slips as nothing more than rehearsing her trademark jelly-kneed swoon. It’s a technique that all leading ladies and damsels in distress need to perfect.

I’m not sure that’s correct, but Patricia’s off-screen performances paid dividends and she got a walk-on part in a Dutch Detective Movie. They immortalised her as the woman who blows away an intruder in the pre-title sequence. She also had a couple of lines, but they dropped them. The director, Hans, didn’t want her character to feature beyond the opening scene. At last, Pat had achieved her full screen close up. They freeze-framed her screaming face as she pulled the trigger of a 44 Magnum and faded her to black under the titles. Pat is her own worst critic and all she could see was her crooked nose filling the shimmering screen. As a result, she was livid and hated the entire project. The director sympathised with Pat and promised to fix her issue in post-production, however it never happened. # The producers hired a theatre near China Town for the premiere. They couldn’t afford the Odeon in Leicester Square. There was no money in the budget for luxury reclining seats and lavish drinks beforehand. In fact, they didn’t even offer Pat an additional ticket for her significant other or invite me to the after-party.

Aren’t there enough tickets for guests? I asked.

I know, she said, they’re such cheapskates. Shame, I said, I would’ve enjoyed a night out. Tell me about it, Teddy, she said, applying her war paint.

# It was dank and murky outside that Sunday evening and the taxi arrived late. Road conditions and visibility were poor, even for late November. Pat was in a flap and screamed at the driver on our front doorstep. He shrugged and ambled back to his car and opened the passenger door. Pat was still fuming as she teetered down our pathway in her killer heels.

Can I join you later? I asked.

I’ll let you know, she said, but don’t wait up. Oh, I said, frowning. Don’t sulk, darling, she said, getting into the back of the cab. Sulk? I wouldn’t dream of it, I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets. I just don’t want to spoil your night, you know? In case I’m late or anything.

Fine, I said, waving her farewell. Have a fun night and I’ll see you when I see you. Love you, Teddy, Kiss! Kiss! I recall the fogbound night smothering the vehicle’s rear lights as they receded into the distance and muffling the exhaust as it spat out contemptuous clouds into the darkness. The road’s surface glistened like patent leather and looked as treacherous as an abandoned ice-skating rink.

# My telephone woke me up at three in the morning. It was the West-Middlesex hospital. They asked me if I’m the next of kin. Patricia’s been involved in a car crash. She’s in the I.C.U. overnight and her immediate prospects aren’t looking great. I hauled on my suit over my pyjamas and dashed to the A and E.

A nurse escorted me to the Patricia’s ward and told me she was asleep.

I waited in the corridor outside her room until the change of shift at eight.

A doctor spoke to me around nine o’clock.

I was too tired to process the details. Give it to me straight, I said.

He put his hand on my shoulder. I inhaled tight lipped and nodded.

There are multiple fractures to both tibiae.

Meaning what? I said, shaking my head. She’ll not walk again, he said.

My knees shuddered.

Not amputation?

Yes. I’m sorry. # I’ve always been a practical person and prepared for every eventuality. In this situation, I snapped to attention and focused on Patricia. My business contacts in the leg department came in handy, and I had our doors widened. # Patricia makes living as a voiceover artist now. She still employs an agent for film work and they bring her on set when required. Patricia has her own special U.S.P. She’s the glamorous lady in the wheelchair. It’s surprising how often the agent calls. # Pat’s making up for lost time in the kitchen. She’s become a domestic goddess in no time and can conjure up mouth-watering miracles in moments. It’s a relief to have a night off and I’ve learned to kick back and relax. I’ve rediscovered my long lost social life, and who doesn’t enjoy a fun night out? There are only so many times I can listen to Pat’s story about her big break. The End


Cigar, Carmichael? Like many baby boomers, my parents saw the new suburbs as utopia. The open spaces beckoned those suffering from the crush of the concrete jungle. What my parents apparently forgot was that just a few decades prior, cities provided safety from the wild things that roam open spaces like wolves and mountain lions. However, as a kid and dedicated viewer of Rin-Tin-Tin, Lassie, and Davey Crockett, I was acutely aware of the dangers. Hey, don’t laugh. Davey Crockett killed a bear when he was only three. They were out there and those wild things were the nocturnal visitors haunting my dreams. During construction of our future home, we often visited the blossoming neighborhood. At first it was a huge expanse of prairie grass. A clever play by the developer; there would be no  expense for tree removal. Soon the landscape began to change. Popping up everywhere like spring flowers were new houses. As far as my eight-year-old eyes could see there were houses in various stages of construction but not a single flower, or tree, and to my great relief no wild things. That is until we moved in. *** Our car had not yet stopped when I spotted it. A wild thing on the roof of our next-door neighbor’s house, glowering at me with large yellow cat eyes. “A puma,” I thought because it was gray, not brown, and big, but not mountain lion size. Come on I’m not dense, I was eight and didn’t know that a puma is a mountain lion. Suddenly a knock on the car’s window startled the beejesus out of me. Okay, maybe not the beejesus, but it was close to requiring a change of pants. “Hi! I’m Linda McCall and this is my little sister Diane. Wanna play?” “Bingo,” I thought, “built-in playmates.” Cautiously I opened the door, wary of the puma pouncing. Seeing my hesitancy and following my gaze, Diane said, “That’s my Dad’s cat, Carmichael. It’s best to leave him alone. He can be mean.” “I knew it,” my brain screamed. “Crockett was right. There’s danger in these here hills.” As the weeks passed my neighbors and I became fast friends. Of course, I always steered a wide path around Carmichael. I had seen him in the moonlight, prowling the neighborhood, hunting the denizens of the dark. I heard his yowl in the wee hours announcing his reign of the neighborhood. One morning I found his prize from the night before meticulously displayed at our backdoor. I was certain it was a direct, and not so subtle, warning to me. His every move was that of a cold, calculated, serial killer. I was terrified but could not help admiring the regal way he moved and how downright beautiful and dangerous he was. One afternoon the girls and I burst into Mr. McCall’s study. Okay, it was the basement Mr. McCall turned into a library with a lounge chair, sofa, reading table and television. On the reading table was a polished wood box with a lock on it. A man cave before it’s time. Mr. McCall was quietly reading with Carmichael contentedly curled on his lap. “He’s growling. Is he going to bite you,” I asked. Glancing up from his book, Mr. McCall chuckled, “No, he won’t bite me. He’s purring and trying to trick me.” “It sure sounds like growling.” “You see this box,” Mr. McCall explained, “it’s full of cigars that I have had since before Linda was born. Where I’m from cigars are handed out by a new father if the baby is a boy. After Linda’s birth I came home to find Carmichael, then just a kitten, had opened the box and was munching away on my Cuban cigars. Well, I put a lock on the box and occasionally I’ll open it for a smoke. Carmichael waits for the box to open and then pounces to steal what he can. He knows by purring on my lap I get relaxed and may fall into his clever plan.” “I knew it,” I thought, “he’s a deranged wild thing that likes to chew tobacco probably because it tastes better than mice.” A few months later big news rolled through the neighborhood. No, the news wasn’t another tree was being planted, but rather the McCall’s were expecting a baby. The whole expecting thing, from beginning to end, was a mystery to me and none of the adults were inclined to give any details. However, I was pretty certain the stork had nothing to do with it.

I watched in amazement, always keeping my distance from the king-of-beasts, as Ms. McCall transformed from a thin, fragile-looking, woman into a glowing, round, mom-to-be. As the weeks passed I also noticed the number and frequency of Carmichael’s nocturnal conquests left at the McCall door increased as did his interest in the forbidden box. *** One day the girls and I were outside playing jacks when the McCall car unexpectedly roared away. My mother, ever the calm and understated epitome of Southern properness and decorum, popped her head out our back door, “Y’all stay over heah. The girls’ parents are going to be away for a bit.” “Geez Mom, tell us something we don’t know,” I thought, but discretion overcame stupidity, “Ok, we will,” I replied. Diane, unaware of Southern protocol in never asking an adult a direct question, went straight for what we all wanted to know, “Is Mom having the baby,” she asked. Caught between the Southern maxims of elusiveness to children and telling the truth, my Mother skillfully navigated the middle ground, “I’m not sure, we’ll see.” Finally, after what seemed like days but was really just hours, the McCall vehicle arrived home. Mr. McCall stoically walked to his front door and disappeared inside. The three of us, led by my mom, rushed after him. So much for Southern decorum, there were questions to be asked and answers to be had. In the front door, down the stairs, and into the library the four horsemen charged. Sitting in his chair with Carmichael in his lap, Mr. McCall glanced at us and reached for the forbidden box. Without saying a word, he slowly unlocked it, opened the top, looked at the royalty purring in his lap and asked, “Cigar, Carmichael?” The End


They have put you in this box with me. A casualty of commons. Death by our own tax money. They have put you in this box with me. Three walls of cement with one large glass pane so that we may watch the anthill world below us. I wanted you to see this place. This less than perfect side of me. My anthill. Where the rules are only as firm as your will and where your tribe is the real law. It is as dis/honest as it is un/flattering. You are here now. And this is the truth of it. We have given everything to come here. Our tidy little home among the Angels has been rented by another hopeful couple. It was once an empty box, but we made it ours. May they treat those walls with as much love as we have. I hope they remember to water the plants. I hope they love our tree the way you and I did. We have left everything and come here. Traded a nuptial bed for two pieces of paper marked 41F&G. That bed was the only thing I had to my name in the early days, besides that overused duffel with its broken strap which carried my whole life inside. You helped me build it, back when you were my first friend in a foreign country. I thought I would need a hammer and you laughed. Apparently everything in your country is built with an Allen wrench. That bed followed me to every new box. Each time, we took it apart and rebuilt it together. It was there for us, at the end of every long day. As you were for me, whenever I felt the walls of that strange land closing in. Whenever I felt foreign and less than. You seemed, somehow, to understand, though you had never lived anywhere else but among the Angels. I will never forget how it felt to take it apart, one last time. Piece by piece it went, out the door, down the stairs (all three flights), out to the lobby and into the garbage. First the legs, which held us up for so many years. Then the frame. Then the headboard. As I carried it in my arms for the last time, I imagined your fingers gripping the edges, the way they did every night when we were finally alone again. I wish I had kept a piece of it. One screw or splinter. I wish someone or something else could make its home in that bed. I suppose we left it for the flies and the worms in the landfill. Nothing ever really disappears.

And now we are here. Come all this way. To live in a box in the sky. I wanted you to see this place, and I suppose that's my wish fulfilled. From this view, my anthill looks so different. It sprawls until it meets the horizon in every direction. Our greatest structures touch the sky and the neon billboards flash unyieldingly into the night. It looks grand. And terrifying. I watch you as you peer into the streets below, curious about life in this new world. And I wonder if we will ever really be a part of it. My anthill can be a savage and unforgiving place. Once upon a time, you would have been welcomed here by a band of singing men and dancing ladies as we walked the carpet out of the airport. But today… today we are treated with sterility. Today we are carted off by strangers in hazmat suits, ushered hurriedly into a van and delivered to our box to await judgment.

There was a time when you would have been seen as an Angel. A welcome visitor. And my people would bend over backwards to speak your language, accommodate your whims, treat you with kindness and offer you the best of our meager anthill. Today you are a stranger, and carry with you a foreign scent that sends my people into a scramble. Today you are to be contained. Hence, the box. They tried to take you from me. How have you come here, they asked you. Who are you with, in the rough tongue of my people. They can see that you are different, but they don't lend you the courtesy of speaking your language. That time has passed. I must translate. They resist, they are suspicious. They do not want you near me. I bear the mark of one of their own, but you do not. You are a threat and they place partitions between us. I must yell over the barrier. I must summon the will of my people that has lain dormant for years. I must assert my will over the rules. No, I say. This one is with me. This one is my tribe. They are skeptical. I insist. They scramble to call a superior. And you… are terrified. You cannot understand our words, but know implicitly what authority looks like. It takes a strange new form here, doesn't it? We have all the right paperwork and yet somehow that does not matter. In the land of Angels, that's usually all that matters. Welcome to my anthill, darling, where one must wield their will and invoke the power of their tribe like a sword and shield, or in your parlance, a badge and gun. Here I am, your chthonic knight, come from under the earth to defend you. In your land, you would have resented me for it. I would have resented it myself. But here and now… it is necessary. Or else they will take you away. They have put me in this box with you. The bed is not our bed. The walls have no love. We watch the man across the street with envy as he tends to his roof garden, missing our tree. But we are here. We have made it. And now you see this side of me and have begun to understand the first rules of this earthly place. I watch you as you stare out the window, too ashamed to touch you, to speak. I have brought you here. Have made you feel trapped, less-than, foreign. You turn around and meet my gaze. I feel as though I have been caught watching you, and I turn away in shame, but you take my hand. Placing it on your chest, you smile and say, so this is what it's like.


“Can I get you anything?” the interviewer asked, putting on a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. “Something to drink, perhaps?” “No, thank you. I’m fine.” John answered.

“Alright, shall we begin then?”

John nodded, pulled the blanket draped over his back tighter around his body. “So when did you first notice the fire?” “Uh, it was around 2:30 in the morning.” “And you were in the house at the time?” “Yes.”

“As was your wife, correct?” “Yes,” John answered, shifting in his seat. “Do you know when I’ll be able to see her?” “Tell me,” the interviewer continued, “Where were you when you noticed the fire?” John glanced around the hospital room. He watched as doctors walked past, clipboards in hand. He wanted to see his wife but knew that he needed to finish answering the questions first. “Um, I was downstairs. I was watching the stock market news for the next morning. I don’t sleep well. I usually leave the bed if I start tossing and turning too much; so that I don’t wake Scarlett.” “Right,” the interviewer wrote something on a notepad. “And your wife?” John stared blankly at the interviewer. Did he not just hear him?  “She was in bed.” “On the second floor?” “Yes.” “And the fire, where did it start?” “I first saw smoke coming from the garage,” John answered, thinking back to the incident that felt almost like a distant memory at this point. “It filled the kitchen and by the time I had entered to refill my cup of coffee it was so thick you couldn’t see your hands in front of your face.” “Is this when you called 911?” The interviewer gazed into John’s eyes. Determined to see what laid behind those windows.

“No.” “Why not?”

“I wanted to make sure Scar was safe.” John held back emotions. He felt tested by this man for some reason. As if he didn’t believe him. “Where’s my wife? I’d like to see her now.” John moved to get up out of his seat.

“Please,” the interviewer said, holding a hand out towards John. “I have only a few more questions.” “And then I can see my wife?” The interviewer didn’t answer. Rather, he tilted his head and made a stronger gesture towards the chair, insisting that John take a seat. John did and the interview continued.

“What happened next?” the interviewer asked.

“Well, once I saw the smoke filling the kitchen everything else happened pretty quickly.” John thought back through the foggy haze that cluttered his mind. Why was it so hard to remember what happened only hours before? “When did you first see the fire?” “When I went up the stairs to the bedroom.” John squeezed his body with the blanket. “It had eaten through the floor of the guest room. It’s right above the garage.” “Where did you go next?” “I’m sorry,” John interrupted. “Am I in trouble or something? Cause—” “Of course not, Mr. Harper. We just want to understand what happened that night.” “Last night.” “Right,” The interviewer flashed John a forgive-me smile. “Please, continue. Where did you go next?” “I,” John paused, thought hard. “I went into the bedroom to wake Scarlett.” “Who was still asleep?” “Yes.” “You’re sure?” “Yes. Why would I not be sure?” John asked a fire sparked in his words.

“Just doing my due diligence, Mr. Harper. After you entered the bedroom, you woke your wife?” “Yes.” “And was there any fire in the room at that point?” “No.” “Are you positive?” John thought. He pictured the room. Him standing over Scarlett, shaking her from her slumber. The room was dark. No sign of fire. “Positive. I woke her and pulled her out of bed. Then we ran out of the house. That’s it. Now can I see—” “When you came down the stairs, did you notice whether the fire had spread?” John eyed the interviewer. What was he getting at? “No.” “Think,” the interviewer prodded. “You must have noticed that by the time you came to the stairs that the entire stairwell was engulfed. That the first floor had almost entirely been consumed in the flames. Where did you go next?” “I just told you,” John said, nervous to give so much confidence behind his own words. “We ran down the stairs and out the front door. Ask Scarlett. She’d tell you the same thing.” “Do you remember get—” “Did you ask her yet?” John interrupted. “Where is she now? I’d like to see her.” “Mr. Harper, please—” “ Now!” John’s patience had been tried. He rose from his seat, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders, and moved to the door.

“Mr. Harper, please,” the interviewer called from behind.

John ignored him.

“Donovan,” the interviewer said and a man appeared in the doorway. He was a big, muscular man wearing scrubs like the rest of the hospital staff.

“What’s this all about?” John asked, his feet frozen in place. “We just need to ask a few more questions if you don’t mind Mr. Harper.”

“Do I have a choice?” John asked, eyes darting back and forth between Donavan and the interviewer.

“Of course you do,” the interviewer answered. “We have but a few more questions to go over.” John paused for a moment. Then turned around and sat back down in the chair, leaving the blanket on the floor.

“Thank you, Mr. Harper.” the interviewer said and continued. “You said you came down the stairs with your wife and fled through the front door, correct?” “That is correct.” “Then you called the police?” “No.” “Why not?” “The neighbor across the street was already out. She met with us and said she had already called.” “Mrs.,” he paused and flipped through a few pages on his notepad, “Jeannet Walker.” “Yes.” “It appears we have some testimony from her as well,” the interviewer said, keeping his eyes glued to the pages of his notebook. “Says here, that she didn’t see you and Scarlett come through the front door. In fact, said nothing about seeing Scarlett at all. With or without you.” John became mute. He didn’t know how to respond to the interviewer. He felt the conversation increasingly grow more and more hostile. He didn’t know what to do. What to say. How to feel. Where to go. He felt trapped, cornered. But why? He had just gone through the most traumatic event of his life and here he was being questioned as if he was some sort of criminal suspect.

Then John found the words he knew he needed right now but didn’t want to say, “I’d like to speak with my lawyer.” “No need for that,” the interviewer brushed his request aside. “Listen, Mr. Harper, I’m sorry that you went through this, I really am. But you need to—” Just at that moment John shot up from his seat and bolted for the door, hoping that he could slip past Donavan before he could stop him. He couldn’t. Like a brick wall standing in front of John, his run was stopped hard in its place. Donavan wrapped John with his beefy arms and pulled him back towards the chair setting him down with a thud. He pressed firmly down letting John know that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Listen, John, “the interviewer became loose. “we don’t have any time left. You either have to work with me or this is over.” John squirmed in Donavan’s strong arms, said “Where’s my wife? I want to see her now ! You don’t get another word from me until then.” The interviewer took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and said, “your wife,” he let out a sigh, “she didn’t make it, John.” The words stabbed John.

“You’re lying,” John said in protest. “That’s not true. I—I saved her.” “No John, you didn’t,” the interviewer slipped his glasses back on. He looked John in the eyes, “You only think you did. You’ve had a psychotic breakdown. You believe you saved her, but in reality, you didn’t.” “No,” John said, fighting against the words, fighting against Donavan’s hold, fighting against the building emotions threatening to tear him apart. “That’s not true, I did save her! She's fine. She's gonna be fine.” John spun towards the door, “ Scar! Scarlett, honey can you hear me? Please, please tell them you’re okay.” The interviewer lifted from his seat, came over, and cradled John’s head in his hands, “You weren’t able to save her, and it’s okay. You can accept that.” “I can’t, I—” “You must,” the interviewer said, John’s tears flowing over his hands.

“No. No, it’s not true. Last night—” “John,” the interviewer's grip tightened, aligned John’s head to his gaze. “It happened two years ago. You tried to save her. You did. You have to come to terms and accept that it is a reality. Please, John, accept it.” John sobbed, Donavan, released his grip allowing John to fall into the surprising embrace of the interviewer.

“I can’t,” John cried into the interviewer's coat. “I can’t live without her. She can’t be gone. She just can’t...” “I know,” the interviewer said, rubbing John’s back. He turned his head to the door, and said, “End simulation four-three-oh-two.”

The walls vanished around John replaced by white walls and white furniture. The man that held John wore all white and his skin was painted all white. The man that stood behind him also wore all white and had his skin painted completely white.

The interviewer released John from his embrace, stood swatting at his pant legs, and said, “Don’t worry, John. We’ll get her out of your head sooner or later, even if it’s the last thing I do. Just hang in there.“


It was a time of Kings and Queens. Of full harvests and lavish parties. And, most importantly, of magic, abundantly. Or at least to my story. My mother was always proud of me, even when I broke something. My father, on the other hand, never wanted to see me doing anything other than housework with my physical two hands. Living in two different worlds was more comfortable than living my father’s standards of a daughter, at least until a sickness hit our small village.

Mother and Father came home from the market, and by supper, she had collapsed on the floor. She couldn’t even lift her hand. It sizzled to touch her.

Being the oldest daughter, I took on her responsibilities. I cleaned up after meals and made them. I got the little one ready for bed and ready for the day. I did my chores and helped them with theirs as usual but had to fit in mother’s as well.

I would go to bed tired and wake up the same. I couldn’t hide it as well as Mother. That’s what Thomas, my eldest brother, told me when he forced me into a chair and started washing the supper dishes.

He was tired as I was from working on the farm with Father and three of our younger brothers. But he always found the time to do the supper dishes or look after mother for a time to let me get a little more rest.

Father never caught on. Never had an idea, until Thomas was brought to his knee in the fields when he couldn’t stop coughing.

Father was extremely red when he busted through the front door with Thomas in his arm. He definitely wasn’t that way from being outside all day. Oh, how I wish it were. He dragged me from Thomas’ side. He dug his nails into my arm tight enough to pop the stitching on my sleeve. When we were alone, he threw me to the ground. "You Godforsaken progeny! What have you done?!" "Nothing! Nothing, I swear!" I told him. "Don't lie to me, you sinful wretch! You are a plague upon this house." “He wanted to help!” “It is not his duty. It’s yours!” He raised his open hand. I couldn’t look at him in the eye through the conversation, but never have I ever been scared to look at him. He was a good Christian man. The only time he hand raised his hand was with a farm tool in the fields. He had only raised to his voice to the crows and at Mr. Cornwall, who is deaf. Mother might be the one sick, but he was the sickening one. "Get back to work." He snarled, turning to leave. It wasn't the time for what I said next. I told him I could help them. I pleaded with him to let me. It was just what he needed to excuse his behavior. He slapped me off my knees back to the floor. "If you want to stay under my roof, you will never speak of this again!" I stayed there, on the floor, for the night. In the morning, I washed the grim of the floor off of me. Before I could get the kids ready, he took me to the market, like nothing happened last night. Like he didn't cause the burning in my cheek. Like he didn't hate what I could do, what I am. We traded our freshly harvested crops for meats and things we can’t make from corn or greens. After some convincing from me, Father got some herbs from the village physician to ease Mother and Thomas’ conditions. He had his fill of me after that. He left me outside of the smith as he inquired about some new tools for the rest of the harvest. I flopped up the hood of my cloak when people started to stare. I didn’t want to tell them how my mother was doing. Nor that Thomas is sick. Nor about my bruise. I didn’t know what to say, but how I was feeling, I was going to say the wrong thing: justifications and excuses. I stood alone with only the smell of rain to comfort me. Everyone moved around me as if I was reading a story. They buzzed around from stand to shop, blurring as supporting characters. Their faces didn’t matter. What they did had no importance outside of daily doing. Your eye bounced to them and away without a membrane of them. Except for one. He sat across the way under the arch of the old aqueduct system. His brown eyes, matching hair. Skin touched by the sun but not red like my father’s. A wall of giggling children hid the rest of him.

My mouth was agape when he looked up at me. I look away, with his brown daggers digging into my soul. When I looked back, my right cheek matched my bruised one.

I barely got another look at him before the heavens started to cry. The blurs scattered in mass, creating a wall between us. After the mass exodus, he was gone. The next day was Sunday. Anyone that went to the market would have been crucified. I wouldn’t tempt the temper of my father to try. Like the autumn leaves, my bruise change as Father increasingly worked the rest of my brothers. Taking their responsibility, they tried, but they were too young to pick up Thomas’ load. It was several days before we had sufficient funds to go back to the market.

Father was moving slow. At the time, it felt like he was torturing me. Taking his time like he knew I wanted to be somewhere. Punishing me for it. As I know now, he worked so hard through the nights, giving me the chance to free my curiosity.

He went into talk to smith, probably inquiring about borrowing his sons for work. It’s the only reason I could come up with to why he refused to tell me why I had to stay outside: to protect his pride. I really don’t care, though. He didn’t yell at me, and I got what I wanted. The boy was there again. His attention was taken up by a crowd of children, though smaller than last time. Hovering over blue woodland creature smoke figures, his hands danced around like puppet controls.

I stared even when he met my gaze. Even giggled along with the children. I couldn’t help myself.

I pulled out my notebook from my cloak. When mother taught me how to read and write was the only time mother and father argue in front of us when mother taught me how to read and write. I drew a picture of his act at the bottom of the page before Father had to pull me away.

He didn’t scold me on the way home, so he must not have seen what the boy was doing. He would have been the first in line to stone or light the fire in King Uther’s court. I fear I’ll face that one day if Mother dies.

That day came a lot sooner with how the rest of the day unfolded. I went on with my chores, but without my usual dedication. The corners of my mind were far more captivating.

I knocked into Martha a few times, not helping with her new toddling. Nearly chopped off a finger or two. Hemmed Ruth’s dress cock-eyed. Started a fire in the kitchen. The rest I can’t admit to. All I wanted to do was mimic the boy. I’ve never seen anyone else do magic before. Not in this kingdom. Not out in public. It was either brave or extremely crazy. I had moved things and healed scraps, but I never created anything. The first few times nothing happened. I propped up my notebook on the table and focused on the picture as I shucking some peas. The fire in the cooking pot hid my cloud of smoke. By dinner, they were passable for animals, not bunnies and squirrels but animals. I passed out dinner. Only interrupted by baby Susanna’s babbling, the room was silent, like a sleepy night. My brothers could barely raise their spoons, and Father was like a stone.

Life couldn’t get any sadder than this. The only relief came through a grave like sleep. The boys barely made it to their room before crashing into the floor. Father simply disappeared. I had to put and watch my little sister fall asleep.

I still had two important tasks to undertake: help feed mother and Thomas. They’ve both grown weak. Neither of them could sit up on their own. They were merely planks of wood upon bedding. I nearly cried every time I went into their rooms.

They both requested I feed the other first. Being the second one sick, Thomas had more force after all he was his father’s son. Mother never caught on. How could she? She didn’t know the difference between breakfast, lunch, and dinner anymore. She fell asleep before finishing. I wish I could too, but Thomas. I left her bowl on my chair and left with a ruckus. She didn’t wake but Paul, the son after me, did. I would have been sorry, but I had no time for that. Paul took my place and I went to Thomas. He was sneezing when I came in. “Just go to bed~” he barely said. “I will not.” I sat in front of him.

“You will to~” he said, turning his head from the spoon.

“I rather have you mad at me than Father. So you will eat then I can go to bed and everyone will be happy!” I said, every word being clearer than the last. He didn’t fight me anymore. Didn’t say another word. Just stared at me as he ate. “I’m sorry~,” he had a coughing fit, “I hate to see you this way.” I put the bowl aside. “Me too.” “I don’t... deserve... it.” He put his hand on his chest. “You deserve better.” Placing his other hand on mine. “Let me show you something.” With a smile and a giggle.

With a flick of my hands, the blue spirits arose from the dirt on the floor. They hoped and spinned, dancing around the space between us. And Thomas’ face, well, I saw Mother in his eyes. The door crashed open. My figures disappeared whence they came. And as loud as he could, Thomas was yelling as I was ripped from his side. I was dragged through the house and thrown to the dirt of the road into town. When I looked up, all I saw was the flames in my father’s eyes. “You devil child! How dare you corrupt your brother with your sin?” He smacked again. “Leave and never come back!” He slammed the door, cutting me from the light of the candles. The sun rose in my face. My head hurt. All I could see was light.

A hand touched my shoulder. And another on the other. I jumped before I saw a face.

“Are you alright?” The boy’s face appeared, invading the light. I don’t know how. I was under the old aqueduct, sitting on the crate I saw him sitting in yesterday.

“Are you alright?” I touched my forehead with my fingers coming back red. “No.” “You are coming with me.” He lifted me to my feet before I could say anything. I think I blacked out again. I don’t remember anything between crate and chair. Definitely not where and what building I was in. The boy sat in front of me with a cloth and a bowl of water. “Good Morning, again.” He dabbed my forehead. “What’s your name?” “Um...Dorothea.” “Well, Dorothea, I’m Merlin.” He washed the cloth. “You don’t mind if I asked what happened?” “My father has forsaken me.” “I’m sorry.” “He hates me for my magic.” He stopped everything, with his hand inches from my forehead. “I guess I was being careless.” “Like you didn’t know.” “I guess this wouldn't be inappropriate then.” He stood and brushed my hair out of my face. I can’t say I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t expect him to kiss my forehead. The light in my eyes disappeared and my head started to clear. When he moved, I touched my forehead: no blood.

Merlin scrooched down, with his hand on my shoulders. “You should get some rest. There’s a bed in the back.”

He looked like he needed more than I did now. But I was out of arguing power. I fell asleep as soon as my feet were off the ground. I felt my hair being moved. I open my eyes expecting to see Merlin’s. Instead, I was looking into a wide pair of green ones. I jumped, throwing myself into the back wall.

“Are you sure she’s one of us, Merlin?” she yelled over her shoulder. Merlin stood on the other side of a table in the middle of the room. Another person sat on the table, with his back to me. “I’m quite sure.” “Only quite?” She flashed up next to him.

“Extremely, Tessa!” She flashed again, sitting next to the other person. With my notebook in her hands, she said, “She does have a beautiful hand, both written and artistic.” The other turned to his side, yelling hey, grabbing my book back. “Tessa! Alwyn! Stop it.” He pushed them apart. She was in front of me again. “Let’s get you in something clean.” She pulled me up and dragged me out of where I still didn’t know. “Do you really think she’s the one?” Alwyn turned to Merlin. Merlin took my book from him. It was on the page where I drew his act. “I know it!” Tessa dragged me around the building in the woods. I ran into her when she stopped.

“This is my house.” She pointed to a small rectangular box hanging on the side of the building. “Your house?” I asked, feeling my head. “Take my hand. I’ll show you.” I thought she was crazy, but I took her hand. In a flash of light, we stood in a doorway, high above the ground.

“Don’t look down, dearie,” she instructed, pulling me in.

It looked like the inside of the other house. A table was in the middle. A kitchen and setting area to the left. A bed and another door, Tessa sat me in the bed and went through the door. “So, Dorothea, do you want to wear trousers like me or a dress like you?” “Dress. Please,” I stuttered. “Fine, stick with tradition.” She walked back in, with two dresses draped over her arms. “Pink or blue?” “Blue.” “It will bring out your eyes. Yes blue.” She sat that one next to me and ran back to the door. “What is going on?!” “I shrank us so we can fit in my house. All fairies live in houses like this.” “Fairies?” “Yes, fairies. Did Merlin not explain?” “And the one with the pointed ears?” “Alwyn. He’s an elf. Merlin didn’t explain anything to you.” “What about Merlin?” “Just like you, dearie.” She pulled me close. “Let me tell you everything.”