The open auditorium was filled with a fully seated audience captivated by the sound flowing from the raised platform. It was from a melody being produced from the melancholy dance of the bow and string held by a pair of skilled diligent hands. Once the performance was over, a pause hung in the air, waiting for the last note to float and dissolve, where a loud rumble of clap and cheers followed. While her deeply immersed shut eyes opened, Marie smiled at the cheering crowd and wiped the bead of sweat on her neck, waving her hands in a fanning motion to cool off from the summer heat. As she left the platform, a wave of loneliness that visited after every performance filled her. Being a wallflower, the cello was the instrument of her stirring emotions and this was the only time she could showcase it. She made her way to the lockers when she saw a group of seniors mainly boys surrounding a girl. A girl with a petite frame and heart-shaped face, in which her almond eyes and straight nose perfectly fit. A reverse mirror to Marie. The girl caught her eyes and smirked, to which the group she was talking to turned to look at her. “Hey, Marie! Great Performance,” shouted Ben, one of the senior boys that had his arm around the petite girl’s shoulder. A hot flush stole across her cheeks as she stuttered, “Th-Thanks Benny,” “Th-th-thanks Be-nn-y” the girl mockingly replied. Few of them laughed while a hot flush stole across Marie’s cheeks. Come on Jenna, she’s your sweet baby sister” Ben exclaimed. “A baby she sure is,” Jenna smirked. “Oh, I forget you’re sisters. She looks like nothing like you, or your mom Jenna. Are you sure she’s not adopted?” the girl beside Jenna snickered. Marie stood tongue-tied, she never knew how to react to that, how many times it came up. “Maybe.” Jenna shrugged looking at Marie head to toe. Marie clenched her fists as she passed by them, stomping her feet. “I’m just teasing!” called out Jenna laughing in distance. As she got to her locker, she rolled her eyes at the charity campaigns led by Jenna stuck all over the bulletin boards. She was amused by the new project Jenna has put her nose to, which she was sure was just another social activity for the self-seeking sister. As the day was done, Marie made her way back to the bus stop and slumped against the sidewall. The soft breeze played with her loose ponytail as she basked in the summer sun today. Oddly after every performance, she missed home. Both she and Jenna had initially grown up in a rural village and had moved to this small town together to pursue a life in music. Jenna’s clarinet playing was lacking, so their mother still had to pay for the lessons but Marie had received a scholarship straight away. As she raised her head up to the cloudy blue sky, she wondered when was it that they started hating each other. Was it when they came here or from before? It should have ranged from misunderstandings to vicious fights piling as the sisters grew older. But Marie could only remember yearning for Jenna’s attention. She remembered a memory when they were younger girls. Marie had presented all her savings in an empty chips box and one of her favorite dolls as a gift for her sister's birthday. Jenna had poked and prodded the gifts, tore the masking tape off the box, and kept the loose change into her pocket leaving the box and doll to the side and walked off. Now that she was much older, her heart sank at how secretly devastated her younger self was, more than anger she felt sad. Believing maybe she did something wrong then. The bus came to the stop and she got in and sat by the last seat, opening up the bus window partly. Now Marie equally ignored her, because she felt peace, although it was temporary. The bus halted at the next stop where she saw woodpeckers pecking at a tall, disheveled pine tree that shook stronger with each peck. She wondered how long would it take for the tree to break down. The bus lighted ahead and she reminded herself to check her mailbox in the hope to hear from her dream school in the city soon. This would be the gateway. An escape from this close-minded town where people like her shallow sister reigned and she didn't feel uncomfortable anymore. Her reflection on the window stared back at her solemnly and she told herself it doesn’t matter what she looked like. As long as she had her bow and talent, she could actually have a shot. As Marie got back to her dorm, she checked her mailbox to check to see if there was an acceptance letter. Nothing but few phone bills that included Jenna’s. Walking up to the stairs, she passed by her sister’s dorm wondering if she should drop it by. The matron was spotted from the opposite corridor, the girls hurling out of her way left and right and she wanted to avoid her as well, knowing the matron would give her some tasks. So she opened the door and sprung in hoping no one was in. As she looked around, it was clear. Her heart thumped as she walked towards the bedside and her head kept looking at the door. The matron was near her door telling off the room opposite hers. She kept the phone bill at Jenna’s desk and turned to leave but the array of makeup brushes and hair rolls caught her eye. Sweat beads forming on her temple, Knowing she should leave already. Uncomfortable by the mess of books and makeup mixed up on the table and she muttered and blew her bangs off her face, annoyed that Jenna can’t even care for her things. One more look at the door and she decides to tidy up and have a look at the final year history textbooks. As she flips through the book, a bunch of letters falls to the floor to which she picks it up to see it’s a college essay and application letter jotted by Jenna. Curious, she read the essay but only to gasp and read it again. Ruffling through the remaining papers, she finds a letter in her own handwriting, from where Jenna’s essay is copied. Her own essay and application are tattered and then she realizes her sister never mailed her application and by now the deadline was over. In shock she runs out of the room, pacing as fast she can, the tears uncontrollably falling over her cheeks, her hair. She closed her room and laid back on the door, finding her fingers trembling in anger, she punches her pillows around recklessly. Wiping her tears, she hoped it wasn't too late. After a few calls to the school, she sank into her bed in despair but rose, just as the heaviness in her chest that was used to being dismissed, now returned stronger than ever. With that, she flung open the door and stormed to the cafeteria where she guessed Jenna could be. Her guess was right as Jenna was hanging with her posse laughing and sipping on juice refreshments. Jenna spotted Marie outside the café and walked her way towards Marie who found herself glaring down at the bracelet Jenna wore, something which belonged to her. She felt her entire body squirm along with the heat that hung lower than usual today. “Marie, give me 30 dollars.” “Why?” Marie pronounced. “Why? Because I need it. Tsk come on Marie, Hurry I need to go back in.” Jenna scoffed while looking at her watch. “But why should I give you my money.” Marie puckered. “Because..we’re family?” “Why am I your family only when you need something?” Jenna felt the closed café door being slid open completely. “We’re sisters Marie. Remember what mom says. Sisters share everything!” She laughed menacingly while looking around. “Oh, so we’re sharing this too?” She held up her tattered application letter. Jenna plunged forward to grab it. “Where did you get that? Did you go into my room?” She grabbed Marie’s shoulders bringing her away from the cafeteria. “You sabotaged my application by reaching out to the school, canceling it, and plagiarizing mine?” Marie shook Jenna’s hands off her. She feels a shadow of heads piling behind the glass door. “You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m going back in.” She innocently exclaimed turning to return to the café. “Why did you do it?” Marie stepped forward. Pausing, Jenna turned back slowly, her face now showing no remorse. "You're really never satisfied are you?" Marie was confused. "What?" “Face it, you will do fine performing for shows here in this town. But that school in the city, I should be going there. Someone like me” She pointed to herself from head to toe. “Someone like you?” “Yes, you think you’ll really survive in the city with your looks and your greasy personality." She stepped forward, her head closer to Marie's. “Look at you. You’ve become so arrogant. A little bit of attention and now you want to move to the city. And if I can’t get in so can’t you.” At her words, something switched inside Marie, and then it hit her. “So this is about staying in my league?.” Jenna scoffed as she clasped her hands, “I know my place. Now give me 30 dollars as I asked you.” Marie dint speak for a minute. She simply turned and started walking away. Jenna “Where are you going? Give me the mon—” Marie turned back swiftly “You know I thought if you grew up a bit more, you would change." She drew her breath in. “Every year, when I would feel horrible because of you and how you treated me, I thought if I just gave you sometime, you would change. I really wanted to wait for you to be the sister who would stand up for me." Jenna folded her arms as Marie continued. “But I was wrong. And I could ruin this for you,” she held up the application. “But it’s not worth it. You’re not worth it. Good luck big sis.” She threw the application back to Jenna and walked ahead, not looking back. Her heart thumping in her ribcage, she felt her back heavy with perspiration either from the heat outside or inside her. If there would come a day that she would forgive Jenna, she didn't know but Marie knew it won't be easy anymore. And she knew she was done. With Jenna, with the tiptoeing and with the self-destruction. It was now up to her completely. As she walked back, drops of rain hit her cheek and she stopped in surprise. A pent-up rainfall finding a loophole to break even in the haughty summer.


The heroine of this story was born in a small town called Hope shortly after WWII. Her parents and grandparents thought she was a sign that hope was indeed alive in the world, and so they all agreed to name her Hope. Little Hope grew strong of limb and mind. Most of the time she was sweet tempered, although as a toddler she would occasionally stamp her little foot and stand her ground when she was told to do something she didn’t want to hear or do. Her parents didn’t chastise her figuring that in this world there would be times she would need to stand her ground. They encouraged her to talk about her feelings and steadily that became her “go to” when she was frustrated. She grew up with a lot of love and creativity in her life. She read before she went to school. She played and laughed; dreamed and imagined; read and thought about many things. Her mother read to her from stories that filled her with courage and hope. Her father told her stories based on his life. Her father’s stories imbued her with a love for her country’s beauty and the democratic republic that governed her country. As a young adult, she came to understand the strengths and weaknesses of the Constitution, as well as the history of her country that aligned with the Constitution and the history that tested the Constitution. She came to understand that it was a living document and found the amendments to be especially interesting.         All of this reading and thinking gave her hope for a better world that lived in her heart and mind guiding her choices all along the way.         As a young woman, she proudly voted in every election local, state, and national, because she could. She was well aware that American women had struggled to achieve their suffrage, as well as the same rights as American men, such as owning property and having their own bank account. She lived through the Civil Rights movement and participated in small ways then as events stirred her consciousness more and more to see the needs of others to ensure the promise of the American dream was accessible to all Americans. This fueled her hope for a better world that lived in her heart and mind guiding her choices all along the way. She worked for peace because she abhorred war. She got a college education and became a teacher. As a spiritually curious American, she explored various belief systems and eventually settled into a widely inclusive belief based on both Western and Eastern teachings and love, always love. This strengthened her hope for a better world that lived in her heart and mind guiding her choices all along the way. She fell in love and married. She devoted herself to opening minds and hearts in much the same way she planted and grew gardens. It was a full and purposeful life. Like all lives, there were sorrows, as well as joys. She bore the deaths of her husband, mother, and father with as much grace as she could muster. Years later, she was fortunate to marry a loving and kind man who fully shared life’s joys and sorrows with her. Throughout all these years, she held strongly to hope for peace, a good harvest, the power of love, and a viable working democracy based on the Constitution and the rule of law. Environmental issues became her passion because of her understanding that all life required clean air, water, soil, and food to not only survive but to thrive. She engaged in citizenship work by writing representatives, senators, and presidents about her concerns. Thus, she exercised her right as an American to petition her government to change in ways that would be good for the planet and the people in ways that would align more with the principles articulated in its Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. No matter what happened, she never gave up her hope for a better world for all. Then, in the middle of her 7 th decade of her life, maintaining her hope stood her in good stead when she witnessed a violent insurrection enacted before anyone watching TV that cold day in January when the then president of her beloved country did the unthinkable. In speaking to a large crowd of his supporters who believed in his lies, he stoked their fears and anger because they believed his lies telling them if they didn’t “fight like hell” they would lose their country. He made this speech to get them to go to the Capitol and attempt to violently stop the ceremonial certification of ballots from the electoral college for the new president, because he couldn’t concede his loss in a free and fair election. He had spent months in the courts with his attorneys peddling lies that the election was rigged with no evidence to support his claims that would have made a change in the outcome of the election or hold up in court. He had exhausted all his judicial options in the courts to change the outcome, which he had every right to pursue. Only violence was left. He trampled on the American tradition of a peaceful transfer of power which had begun with the very first president of the country. This practice of the peaceful transfer of power was, and is, the bedrock of the country’s democratic republic. Hope watched the violence in horror. As awful as that day was, more troubles came. Yet, Hope held steadily to her commitment to hope and democracy. More evidence was presented to all Americans through an intense Congressional hearing to get to the truth of that awful day. Following that, the Department of Justice began its own investigation. Eventually after an exhaustive gathering of even more evidence, criminal indictments were handed down by the Department of Justice to participants in the violence, as well as to the previous loser president and his enablers. Through it all, Hope’s commitment to her country’s Constitution and the rule of law never wavered. Her hope for a better world lived in her heart and mind while continuing to guide her choices all along the way. Time passed during which another election for president was held and it was clearly a candidate for democracy vs. a candidate for autocracy. The candidate for democracy roused Americans to understand what was at stake and that they had a sacred mission to preserve democracy for the future, especially for those yet unborn. The candidate for democracy won. Americans had understood. One morning in the summer after the election, Hope awoke feeling joyous and hopeful. She and her fellow Americans had stood firm and their American democracy had survived the intense threat to its very existence. All the insurrectionists and their enablers had been brought to justice. But, in her mind and in the minds of others the sacred mission was still on the shoulders of the American people. Hope knew there was great work ahead for all Americans with their allies around the globe to undertake together in order to save life on Earth by focusing their collective energy on saving the planet. She had her own personal list of work to do that she shared with any and all who would listen. In her country and elsewhere there were projects that had begun but were not yet complete, such as new infrastructure from broadband internet to bridges, roads, railroad upgrades, and more. There were the multiple ways of transitioning from fossil fuels to nonpolluting energy sources, as well as, effective means of removing carbon from the atmosphere without creating new problems. There was the continued task of educating everyone to understand the dire consequences of ignoring disruptive symptoms of climate change like glaciers and sea ice melting, intense droughts in some places and fierce flooding in others. There was the task of making more visible the consequences of oligarchs who were selfish, greedy, and cruel, as well as, requiring those oligarchs to pay their fair share of the costs. Yes, the work ahead was immense. Yet, Hope was committed to the task and she knew millions of others around the globe were too. Groups and individuals using their skills, will power, love, and understanding to tackle the tasks at hand. Hope would use her writing of stories and poetry and the making of art to continue to focus herself and others on Love, Beauty, Hope, Empathy, Understanding, and Peace. She would remain so committed to helping make a better world until her last breath. She would live the changes she wished to see as best she could one day at a time knowing she wasn’t alone in these efforts and that truly only time would tell what fate held in store for mankind on Earth.


“Welcome to your service of remembrance! I’m Kazuo, and it will be my pleasure to guide you through the process as you consider the various options extended to you by NeuroNon. Your presence here confirms the clarity of your life priorities. We believe that life is made of moments, not minutes, and capturing and retaining those moments that you want to savor is what we’re here for. With over a decade of public service and another fifteen in the private sector, we are the world’s first and oldest in the field. You’ve obviously discerned that some of the moments we live through are of no more value than yesterday’s kitchen garbage, and NeuroNon is here to proverbially take out the trash. As Montaigne put it, nothing fixes a thing so firmly in the memory as the wish to forget it.

I see, um, it’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable. You will not have to discuss the subject matter at issue with me. Only two people will be privy to your private interview, and confidentiality is critical to our company’s existence. Your reviewers will explore the precise details of what you want to leave behind, not to be invasive, but merely to make sure the specific contents are isolated without the interruption of your essential cognitive networks. They will be most gracious and very discreet. I think you’ll be deeply satisfied with…. You’re curious about the tank? Aplysia californica. Sea slugs found on the West Coast. They’re not the most photogenic, are they? But they’ve become immortalized in the NeuroNon narrative. That was the first species in which we successfully transplanted memory from one organism to another. mRNA transferral. A snail that had never been exposed to electric shock recoiled as though she had been after receiving the mRNA of a snail that had. It remembered someone else’s memory. Yes, it’s amusing, isn’t it? Amazing? I agree! Next, we replicated the process by manipulating sensory nerve cells in a petri dish…but perhaps this is more technical than interests you. Yes? The technique. Of course. Come, let’s walk. I’ll give you a tour. Through this door and down the hall. Memories can never actually be erased. There’s no camera flash on a stick that we wave in front of your face and make them disappear in an instant. It’s a bit more, if I can be casual, like hiding a candle in the sunlight. The candle is still there, you just don’t notice it. And if you intend to ignore it, it’s quite easy to do so. So we take a triggering image of bad memories and surround it in…a sort of…mental white noise. When a client encounters the triggering image, or sound, or any other sensory stimuli, the hippocampus, in which we implant modified neurons, recalls a vague scene or ambiance - a landscape, for instance, or the sound of waves in the distance. Anytime the client’s memory strays close to the cleansed memory, the more pleasant scene surrounds and overwhelms it. The experience, after decades of refinement in our labs, is very peaceful. I’m glad for how quickly you understand. You’ve obviously come from a pedigree education, am I right? Of course. It shows. If I may speak personally, as a former client myself, it’s exquisite to be able to dwell only in the isolated recollections for which we have labored and excelled through our lives, free from unwanted and undeserved mental debris. It’s an internal utopia. Glass of wine while we walk? Madison, could you provide for our guest? You’re correct. But the confidential nature of our work is not because we have anything to hide. Rather, we mean to protect those who have sought to leave the past behind. You can imagine that certain elements would meddle indiscriminately - social activists opposed to our vision. But at this stage, given your downpayment and paperwork we’ve already put you through, you’re free to ask anything you like. I’m an open book. Yes, our story is a fascinating one. I hope perhaps, in time, the files can be opened so that the worldwide public can marvel at how we arrived here. Perhaps some history is in order. The first real success was a horrible case - horrible before we cleansed her. She was a victim of kidnapping, locked in a basement, and brutalized for three years, if you can imagine. She was reduced to a panicked recluse, beyond the reach of psychiatry, likely to remain institutionalized and further regressing. When we completed our work with her, she was transformed. It was all gone, a blank slate. She was on her feet again. She was our evolutionary Lucy, the one who put us upright. That’s a fair question, and I’ll be honest with you. There were glitches. We’ve completely eliminated them, but there were a few originally. The clinical trials were long and slow, of necessity. In Phase One, there was a bank manager who had witnessed a murder during a robbery, a teller blown to bits with a shotgun, and in the process of righting his mind, we lost the bank safe’s combination. Relatively harmless, but a warning marker for us. Then one a bit worse, a woman who weighed over 800 lbs. She was, for obvious health reasons, dangerously close to terminal. In the process of eliminating some of her memories tied to dietary norms and impulses, we insufficiently distinguished that which was to be preserved from the rest of her cognitive networks, and afterwards, she had forgotten how to eat a banana. Random, yes? She could never relearn it. She would just sit and puzzle over the things. Harmless, I guess, but a mistake. And a few other things with her, but she is alive today because of NeuroNon. I do want to suggest, if I can pause for a moment, that you consider the optional promotional levels. They have less to do with the final product and more to do with aesthetics. Premium service is well worth the investment. While the Basic service will deliver the same ultimate result, it’s a bit like privileged airline classes - either one will get you there, but one is a bit more luxurious. But as you’ve already realized that the value of the result is worth the investment of a lifetime, the difference is inconsequential. No, there are no glitches today. Good question. The last one was…um…hmm. I can’t seem to place it. I’ll have someone look that up for us in a bit. Huh. Funny, I can’t…. Well, we’ll look it up in due time. Through these doors, you’re in luck. Someone is going through the process as we speak and has consented to onlookers through a glass wall. You can see…ah, they’re right in the middle of the surgery. You’re not offended are you? You see that the hole in the side of the skull is relatively small, only about the size of a quarter. Laparoscopic insertion from there. We no longer remove the skullcap like in the early days. And the external NeuroNon disc on the surface can be veiled completely through a graft of skin and hair, or, as we’re finding is increasingly popular, left in plain sight for, well, I guess one would say, bragging rights. Just look. The wetware, you see through the hole. Not really vulgar is it - not much different than the snails. Yet so versatile. It’s a universe in there. Back to my history-telling, though. There was one case that forced our hand in terms of availability, though. If Lucy showed the scientific and medical communities that it was an invaluable, ethical contribution to human betterment, this was the dark parallel: the customer who sues for millions after spilling her own coffee in her own lap. Of course you’ve heard the public version of this story. A woman sued us for the right to access the technology so that she could forget her ex-husband. It is a bit funny, I guess. But sad. We probably could have warded her off if the Catholic Church hadn’t embraced her, calling it “God’s view of annulment,” as you’ve heard. So for short relationships and midnight Las Vegas chapel weddings, you know, where there is no vast network of connections which would be lost, so the story itself can be isolated from the rest of the client’s history, it can be done. The public doesn’t realize how much this has driven the expansion of our work. Husbands who can’t endure their midnight angst who end up buying their wives what they call a “second virginity” as an anniversary gift, erasing one of her old flings whom they - the husband, I mean - can’t get over. Thomas Edison was miffed when the phonograph was used for entertainment, for music, because he wanted it to record only important speeches and historical events. I guess we can’t complain when the medical miracle that cures trauma is primarily funded by jealousy and insecurity. That to say, our reasons for acceptance of new clients are much broader than they were at first. And of course, that led to a flurry of lawsuits. Every student who had been triggered by a bad grade and was now too anxious for job interviews, non-medaling Olympians wallowing in depression, ex-prisoners as well as ex-officers, deprogrammed cult members and reformed sinners - everyone who had gone down a wrong path who now wanted a clean slate. Ex-junkies and even just cold-turkey-quitting ex-smokers. Anyone who could pull together a reason and a bank account was ready to insist that this was a medical necessity. Civil rights groups got involved, and a potentially methodical future rapidly became a less than well-prepared present. Of course, the cultural milieu was ripe for it. Statues were being torn down and the names of schools were being changed. Textbooks were being rewritten to give a smaller role to religion and a larger one to race. There was even a movement at one point, now dissolved, seeking to fund the service as a kind of racial reparations, to eradicate racist trauma retrospectively. We didn’t see forgetfulness as negligence, we saw it as our absolution. It was our baptism - washing off the old so that we could be free for new life.

No one with a good memory has a clean conscience. You hear that I’m not telling you that you have to see it this way. It’s simply the way many have come to see it. A…nuance, I’d say, not a problem…is that when the desires of the masses correspond to the desires of the elite, no one notices the disparity of motives. Our largest current influx is employers willing to fund the service for employees who wanted it in lieu of legal liability. It was written into their contracts. Instead of arbitration, the offense is erased by mutual consent, and thus settled out of court. When microtraumas are catalogued and litigated, it’s simply the most cost-effective way. Imagine, one day, being able to pluck individual memories from the mind like we pluck a hair from the head - a single, isolated memory that we would be better without. Sorry, I see from the glint in your eye I’ve stepped back on my soapbox. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m very passionate about this. It’s my life’s work. It saved me as well, after all. I don’t mean to be controversial of course. This is just history. If you’ll walk with me into the next room, I’ll show you where you would undergo the procedure. Here it is. The room will be redesigned to your specifications for your comfort. You’ll want to bring keepsakes and pictures tied to healthy memories on which you will concentrate when you awaken. But I can show you the equipment, nonetheless. This is the chair. Where was I? The lawsuits. Yes. Like a swarm of wasps. That then required some flexibility to prevent it all from shutting down. That’s when the billionaires turned from space exploration to memory. Facebook produced “Nevermind” and Alibaba, “Wangji.” And of course, that quickly led to government regulation. Of course, the federal government had been using the process for a decade before the public was even aware of its existence. In addition to trauma resolution, it served a remarkable role in counterterrorism. The most notable success was a captured operative whose memories of his training they distorted. He awakened to find himself in a penthouse with full maid service, surrounded by apparent CIA staff who told him that he was one of them. They needed everything he had picked up on a tour of duty, and they told him - see the irony here - that the enemy had wiped parts of his memory. What could he recall nonetheless? Quite a good deal, it turned out. Enough. And that’s actually how we got bin Laden. It’s true. The details will never be released in our lifetimes, and I cannot substantiate it for you as anything more than hearsay, but that’s what happened. As I say, I hope for a day when the files are opened and the world can see the revolutionary value this service has provided. There was no inhibition to its use behind the scenes after that. This was to be the way of the future, the way of a new world order. We have no idea how many people the military put through it, or how many variations of its use they’ve explored. Yes, we’re a private company. You ask that because…? Yes, it began as a military operation, but…. Sorry, I’m not sure. I see what you’re asking, yes. Somewhere along the lines our privacy was ensured, though, so governmental regulation didn’t result in government control. I’m…a bit fuzzy on that one. Funny…. Anyway, it’s completely private now. The government wasn’t seeking to limit it; I guess that explains it. To make the service widely available required widespread manipulation of mRNA, achieving preparation in subjects prior to the necessity of the procedure. Someone who is brought in after a car accident who has already received mRNA transference by injection is easily treated before they even regain consciousness, presuming the necessary waivers have been processed. While the patient recuperates, NeuroNon simply isolates specific neurons and creates our mental white noise around the timeframe of the accident. The patient awakens undisturbed, good as new. Of course we can’t ethically prevent them from insisting upon it. If someone doesn’t wish to awaken traumatized, who are we to insist that they must?

That’s how the mRNA injections came to be so widely distributed. Californians voted for it and Texans mandated it. It enjoyed more support than any legislation since we eliminated Daylight Savings Time. Nearly the entire public is ready to walk in at any moment and be cleansed. I’ve gone on too long now. I’m sure you have questions. Yes? Correct, we are a private company, free from federal interference. Yes, they support our work. Financially as well, yes. No, your records are kept private. How? Well…I’m sorry, ask me again? Sorry, perhaps I can review our records on that matter in my office. Rest assured, it’s secure. So, during the procedure, you would sit in this chair. Because neurological stimulation can provoke kinetic responses, we do strap you to the chair. Wouldn’t want fingers flying around when there’s direct access to the wetware, would we? The wall in front of you is completely digital, and through it we would run either self-produced video images or stock footage of your choosing, something pleasant and tied to a context of the most happy moments of your life. You can bring tactile and olfactory tokens with you - plush toys, a loved one’s shirt. One gentleman simply brought a slice of pecan pie of his grandmother’s recipe. Whatever you want. Would you like to sit down in the chair to see how it feels? There you go. It’s comfortable, isn’t it? Just a preface to the comfort you will have once the baggage of a lifetime is buried in warm, mental sunlight. The process is basically guaranteed. If anything were to go wrong, we could simply repeat the process and hide even your memory of being here. We could do it again and again, and you would never remember it. Funny, isn’t it? So, are you ready to begin?"


“I’ve got a plan.” Declared King Victor, as he entered the castle’s planning room to find his top soldiers stood around their war table. The human King pushed aside two of the soldiers to see the figures on the map. Small wooden columns of green, red, and blue colour were littered about a geographically inaccurate map of the Kingdom.

“What would that plan be, sir?” The soldier’s captain asked. King Victor moved the blue pieces, which represented the soldiers of his kingdom, into a formation resembling an arrowhead. The green pieces, which represented the elves, were all arranged in a single straight line to the west, while the red ones were scattered about the board randomly. “We form our units like this. With the way the elves are positioned, we should have no problem cutting through their army.” The King smiled, confident that his plan was unbeatable. “Then we have our orc allies in red come from behind. While we are piercing through the elven line, they will adopt a position like this,” King Victor moved the green pieces to surround the arrow formation he had made with his blue pieces. “And that will allow the orcs to move up here, and then the elves will be crushed between us.” “An excellent plan, my King. May the gods be with us in this battle.” The soldiers around the table agreed that this was a great plan and was not likely to be beat by their elven enemies. In lands East of Victor’s Kingdom, was a nearly identical castle, with a nearly identical room, with a nearly identical table. The soldiers in this room had slender builds and long ears, and beardless faces with hair that reached the waists and hips of some of the men. They wore little armour, opting for clothing that would allow them swifter movement rather than greater protection. In the Kingdom of Elves, a man in a fine green cape entered the war room. “I’ve got a plan.” He declared to the men gathered around the war table. It had a map of the area, identical to the one King Victor had, but with green, white, and black pieces, in similar positions as what was shown on Victor’s table. “My king!” Declared the tallest soldier in the room. All others quickly turned to kneel before their king, before rising at his request. The elven King Valareth approached the table to demonstrate his plan.

“I have no doubt the humans will try to break through our formation. They should form their soldiers something like this,” King Valareth created an arrowhead formation with the white pieces. “And they will advance on our position like this, attempting to pierce through our line.” King Valareth moved his pieces identically to King Victor’s demonstration. “Unknown to them, this will allow us to swarm around their formation and cut into their forces. If the orcs come up from behind us, we will sound the horn that will call upon our dragon friend Galthazar to help us. Though Galthazar is opposed to hurting humans, he will have no problem incinerating the orcs, allowing us to continue our attack.” “What an excellent plan, my king!” The tall soldier declared. “And those humans are sure to flee if they see Galthazar approach! At the very least, I think they will be demoralized and won’t fight at their full strength.” There was no end to the admiration the tall soldier held for his King’s strategic brilliance, though it may also have stemmed from his risk of imprisonment should he fail to adequately worship his king. “Soon, the human kingdom will be ours.” King Valareth had the utmost confidence in his undefeatable plan. He had yet to lose a battle against the humans, and he would not let this be the first time. Elsewhere in the lands, the opening of a canvas tent was forced open by a tall, muscular, and brutal man. If there was a way to violently enter a room, the orc King Varaz would do so every time. Within this tent was a war table, with several chess pieces atop it. The pieces were composed of black stone, pale crystal, and oak wood, each taken from a different chess set. The wooden pieces were scattered around the place, while the black pieces were set in a line in the east, and the crystal pieces arranged as a loose clump on the west. Only the

“I’ve got a plan.” The cockney accent and guttural voice of King Varaz silenced his soldiers' discussion. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” Asked the one-eyed orc in the room. It seemed the scar over his blind eye was ready to reopen into a wound whenever frustrated, and after discussing this matter for longer than his patience allowed, he looked as though he was on the verge of bleeding. “The humans are going to approach the elves with an arrow’ead formation.” King Varaz approached the table and arranged the pieces accordingly. “This means that, when the humans approach, the elves will come at them from the sides of the arrow’ead. The humans want us to come in from behind to put the elves between us and the humans, making it an easy slaughter for us. But the elves ‘ad a dragon that they were sure to use, which is why I sent Karnesh’s team to kill the big bloody beast in its sleep two weeks ago. The elves will sound their ‘orn or cast their magic or whatever it is they do to summon the dragon, but it won’t work. This is going to make them panic, get flustered, and make them easier for us to kill. At the same time, the humans might be worried about what’s going on and they’ll panic too, but less so than the elves. Regardless of whether the elves or humans win, the survivors will be easy pickings for us. While all that’s ‘appening, we’re going to have siege teams attack each castle. We’ve kept most of our camps ‘idden from the humans and the elves, so they ‘ave no way to predict ‘ow many of us there actually are out there. The siege teams will attack each castle and bring back both kings alive, and we shall sacrifice them to our Lord of War, Dalbolg, to earn his blessing.” “Wow.” The one-eyed orc was stunned. “I’m impressed, Varaz. I never thought we’d make it this far in the war. When you said we’d ally with the humans I thought it was you were a fool, but you’ve been playing everyone like a war drum.” He knew Varaz was a planning type, but he never thought he’d see this level of tactical genius from him. “Dalbolg has blessed me with a gift of strategy. We must continue to do good by him so that our future generations will live without fear of any elf, human, or dwarf. It’s us orcs who are meant to rule these lands.” King Varaz scratched his bald head. “Declare this strategy to everyone who will be involved in the attack.” After a few days had passed, the time for action had come. The human army formed themselves as planned and marched towards the elves. The hearts of soldiers from each army raced, waiting to see who’s gambit would defeat all the other parties and emerge victorious. Of course, the humans were certain of their victory, and the elves were sure of their own victory as well. The orcs were more than certain. They knew that their victory was absolute . King Varaz had planned in such a way that the other forces couldn’t have possibly predicted, and even if they improvised well enough, Varaz could twist any setback to his favour. The humans and elves never stood a chance. It was quite fitting that they were represented only by pawns on the orc’s war table. The humans soon met the elves. A human commander tried to shout out, offering the elves one last chance to back down, but the elves ignored it as if they couldn’t hear the man, and to move any closer would invite battle. Seemingly devoid of other options, the human army charged forward, piercing through the line arrangement the elves had established. But the elves had accounted for this in their plan, and swarmed around the sides of the human formation to cut away at them from the outside. This prompted an onlooking group of orcs to give the signal to their army, letting them know it was time to join the fray. The orcs came in and enveloped the elves. The elves were now sandwiched between orcs and humans, prompting the elven commander to retrieve his horn. He blew it, alarming the human army, but nothing else happened. He blew the horn again. Nothing. He blew once more, and again and again, frantic and desperate for his unbeatable dragon ally to show up. The blowing sporadically overpowered the clanking of metal and yelling of insults between the armies, until eventually an arrow flew through through the elven commander’s horn and ripped through his mouth. The elven commander fell from his horse, staring at the broken horn before him and wondering where the dragon went. The elves' morale fell just as their commander did. Although they kept fighting strong shortly after their commander was killed, over 10 minutes had passed without the faintest sign of the dragon Galthazar. The elves were losing hope, fearing that the worst had happened to their dragon friend before they even knew. In a moment, the whole of their army lost faith in their king and his strategy. They could hardly believe that their undefeated king was finally defeated, and felt worse knowing he was defeated by humans. With many thoughts racing through the minds of the elven soldiers they could hardly keep up with the fighting that surrounded them, and in short order they had all been slain. Elated by their apparent victory, the humans began to celebrate and cheer until the orcs came trampling over the field of corpses to approach. The humans at first had assumed the orcs wanted to celebrate with them, but the orcs still held their weapons and did not bear expressions of friendship or elation, but instead had the same hostile look they had during the fight. Their faces had not shifted since the battle began, as if the orcs thought they were still in battle. A human commander called out to them. “You need not look so angry, we just won! The elves will surely flee from our Kingdom now, and for your aid, we will-” The commander was interrupted when hit in the face with a rock thrown from an orc’s sling. Several other orcs pelted their human enemies with rocks from the slings they carried, and the remaining humans realized what was happening. The orcs formed a circle around the human army, and with them surrounded on all possible sides by enemies, escape wasn’t an option for them. As the orcs drew closer, they used their swords and axes to hack and slash at the human forces, and eventually, they were as defeated as the elves. Just as King Varaz had planned. The siege of the human and elven castles was unexpected by both King Victor and King Valareth. Both castles were far enough apart that neither could plead desperately with the other for aid. The orcs began their attack by firing upon each castle with a barrage from their mobile trebuchets, and once the walls had been beaten down and the enemy forces were scrambling to form a strategy, the orc soldiers abandoned their trebuchets and marched on foot to meet their enemies. Many of the elven and human soldiers were away from their castles for the earlier attack, and neither group had counted on there being this many orcs within either side of the Kingdom. The soldiers that did remain at their castles fought as hard as they could, but ultimately, they too were defeated by the orcs. The orcs took King Victor and King Valareth, along with several elven and human soldiers, as prisoners to be sacrificed to their war god. The remains of both armies were kept in the dungeon below the human castle until the sacrificial altar had been erected. In the many days that they were confined to the dungeon below the human castle, Victor and Valareth found themselves able to make peace with each other, at least while they had a common foe. During one warm night, while the humans and elves were wrestling and squeezing out what little entertainment they could while imprisoned, King Victor spoke with King Valareth. “We need to get out of here,” he said. “And I’ve got a plan.”


My daddy was a lucky man. I know this because I saved special things to give him luck. Sometimes I found pretty stones or a penny when we went for a walk. Once I found a four-leaf clover. I always went to old Mrs. Pike’s house next door after school because Mom worked until late. She showed me how to press the leaf between the pages of a book until it was dry and pretty. We glued it onto a card which I decorated with glitter and magic marker for Daddy. I showed it proudly to Mom when she came to get me, still wearing her waitress top, her face pale and drawn with fatigue. “Very nice, baby,” she said. “Now, if we only knew where he was, we could mail it to him.” Crestfallen, I put the card down. Mrs. Pike quickly interceded. “Keep it in a safe place, Kerry, and you can give it to him next time he comes,” she said. "I'm sure he'll show up soon." “But he’s always so busy doing important work,” I said. “He told me so. He has to travel a lot. That’s why he sends the postcards.” I had a treasured collection of postcards which he'd sent me, carefully glued into an album, from New York, Los Angeles, Arizona, even one from Paris, the real Paris in France. Mrs. Pike and I had had fun looking up where that was. My mother wearily pushed her hair back from her face. “It would be nice if he was as quick to send the support checks,” she said dryly, then bit off whatever else she was about to say as Mrs. Pike gave a warning cough. “You’re exhausted, Leila. Sit down and have a quick cup of tea before you go home.” Mom plopped down in a chair and rested her head in her hands. “You’re a gem, Mrs. P,” she said gratefully as Mrs. Pike returned with the tea and some cookies. “I’m sorry I was late paying you last week. I got a puncture and had to buy a new tire. Always something.” “Don’t worry about it,” said Mrs. Pike. “Ms. Kerry here has been a big help. We did laundry together and she washed all the windows she could reach. Now, Kerry, don’t be like a squirrel and forget where you put the card before your daddy next visits.” I giggled. Daddy did have a way of disappearing for long periods and then showing up when least expected. Sure enough, the next week he arrived unannounced and pressed a large bundle of crisp notes into Mom’s hand as she opened the door. She grabbed it as if expecting him to change his mind, eyeing him suspiciously. “Where’d you get this? Dogs? Horses?” I wondered how you could get money from dogs and horses. That didn't make sense. One of those weird adult things. Daddy gave a wry grin as he escorted me out. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” he said. “I think luck rubbed off on me from that shiny white pebble that Kerry gave me last time. That’s all you need to know. I’ll have her back by six.” Both Mom and I gaped as we saw the shiny red convertible sitting in the driveway. “Mom, look,” I said, almost too excited to speak. “That is the most amazing car I have ever seen!” Mom shook her head. “I don’t want to know what you’ve been doing to get that, or who you’ve been working with. Just make sure she wears her seatbelt and mind the speed limit.” “Yes, ma’am,” said Daddy, opening the door for me. “I will drive like the safest little old lady you have ever seen.” It was a lovely spring day, so Daddy put the top down. I laughed with glee as my hair whipped in the wind. “What do you want to do today, princess?” he said. I never hesitated when he asked me this. There was a park in town with a renovated antique carousel. I loved riding on the gaudy, prancing horses. “The carousel, and then the row boats and then pizza for lunch and ice cream after. Mom doesn’t let me have it ‘cos it’s not healthy and…” “Whoa, steady on,” he said, laughing. “Your wish is my command, but one thing at a time.” Suddenly something occurred to me. “Daddy, can we go home quick? I forgot your card with the lucky four-leaf clover that I made for you.” “We don’t have time, sweetheart. Give it to me when I take you home.” We had a wonderful day. Daddy’s car drew admiring glances wherever we went. I felt very important when we went for lunch in an Italian restaurant and the owner greeted Daddy like an old friend. I was allowed to sit at the bar next to him. The bartender asked Daddy what he wanted. “I’ve got special cargo today, so no drinking and driving for me,” he said. “Make it two Cokes.” The bartender nodded approvingly and gravely put a little umbrella and a cherry in mine, which made me laugh. It was so sweet it made my teeth hurt, but I was determined to finish it because Mom would never let me have soda. I sipped on it so slowly that the ice melted. Replete with pizza and ice cream, I sighed happily. On the way home, though, my stomach began to swirl and lurch. I pressed my lips together and tried to take deep breaths through my nose. I could not, would not throw up in Daddy’s new car. When he parked at the house, I shot out of the car, raced past Mom who had come out to meet us and made it to the bathroom just in time. When she entered, I was washing my face with cold water. “He overloaded you with junk food as usual, I see,” she said with a sigh, gathering me to her for a hug. Feeling slightly better, I hugged her back, then remembered. “I have to find the card I made for him,” I said. “I need to give it to him. It’s his lucky four-leaf clover.” “He’s gone, baby. He said to tell you he's sorry, but he couldn't wait,” she said. “He had to talk to a man about some business.” I felt tears welling. “But I didn’t give him anything,” I said, frantic. “I know where I put the card. Now he won’t have good luck.” “Your father’s always made his own luck, or so he thinks,” she said. “It’s nice of you to give him lucky charms, but his luck will depend on the choices he makes." I must have looked puzzled because she squeezed my hand reassuringly. "Don't fret. When you’re older, I’ll explain it better. But so far he’s landed on his feet every time. Just like a cat.” A week later, Mom and I were awoken by a loud knocking at the door in the middle of the night. I heard Mom scrambling around to get dressed and peered through the stair rail as she opened the front door. I could just make out two police officers in the weak light of the porch. “Mrs. Donovan? May we come in? I am afraid we have some bad news.” It was a nightmare after that, with fragments of words floating up to me. “…car accident…possible sabotage, no, not a chance, dead at the scene…any recent disputes…criminal associates...” I pressed my head against the railing, tasting the salt of the tears trickling down my face. I knew it. Daddy never got his four-leaf clover and he hadn't landed like a cat after all.


‘This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives…’ Benny said this in a low tone as she was cleaning the blood stained card. You can only hope for a better tomorrow. You never can tell what it brings. Your only consolation is that your future is in the hand of the Almighty who controls tomorrow. Benny was still holding the wedding card when Melford stepped out of the toilet attached to their three bedroom flat, on the 4th floor of one of the high rising buildings in Ajayi Estate, Ogba Lagos. ‘This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives, God.’ She muted the same words again.

 “What did you say?” Asked the husband. She threw the blood stained card at him and made moves to leave the bed room. On the card were lying flat two giant mosquitoes which met their waterloo after an adventure on Friday night. With well fitted mosquito nets in their room those mosquitoes still found their ways through.  “Whose blood is this?” Melford the man of the house asked Benny after blocking her at the door and throwing the card at her feet.

‘It is not about whose blood but rather, how the blood got there?’ By now the husband knew that trouble was brewing. She picked the card from the floor and headed towards the balcony crossing their sitting room, their kitchen. Bishop Melford followed. As Benny was sitting down, her husband cited another chair close by, drew it nearer and sat, still gazing at the wedding card. “Oh that! I’m happy I was involved in that wedding. It was a talk of the town.” ‘Really…?’ The wife countered. The previous Saturday was the first wedding ceremony in Christ Holy Church after the Corona Virus Pandemic in Nigeria. The counseling session took three weeks, sometime in October, as the practice of the church was. Three major tests were required, Pregnancy, HIV and Genotype tests.

‘Free at last from the ordeals!” Angelina said. Having a societal wedding is the dream of every lady. A wedding where cream De La cream would be present to grace the occasion. Everything was pre-arranged and contracted out. That was exactly what she got. It took two trucks to evacuate their gifts from the venue of the Reception. Angelina, full of expectation and apprehension was caught gazing into the thin air. ‘It’s your wedding day.’ Agatha her chief bride’s maid reminded her.

“Thank you, my dear, I’m just thinking, how the whole thing was going to end.” ‘End or begin?’ Agatha queried. She changed the topic and ordered for a snap shot with two of her siblings. First night in the palace as a wife! The expectation was very high, the level of acceptability was huge. The first son of a Crown Prince, the second marriage ceremony into the palace, after the Crown Prince’s. All the gifts were moved into a newly constructed duplex of about five rooms. It was a special gift from the King to a Grandson. Benny, now charged, took a long gaze at her husband and said; “This is a real mess…..” The words were still coming out from Benny’s mouth when they heard an explosion behind the door. With that heavy sound and vibrations everywhere, without thinking of his wife Benny standing beside him, the Bishop jumped for ‘safety’ from the balcony of a five storey building to the ground. ‘Help!’ the wife shouted. It was a Saturday morning in Lagos, Nigeria, every one supposed to be resting after a very hectic week. Mrs. Melford had heard the story of the Stinky Wedding already but needed her husband to collaborate or deny. This was a good opportunity for her to get the details, if not for the explosion, the heavy smoke and her husband’s adventure to ‘safety.’ The fire fighters were being awaited. Fire was everywhere in the apartment. Benny could not enter their room neither could she jump like her husband did. She could hear the wailing from the people who saw the husband spreading large in midair. The smoke was filling the entire building when the elevator machine was set. Gasping for air, Benny, grasping the belts and carefully, she was rescued. When she woke up in the hospital she requested to know if the husband was safe, nobody answered her a word. It was on her second time of asking that Bishop Melford gently held her hand from behind and whispered, “Thank God we are safe. It was the mattress they were taking delivery of that saved the day and my life. I landed on the foams and I later learnt the people brought me to the clinic. Doctors have confirmed I am safe and sound.” Later that evening they were both discharged and back to their home. The previous Saturday Cletus had a major achievement of his life. He walked down the aisle, the girl he loved and desired most the whole of his life. It was a societal wedding and the Crown Prince, his father, had made every arrangement for the consummation of their marriage in Dubai (United Arab Emirate). They went through a very successful counseling session with Bishop Melford the presiding Bishop of the church and his team of pastors where both Cletus and his betrothed wife, Angelina, worship. The entire congregation was happy for their union. It was 10:00pm on the dot that Saturday. The guests were dispersed and shortly Angelina’s phone rang. It was the voice of Bishop, sounding with an air of authority from the other end; “Keep calm, my daughter, be yourself for everything will be fine.” ‘Yes, my lord!’ She responded nervously and looking at Cletus’ direction. As soon as the call ended, the officiating pastor’s sermon earlier in the day re-vibrated in her ears: “…And the two were both naked and they were not ashamed” (Gen. 2:25). Cletus was naked in every way in this journey but Angelina was not. She moved a step backward from Cletus and said: “Clet; I have something important I want us to discuss.” What can be more important than a couple being together in their matrimonial home for the first night after wedding? This was the day, the night they all hoped and worked for all these days. Free at last from unnecessary parental controls. Now they have their lives to live, a future to build together, they had everything figured out. The Dubai trip was slated for Monday. ‘Angel; today is my wedding day!’ Cletus softly uttered those words as he was heading for her lips. “Wait, very seriously, we have known ourselves for some time now, have I ever been this serious?” She re-emphasized. Well a husband should listen to his spouse and give a rapt attention if that was what she desired first. As Cletus just finished saying; ‘I’m all ears…,’ then the big one happened:  “Clet; I’m pregnant!” A newlywed should be pregnant with hope, expectation, ideas and love. Cletus, by his nature, had never been a humorous individual although he enjoyed jokes thrown around by those he cherished. ‘What! Are you joking or something?’  By the palace discipline and his faith they are supposed to keep their matrimonial bed undefiled until they tie the knots. ‘Wait a minute, are you pregnant of hope, ideas, love or what?’  “It was the Bishop’s advice.” She continued. “I confided in him that ‘my conscience will forever judge me if I kept this secret from Cletus.’ That was immediately I missed by period. I’m now five weeks pregnant! I never wanted to lie to him. I told him it was Appolos his son who was responsible.” Cletus could not believe his ears. ‘I’m listening.’ “It was one of the days Amanda was rushed to the hospital. Five weeks after the birth of their second child. The time you requested I should assist in staying with their first son at their home. I was there for three days. The first two days I was alone with Paul, their seventeen months old boy. The third day Appolos came home in the night from the hospital. He reminded me of how I turned down his marriage proposal without any cogent reason. He pleaded and pleaded that the only gift he wanted from me was to allow him make love to me. I resisted vehemently. I stood my ground until it was late into the night when everybody had slept. He pleaded on his knees and I vowed that first thing in the morning I was going to leave his house. I promised reporting him to Bishop his father, upon this he held I tightly, shook me to my marrow and……….. You remember I told you of his overtures?” ‘You mean Appolos my senior sister’s husband?’ Before he could secure an answer from Angelina, he left the bedroom. He was heard banging everything that could make any sound around. His head was hot and his body was wet. His legs were wobbling. Right in his inner self, a voice was very strong; “thou shall not kill.” He rushed back to the bedroom;  ‘Angelina, can you answer this one question, just one? Up until the night of this ignoble incident, were you still a virgin?’ As the word “No” was coming out of her mouth, another question followed; ‘How many times did you sleep with Appolos?’ There was no more patience to wait for the answer; he left the room, straight to his father’s door. The Crown Prince woke up not knowing the direction of his door except that he could hear unmistakably the voice of his adorable son.  “Is all well, my son?” ‘All cannot be well, Dad? In fact I don’t know what to think right now Dad…..’  “Calm down son.” He said after holding his right hand and heading back to one of the cushions in his sitting room. “This is an abomination.” The Prince said, looking for what object to hold tight: “This has never been heard of, what happens to the palace? What happens to the church? Why did Bishop conceal everything? Why did he not cancel the wedding?” Cletus busted into tears and; filled at the same time with anger, he cut off the necklace that has become his trademark. He threw it at no object in view. He never bothered what Angelina might have been going through all alone, upstairs right now.  ‘Dad,’ he finally opened his mouth. ‘I need a place to think.’ Not knowing exactly where he was going, except that his wallet and all his travelling documents were intact with him. Going to a friend’s house was out of question. He checked into a hotel, a few kilometres from the palace, switched off his phones and forced a sleep that never showed up. The whole of that Sunday he was his own companion. Right in the church, on Sunday morning, everything went on smoothly although they expected Cletus and his wife to be present. Everywhere was quite like a battalion of rats that swallowed poison. As a young man, your desire in life is to have a wife who can help you built a home. Whether marriage is an achievement or not, Cletus was thankful to God that at last he had a successful wedding, or so he thought. Having come from a well to do family, a son of a Crown Prince with a business empire spread across Africa, he was happy that his first visit to Dubai was going to be with his spouse on a honey moon. All these are now in abeyance. ‘Suite UFC 6!’ He kept reminding himself of the hotel room in the United Arab Emirate (UAE), booked for one week. ‘What next, Cletus?’ He muted to himself. Few hours into Monday as the plane was touching down he switched on his phones and as the phones were booting, he whispered to himself again, ‘Cletus, Dubai here you come.’ Everything on his phone was different. No network, the time zone was at variance. He noticed too that everything about his life was different. This was the first time ever he was traveling out without a bag, spare cloth, everything. He choose to make necessary and a surprise contact but first, with his father back here in Nigeria. The line was not going through. The whole of Sunday neither Cletus nor his wife Angelina was cited anywhere in the palace. The father headed for their apartment at least to say a word as a father. No sound! His phone rang showing a foreign number, “hello, who is it?” As he heard; ‘Dad, it’s Cletus,’ the phone dropped from his hand. When he picked it up, it had gone mute. He went close to the door and knocked, expecting a response from within but none. The phone rang the second time, ‘Dad, I’m in Dubai!’ He knew immediate that Angelina was not with him. The news filtered in the following Friday night and Bishop’s wife having made the necessary contacts throughout that Friday night and very early on Saturday morning, charged at her husband demanding for an urgent explanation. Saturday evening, back from the hospital, Bishop knew a family crisis was looming: ‘How dare you mislead this boy and this girl? Why did you not tell them the truth and shame the devil? Why deceiving the church?’ “My dear, I was afraid for our home, our Ministry and our son.” ‘Hey!’ She charged again, ‘leave Appolos out of this!’ “No, my dear, Appolos is all of this.” Douglas the Crown Prince kept knocking; hoping Angelina would show up. “Quick! Bring this door down now!” He ordered. On getting to the sitting room, Angelina’s legs were dangling in the air, with her neck stocked in Cletus’ belts. “They are dead!” the Prince exclaimed. Only he understood that. The next challenge was who to talk to. Could it be the Bishop, the police or Mr. Cletus? “I did this to ensure the coast is clear, signed: Angelina”. Monday night Cletus attempted calling his father again, still everywhere was mute. Feeling very much uncomfortable he decided to end his stay in Dubai. At that point his phone rang, it was his father. “My son…..” On getting to the lobby of the terminal, back in Nigeria Tuesday evening, his friend, Mella, certainly sure that Cletus had heard everything met him and said, “I’m so sorry that all these are happening to you right now…” He dashed to the hospital Ward from where he was referred to the mortuary. He stood there holding one of the pillars in confusion. Bishop Melford, not knowing who to avoid in all these, left the house early Sunday morning, eight days after the wedding for his church. The rampaging youth wing of the church had locked the church against everybody. Tension was high. The members had scattered. The fear of facing the council members at the Headquarters kept tormenting him. He chose the best alternative for himself. He decided to send a letter to explain his position and to ask for forgiveness. By then it was too late.


I, Rebecca Rand, being of sound mind and of my own free will do not – well, make a will. I’ve already done that, though I hope to be hanging around making a pest of myself for several decades yet and I really ought to change that bequest to the Donkey Sanctuary, seeing as it closed two years ago. I’ll get around to it.      But this is about resolutions. Okay, a bit late, but there’s still a lot of year left. And this morning, Amelia asked me, “Have you made any New Year Revolutions, Auntie Becks?”

     I corrected her on the “Revolutions” business, though I quite like the idea of riding down the High Street on a motorbike waving a red flag, but I’ve learnt to live with Auntie Becks. Okay, I quite like it.

     Well, here goes. 1.  I will do Dry January. Steve in the Supermarket meant well when he greeted me with a broad grin and said, “We’ve got your favourite red on offer, Rebecca!” but there are situations when you feel people’s eyes on you even if they’re not. Admittedly I wouldn’t have been quite as pleased to hear, “We’ve got your favourite mineral water on offer” but perhaps it’s an acquired taste. But wait. It could be said I’ve broken that one before I’ve even made it and not just that Cava at Bernie’s party on New Year’s Eve. Very nice it was, too, if it could have done with being a bit colder. And I did have that horrible cold and I don’t care what anyone says, a nip of brandy is better than all that cough linctus, and anyway, doesn’t that have codeine in it, so it’s probably even worse for you? Anyway, it’s Lisa’s 50 th  on the 29 th  and I don’t care what anyone says, the studied Dry January person at a birthday party is a pain in the backside. I mean, someone that doesn’t drink at all is another matter, all respect to them. But I’ve never been one for virtue-signalling. So okay, let’s move on to …. 2. I will stop spending so much money on magazines. It sort of sneaked up on me, and I wonder if I’m protesting too much when I say I much prefer a good book. I always used to. Anyway, they’re starting to annoy me. I know it sounds mean and I’m not proud of myself, but I sometimes think I’m going to scream if I read about another heroic fund-raising child, or about someone who was taken in by a fraudster (and yes, sometimes I think, the silly woman should have seen a mile off that he was trouble!) and as for the illness and injury stories – well, I’ve always been squeamish and that one about the chainsaw and the chin – I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s given me nightmares, but I suspect sometimes I’ve woken up just in time. As for those so-called quick and easy recipes, don’t get me started, as they’re neither.  And if I see one more so-called tip telling me you can shift any stain with toothpaste and/or vinegar then I won’t be responsible for myself. But hang on. In November I won £50 on one of the crosswords. Okay, it’s not like the £3003 prize (something about that extra 3 quid that makes it all the more appealing) on the bumper what connects the celebrities one, but it came in very handy. And that anti-wrinkle cream I found in the Bargain Beauty section – well, I’m not deluded enough to think it makes me look like a teenager, but I swear some of the laughter lines seem to be finding life a bit less funny. I might cut back on them a BIT, but they have their uses. It’s not wasted money. How about….. 3. Now some folk say you should make positive resolutions, not negative ones. The thou shalts  rather than the thou shalt nots . Whilst I think positive thinking can definitely be over-rated, that has possibilities. The trouble is, I don’t think that I will eat more chocolate digestives  or I will watch more soaps  quite count. So how about being nicer to Marjorie? Or fair enough, nicer ABOUT Marjorie. I’m polite enough to her face. Well, most of the time. And of course she has a right to be proud about how well her children have done. I have this nasty suspicion that she may just be one of the few people whose Christmas round robin would be, substantially, true. Except she didn’t write one, and made a point of observing how irritating she found them and how she would never do such a thing. Up until then the thought of doing one had never entered my mind, but suddenly it seemed rather appealing. Or it would have done if I had a life like Marjorie’s. That’s the trouble with Marjorie. She makes you want to do things – okay, she makes ME want to do things – just because she disapproves of them. Like eating chocolate digestives over my computer keyboard. She’s actually totally in the right about that, and even more so about the coffee. And she DID cover for me without saying a word when I had that cold, even though she’s the kind of person who would come in if she had one of those illnesses in the magazines, which she thinks are a waste of money. And she’s had some subtle little digs at my drinking, too. I tell myself it was pure coincidence that the newspaper (she allows herself a newspaper) was open at the page with the article about how amazing some celebrity whose name I’ve forgotten (or am trying to) felt after giving up the booze. Oh, nothing shock horror, all about the positive, not the negative. Typical Marjorie. AND she’s a hypocrite. Teresa reckons she’s seen her shift a bottle of amontillado without batting an eyelid, okay, without slurring a word. But that could be hearsay. All the same, I know my limitations and know that there’s no way that the thought sanctimonious old biddy  won’t enter my mind at some point this year, indeed, at some point this month, so no point to making a resolution I can’t keep. 4. I will declutter. Now let’s get this straight, no matter what CERTAIN PERSONS might say, I most definitely not a hoarder. Look in my house and you will never see a newspaper more than one day out of date (I even end up accidentally throwing away those I keep on significant dates under the probably misconception that one day they will earn me a fortune. Nor will you see one empty baked bean tin (fair enough, I don’t like baked beans, so make that empty tomato tin) or one rusting aerosol. All of my rooms are utterly accessible (well, usually) without piles of clothes or rotting duvets or inhabited cushions. But I’ve never been what you might call a minimalist. Funnily enough, this is one area where Marjorie and I are in a form of half-agreement. I caught her glancing at one of my magazines a couple of weeks back and it was one of those “makeover” articles (which might well be another reason for not buying so many of them as they only annoy me, but I’ve moved on from that now!) and she said, “Well, I couldn’t live in a place like that,” pointing at the “after” photograph. “Way too clinical. It needed a tidy-up, I’ll grant you, but throwing out that lovely bunch of artificial flowers and those corn dollies and that rug was a crying shame.” True, Marjorie likes what she calls “nice things” and I tend to refer to “stuff” and her “nice things” are considerably tidier and dusted more often than my “stuff” but we still have at least this in common. Sort of. It probably wasn’t a good idea to tell so many people that I collected pig ornaments, but I bought at least as many myself as I’ve been given. And I suppose that the floor isn’t really the place for books, but what else could I do when the bookshelves were full? Maybe I was a tad over-ambitious in getting quite so many various “kits” in that “kit” phase I had a year or so ago and should pass them on to a good cause and so, directly or indirectly, to someone who’ll make more use of them. But I’ve never been a quitter (well, I have, but my decision not to do Dry January proves it’s not in my nature) so who knows? I may well get round to wanting home made bread or home made yoghurt, or to make my own rag rug (Marjorie was right, the one in the “before” picture did look lovely) and then how would I feel thinking that I’d given away the means of making them? As for that old carpet sweeper, well, what could be more embarrassing than having company coming round and the vacuum cleaner deciding it’s packed in? Always as well to have a standby. You can never have too many coffee mugs, can you? They get broken so easily, though of course when it’s just the handle, they can be ideal for putting seeds in (now where DID I put those packets of seeds I picked up last year thinking it was high time I grew something of my own? I think they might be in the airing cupboard, under the spare bedding set I picked up when it was on offer, so they shouldn’t be damp. I’ll have to look them out). Anyway, buying a mug is one of the cheapest and most useful kinds of retail therapy, isn’t it? A couple of quid, less in a charity shop, and then there’s one with a cute little pug dog, and one with a picture of Windsor castle, and one commemorating the 2008 town Marathon. An alien happening to land here could do worse than look at a collection of mugs in a charity shop to get a picture of life on earth in all its rich variety. Perhaps I should at least explore the darkest recesses of my wardrobe, though I know I will not step into a world of fauns and talking lions but discover clothes that I have not worn for the last 5 years because (go on, spit it out get it over with) they don’t fit me. And aren’t they supposed to be top of the declutter list? But wait – no way …… 5. I will lose some weight. Now I’m the first to admit that this isn’t the most original of New Year’s Resolutions and that I have made it before and that not much has come of it. No way on this earth do I want to end up with the emaciated stick insect look, and it gets totally on my – well, let’s just say, a flabby part of my anatomy, not that there are many that aren’t! – that perfectly normal, average women with curves exactly where they’re supposed to be are referred to as “Plus Size”. Why not call the Skinny Minnies “Minus Size”? Only fair, isn’t it? But much as elasticated waist trousers are a wonderful thing, perhaps it would be nice to have an odd pair that isn’t. And there are all those warnings (those ruddy magazines again!) about the particular dangers of an apple-shaped figure. But though I know you’re never supposed to put the blame on genetics, that my Mum has an apple shaped figure, my Grandma (who is the healthiest nonagenarian that I know!) has an apple-shaped figure, and though it’s hard to tell with the clothes of the time, it looks on old photos as if my great grandmother and great aunts all have apple-shaped figures. I have this nasty feeling that if I were otherwise the epitome of skeletal, I would still have a belly that resembled a granny smith with blusher on. And I never wore a bikini in my 20s so I certainly don’t intend starting now! I might at least put it on the back burner. BACK burner, not fat burner! After all, it’s Amelia’s birthday next month, and I’m highly honoured in being asked to the party, and what on earth is she going to say if Auntie Becks doesn’t appreciate the birthday cake and the chocolate brownies (I hope her Mum makes chocolate brownies – if there’s a heaven without my sister-in-law Susan’s chocolate brownies, I’m not sure if I’d be interested in going there!). Easter is quite early this year, too, and though I know it’s wholly unscientific, chocolate DOES taste better when it comes shaped like an egg. Perhaps I’ll at least try to make a few nods in the direction of healthier eating. I could probably endure an odd plate of steamed veg with the thought of a chocolate mousse or an apple Muller Rice afterwards. The latter almost counts as one of your five a day, doesn’t it? Well, doesn’t it? 6. I will exercise more. Now perhaps I’m beating myself up too much about this! I hardly live a sedentary lifestyle, do I? I walk into work at least half the time (and when I take the short cut through the industrial estate, where some of the paths aren’t brilliant, that makes it count as more rigorous, I’m sure) and always use the lift instead of the stairs. The fact that the office is only a 2 storey building and we only had the lift installed in the first place to be more disabled-friendly is neither here nor there, nor is the fact that I tend to be claustrophobic. And it’s hardly my fault I live in a bungalow, is it? Anyway, look what happened to Cathy when she joined the gym last year! Went into it all guns blazing (I’ve never quite worked out that phrase, I mean, guns don’t blaze, do they?) and full of enthusiasm and eager anticipation about all the zumba and circuit training and kettlercise (don’t ask, but let’s just say it doesn’t have much to do with making a cup of coffee) and Tai Chi, and what happened? She ended up on crutches for two months after breaking her ankle? I gather that she seriously considered phoning one of those claim management companies you see advertised in the intervals of the sort of TV I ought to make a resolution about giving up, to complain about them not de-icing the steps that led up to the Leisure Centre, but whether they told her she didn’t have a claim or whether she decided against it, to be frank, I don’t know. Okay, fair enough, she’s gone back to the gym afterwards, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, does it? So let nobody say that going to the gym is guaranteed to make you any fitter. 7. I will make an appointment with the solicitor to change my will and make a bequest to the Hedgehog Hospital …..


Sylvia woke up to the sound of her alarm. She got out of bed to turn it off. After getting dressed and having her coffee, she realized she had nothing to do. It was a Saturday, and she did not work on Saturdays.

Normally, on a typical Saturday, she would be doing something with her best friend Wanda. Whether it was going to the movies, walking their dogs, or visiting some random town not far away that they’d never been to, they were always doing things together.

Wanda had moved to another country a few months ago, though, and Sylvia was left all alone, not having been smart enough to make more than one friend in case something like this happened.

Today, Sylvia decided that instead of resorting to what had become her usual Saturday routine since Wanda moved away -- going to several different stores buying things she didn’t need, then coming home and binge-watching some random show with her cat -- she would do something. She decided that today, she would find herself at least one new friend.

                                                                   ~~~ Lora was up at 7:00 AM on what was a normal Saturday for her. After getting up, getting ready, feeding her hamster, her bird, and her bunny, she went outside and got into her old, red car and began to drive to the soup kitchen where she volunteered every weekend.

After helping out in the loud kitchen for a couple hours, she got back into her car and drove to the animal shelter where she volunteered twice a week.

She walked in carrying some towels, toys, and dog food she had bought earlier this week to donate for the dogs at the shelter. She fed the dogs, helped to bathe them, then went over to the cats and fed them and played with them before going home.

She came home with a smile on her face as she entered the small living room of her pastel-yellow house. Her smile faded as she turned her head towards the picture in the little blue and pink polka-dot frame that was standing on her coffee table. It was a picture of her with some of her friends a few summers ago, hiking in the Rocky Mountains. Lora had known those friends for a very long time - they weren’t around anymore, though. Two of her friends had moved to be closer to family; and one of her friends, the one who she probably knew the best, had died a year or two ago from an injury obtained from falling off a motorcycle.

Lora was sad, looking at the picture. If her friends were still here, they and Lora would all probably be going hiking, swimming, biking, or rock-climbing right now. They usually did stuff like that on the weekends. Not anymore, thought Lora.

She hadn’t really met any new friends since - at least not anyone who she actually enjoyed spending time with; she wished she would meet a person who she could be friends with.

She decided to go to the grocery store and buy some stuff she needed, but then she got another idea.

                                                                 ~~~ Sylvia was trying to come up with how she would find a friend. She wasn’t the best at this; she had known Wanda for a long time, which is why they were such good friends. Sylvia didn’t even have to befriend Wanda - they had known each other since they were little girls, when their moms arranged playdates for them. So, Sylvia had never even really had experience trying to make a new friend. But she knew she somehow had to.

Eventually, she decided she would write to all of her colleagues asking if maybe they wanted to do something today. What will I write? She thought. I barely know all these people - I only ever occasionally talk with them about work stuff - it will be so out of the blue to ask them to do something with me… Not to mention they all have their own communities of friends… It will be too weird if I ask them… Oh, who cares? It’s not like they adore me anyway.

She finally summoned up the courage to text one of her colleagues, Emma. Emma’s nice enough, thought Sylvia and began to write:

Hey Emma, I was wondering if you had any plans today? Maybe we could do something together. She pressed send.

She then wrote texts and emails of similar content to the rest of her colleagues. I hope this works… She thought, nervously wringing her hands.

                                                                ~~~ Lora jumped back in her car and went to the grocery store. Maybe, she thought, if I just ask around, I’ll find someone with the same interests as me.

She arrived at the store and went inside.

She looked around. Who should I ask first? She thought. She settled on a young woman with short, light brown hair who looked to be about the same age as her. Lora confidently walked over to her.

“Hi!” said Lora. “Do you like sports?” The woman looked at Lora strangely.

“Um, no… not really,” said the woman, and walked away.

Lora kept attempting at small talk with the shoppers in the store.

“Hi, I’m Lora! What’s your name?” “Margot… Why do you ask?” “Margot’s a lovely name! Are you into water skiing?” “No.” “Ok!” “Hi! What’s your favorite sport?” “Sleeping.” “I’m not sure that’s a sport…” “Leave me alone.” “Hello, I like your blouse!” “Well, I don’t. But it’s all I could afford, so. Who cares.” “Oh...kay?” “Hey! Do you like sports?” “Yes! I love all kinds of sports! Especially swimming! Last summer, me and my friends went on my friends boat… It was awesome! I also like to surf. Do you surf? It’s so awesome. I’m not sure if it’s a sport though… Oh, what’s your favorite color? Mine’s green! Green’s awesome! But not if it’s broccoli… I hate that stuff… disgusting… Oh! I remembered why I came here! I needed to buy apple juice and underwear! Thanks bro!” “Um…”                                                                   ~~~ Sylvia was drinking tea when her phone dinged to indicate that she'd gotten her first response. Sylvia checked to see who it was. It was Emma: Sorry, I can’t today. Me and Lia are going to the mall.

Lia was another one of Sylvia’s colleagues. Oh, well, thought Sylvia.

She decided to check her inbox. She had gotten responses from most of the people she’d written to: Sorry, I’m busy today. Can’t, I have a thing. No, I’m hanging out with my friends today.

Are you hitting on me? Sorry, I’m busy. I have a lot of work... Apologies.

No, thanks.

I’m sorry, I’m just very busy today - lots of errands.

Well, thought Sylvia. I tried.

                                                                ~~~ Lora was exhausted from trying to make friends at the store. She bought a few groceries, and headed home in her little, red car.

She came home, parked her car, brought in her groceries, and decided to take a walk.

                                                                ~~~ Sylvia closed her laptop, and quickly texted Emma:

No problem! Then she took her dog and went outside to walk her dog.

                                                                      ~~~ Lora and Sylvia were both walking past the park when they saw each other. Lora, afraid she’d get a bad response again if she said anything, stayed silent. Sylvia, eager to talk to somebody, piped up.

“Hi, I’m Sylvia. I like your shirt!” Lora looked down at her purple shirt with a silver paw print on the front.

“Thanks! I’m Lora, it’s nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you too!” “Your dog is so cute,” said Lora. “Thanks, this is Baxter. He’s a Border Collie.” “Cool! I actually volunteer at an animal shelter sometimes, and I work at a vet clinic,” Lora said. “Can I pet him?” She asked.

“Of course,” answered Sylvia.

Lora pet the dog, and they kept on talking as they walked down the street. They each had gotten what they wanted - Sylvia finally succeeded in making a new friend, and Lora finally found a friend with the same interests as her.

They became best friends, and from that day they always spent their Saturdays together.

                                                             ~~~THE END~~~


As I tie up the trash bag in the can next to the TV table I count six empty Guinness bottles and an empty half-pint of Captain Morgan rum. Whoever stayed in this room last night must feel fantastic this morning. (Yes, that was sarcasm.) I am not surprised to find a wide brown liquor stain in the dead center of the white and green bedspread. Oh well, it's not the worst kind of stain I've ever found on the bedding in the three weeks I've worked here. I strip off the bedspread as well as the sheets and pillowcases. Distracted by a sudden flash of lightning, I walk over to the window to glance outside. The rain is coming down in relentless torrents and the water-heavy branches of the trees are whipping back and forth in the insane wind. After drawing the curtains closed across the rain lashed window I gather up the bundle of dirty bedding and step out of the room to throw it on the bottom of my cart. I grab the clean towels and toiletries from my cart before returning to the room. Based on the contents of the trash can, I am less than enthusiastic about entering the bathroom. To my slight surprise and immense relief, however, it is clean and in good order. I leave the door to the room open as I push my cart down the hallway toward the elevator. This is my least favorite part of the job, going down to the laundry room to retrieve fresh bedding. It's not the laundry room itself that I dislike, but due to severe claustrophobia I don't enjoy sharing the limited elevator space with my cleaning cart. "Hey Chrissy," Claudia greets me, popping her head out of one of the rooms as I trundle past with my cart. "This's some storm, isn't it?" "It's crazy," I agree. We both glance up at the lighting fixtures as they all flicker at once, down the entire length of the hallway ceiling. "You don't think the power's going to go out, do you?" Claudia shrugs her shoulders. "It might. It happens sometimes in bad storms." She disappears back into the room she's cleaning with a little wave. The lights flicker again just as I reach the elevator, this time staying off for a full count of three seconds before coming back on. If I was on the second or third floor I would be tempted to forego the elevator and wrestle my cart down the stairway. I am, however, on the seventh floor so that's not going to happen. I push the 'call' button and wait for the whine of the approaching elevator. When the doors slide open I push my cart in and wedge myself into the corner closest to the door, reminding myself to breathe. I realize, of course, that I'm only going to be in this box for a minute or so but claustrophobia is a real affliction. I let out an involuntary little shriek when the elevator shudders to a complete standstill and the light goes off, plunging me into utter darkness. Once I am able to force myself to breathe again I reach out with one hand and feel around for the panel of buttons, pushing several of them at random. None of them light up. The elevator's dead. The hotel must have lost power after all. I pound on either the door or the wall (it's hard to tell which without any light) with my fist. "Help!" My voice cracks and breaks. I clear my throat and try again, "Help! Please, I'm stuck in here! Can anybody hear me? Please help!" When I press my ear against the cold steel silence is all I hear. No one moving around or talking in the hallway outside (if there even is a hallway outside. For all I know I could be stuck between floors.) No one responding to my frantic pleas. Fuck. I'm going to die in here. I am well aware that panicking will only make it worse, but that knowledge is not enough to help me to calm down. My heart is thudding, there is a sharp pain in my chest, and my breath is tearing in and out of my lungs in ragged little gasps. I bang on the steel and call out again, still with no result. I sit down and concentrate on trying to breathe. Since my cleaning cart is taking up most of the elevator I am not able to extend my legs all the way, so I hug my knees to my chest. The tears slide unbidden down my cheeks despite the fact that crying is not only useless and unhelpful, but is also liable to trigger a bout of hyperventilation, which I'm already dangerously close to. "There's no need to cry, Missus," a child's voice whispers close to my ear. My head snaps up from my knees as I gaze around in panic. My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness by now and I can make out the dim bulk of my cart, but nothing more than that. There's no one in the elevator with me, which I had already known. "H...hello?" Is all I can think to say. Am I going crazy now? I thought it would take longer for that to happen. "You don't need to be frightened, Missus." There is a gentle stirring of the air near my face and I can feel something like a feather brushing against my cheek. I cringe away from it without intending to. "Don't be frightened," the voice admonishes me again. "Who...who are you?" "My name is Marybeth." "Why can't I see you?" "Not everyone can see me, Missus. A few people can, but not most. Even those that can't see me often know I'm around. Have you ever felt like you were being watched when there's no one there?" "That...that's you?" I whisper. I have indeed felt that very sensation of being watched on several occasions while cleaning rooms, although it has never made me feel unduly frightened or uncomfortable. I always just assumed it was my imagination. "Yes, Missus. I like to watch people. But I've never harmed anyone. I wouldn't ever." "So are you...were you a guest here? Did you..." I can't quite bring myself to ask the question did you die at the hotel? I don't even believe in ghosts. "Oh no, Missus," Marybeth answers my unasked question. "I've been around here long before the hotel was built. I worked at the textile mill that used to be here." I was aware that the hotel has only been on this site for six years or so, and before that there was a poorly-managed nightclub that was only here for a few months before the owner went bankrupt. I don't remember what was here before that. A barber shop or hair salon, I think. I don't remember ever hearing that there had been a textile mill built here at any point, but that doesn't mean there hadn't been one. Her voice, however, sounds like that of a child far too young to have worked anywhere. "Did you say you worked at the textile mill?" I ask her. "Yes, Missus." "But you...how old are you?" "Eleven, Missus. The textile mill used me and the others from the orphanage for cheap labor." I don't know whether this makes me more sad or angry. "There was a fire at the mill one day," she tells me, her voice flat and emotionless. "I'm still not sure how it stared. I never made it out. Most of us didn't." Maybe it's a good thing that I can't see her. Does she look blackened and disfigured, with charred bones poking through seared flesh? I don't think that's something I should ask her. "So are the others still here too?" I question instead, curious. The irony is not lost on me that I feel far less panicked trapped in a dark elevator with a dead little girl than trapped in a dark elevator by myself. Maybe that's why she came to me, she knew I needed a distraction. "No, Missus," she responds, "They all crossed over. At least, I think they did. I haven't seen any of them since the fire." "Crossed over? Like white light and harps and halos?" "Well, I don't know anything about harps and halos. But there was a bright white light." "Why didn't you cross over?" "I was afraid to, Missus. I didn't know what was on the other side and I was not ready to leave. I wanted to go on living life here, even if I'm not alive. And I'm glad I stayed. I've seen so much more than I ever would have seen in my lifetime." "So you just...what...hang around and watch people at the hotel?" "Yes, Missus. Sometimes I talk to them like I'm talking to you. Sometimes there's someone who can see me, usually children younger than me, and I play games with them." I have never received any complaints from the guests that the hotel is haunted, and to my knowledge neither have the rest of the staff. Maybe that's because it's quite obvious that Marybeth's presence is in no way malevolent. I suppose guests don't mind sleeping in a haunted hotel as long as the spirit is friendly. The sudden hum of the elevator mechanism accompanied by the light flickering back on brings me back to my feet. Oh, thank God. I still have the sensation that someone is watching my every move with the curiosity of a child. "Marybeth?" I whisper into the empty elevator as I push the button for the laundry room. "Yes, Missus?" Her voice replies. "Thank you. You helped calm me down." "You're welcome, Missus." When the elevator doors open at last I pull my cart out into the laundry room. "Oh, Chrissy," Darla greets me with a smile on her wrinkled face. She is the senior of the housekeeping staff, a pleasant litte old lady whom the rest of us refer to as 'Grandma', but not in her presence of course. "It's good to see someone else!" "Were you stuck down here?" I ask her. "Yes." "I was stuck in the elevator." "Oh, you poor thing. Are you all right?" Her concern is genuine. Everyone on the staff is aware of my claustrophobia, due to the incident on my first day of employment. One of the housekeepers had thought it would be funny to lock me in the broom closet as some sort of 'initiation prank'. He was fired immediately afterward. "Yeah, I'm okay. It was pretty rough at first." I toss the dirty bedding on my cart into the huge half-empty hamper, then walk over to grab some fresh sheets from another hamper. "Darla, can I ask you something?" "Of course. Anything," she answers. "Have you...have you ever seen or experienced anything...anything weird here?" "Oh, you've met Marybeth, haven't you?" The corners of Darla's blue eyes crinkle up in a smile. "Isn't she the sweetest little thing?"