To the untrained eye, the window was as ordinary as windows come. It was a round window, which sat comfortably in its aging frame at the top of its aging wall. It didn’t get to see much of what happened inside the house, but it could see the whole street. In fact, the window was quite proud of the things it could see, for on the rare occasions someone came all the way up into the attic, it got to see both sides of every story. The people on either side could only see what they saw looking out through the window, but the window saw everything. The window saw many different people come and go throughout the years. Each one tried to hide the inside of the house, and made the window wear many things. It had worn curtains, blinds, and duct taped bedsheets. Most recently, it wore a thick coat of black paint, which obscured any view it used to have of the inside of the house. It had nearly despaired of ever seeing the inside again because of that paint, but then it met Samantha. Samantha scraped the paint off the window and polished it until it could see again. The window watched curiously as she cleaned out the junk that had accumulated in the attic room over the years, wondering idly what it would wear this time. It couldn’t help but be surprised when she painted the walls and polished the wooden floor. She fixed everything up… except for the window and its frame. It experienced true confusion when she set a desk in front of the window, sat down with a computer, and stared joyfully out. The confusion only became more potent because of what Samantha saw when she looked out the window. The window saw everything on that street, but it couldn’t see the things it saw reflected in her eyes. In her eyes, it saw castles and spaceships, dragons and warlocks. But when it looked at the street, none of that was there. Children played in the yard. The lampposts blinked on. Cars pulled wearily back home after a long day’s work. There were no dragons. Yet Samantha saw dragons, and she somehow saw them when she looked out the window. It was perplexing. Surely, Samantha was insane. Not only were there no rolling green hills or towering castles now, there never had been any in the first place. The window slowly grew accustomed to Samantha, in spite of her apparent insanity. Every day, close to sunset, she would climb the stairs to the little attic room, sit down at her desk, and gaze through the window upon things that weren’t there. Then she would tap away at her keyboard while the window, curious, tried to see the things she saw. Maybe that dragon she had seen was a cloud or a car moving too fast down the narrow street. Maybe the castle was the old brick house at the end of the block with a round tower on the corner. Try as it might, however, the window just couldn’t see it. The thought occurred to the window that perhaps Samantha was looking at the window, rather than through it. But when it looked closely, it was obvious that wasn’t the case. What could she possibly be seeing on the window that would lead to her fantasy world? The window was old. It had great long scratches and several small cracks. No, Samantha’s eyes saw something besides the window. Something strange and wonderful. The window couldn’t see what she saw, so it began to pretend it could. (Although that’s not something windows generally do.) It would watch the beautiful scenes play out in Samantha’s eyes, then try to play them out itself. Maybe if it tried hard enough, it too would see the things Samantha saw instead of just reflecting them. It became a sort of game for the window. Samantha would see something, and the window would reflect it the best it could. One day it would be a calm day at the beach with mermaids playing in the waves. The next day, it would be an epic duel between two staff-wielding sorcerers. Ever so slowly, the window began to see glimpses of the things Samantha saw. It warmed up to the game, and it even began to predict what would happen next in her story. Of course, the brave knight would defeat the fire-breathing dragon. Of course, the princess would fall for him. Now, the window saw. Now, it understood. Then came the day that the sun rose on the window, and the window didn’t wait for Samantha. It began to look for the things she saw before she ever got there. The window saw Samantha open the door. Of course it did. The window saw everything. It watched as Samantha’s eyes grew wide. It couldn’t fathom why. Samantha had always seen such scenes out the window as the window saw now. Yet Samantha gaped at the window, awestruck. The window didn’t understand, so it just ignored Samantha, happily playing out the scene it imagined on its glass. Fairies, like little multicolored sparks, danced and bobbed in the rolling green hills of a faraway land. A little elf girl and boy ran through the tall grass, trying to catch one. Their mother, tall and beautiful, came out of a hole in the hill to call them home for dinner. There was movement in the little attic room, and the window’s attention was drawn back to Samantha. She sat in her desk chair, her hands up to her mouth. When she pulled them away, she was smiling, even though tears rolled softly down her cheeks. She eased her hands onto the keyboard of her computer, just as she always did. Then she hesitated, her eyes locked on the window. This time, Samantha’s eyes didn’t look through the window. They stared at it. This time, Samantha’s eyes reflected what the window saw, not the other way around. The window played on, happily oblivious as to the reasons for Samantha’s awe. After all, the window was as ordinary as windows come.


“Gather round.” my father announced beckoning us closer. I finished washing my dishes and then walked over to our large couch where I plopped myself down and waited for something interesting to happen. “That's my spot.” My sister pouted pointing to where I was now sitting. “No it's not, you barely ever sit there!” I pointed out. “That's because you always sit there!” She exclaimed. I rolled my eyes. “Suureee.” I proclaimed.

“Lu you can sit over here.” My mom told her. Pointing to a spot that was next to her. “I don't want to! I want to sit where Morgan’s sitting!” She cried. I sighed wondering why I had ever asked for a sister, they could be so annoying sometimes. I got up from where I was sitting and sat down in a chair far away from anyone else. My sister plopped down and wiggled around making herself right at home without even a thank you. My brother who was just a year younger than Lu walked up to me, “That's my-” I glared at him and he scampered away and sat down on my moms lap who looked at me sternly, as if saying, ‘don't do that’ I shrugged it off and looked towards my dad. “You made me stop what I was doing to come sit down, what do you want?” I asked. “Well-”

“Wait!” My older sister yelled from the kitchen, she walked into the living room holding a tray full of hot cups of apple cider, she handed one to my mom and one to my dad and then gave them to my siblings. “As I was sayi-” “Wait!” She yelled again and my dad sighed and my older sister rushed back holding a plate of cinnamon donuts. I stood up and grabbed two donuts from the plate. “I was going to serve you.” My sister frowned. “To slow.” I told her spitting particles of donut in her face. “Eww!” She yelled squirming frantically trying to get the donut particles off her face. Once she gave everyone else a donut and sat down and gave me stern glare. “So-” “Wait!” My sister yelled. “What?” My dad asked. “Nothing, I just wanted to do that again.” My sister smirked. “So,” My dad paused waiting to see if anyone would interrupt him and when no one did he continued. “Who wants to hear a story?” He asked. “I do!” My younger siblings squealed in unison. “Let me tell you an autumn story about how your mother and I first met.” They stared dreamily into each others eyes. Until my sister poked them both in the ribs. “So as I was saying.” My dad announced yet again as he tried to draw our attention back to him. “It was a dark and stormy night.” “Yeah yeah we know, since you've told this story 16 million times!” I exclaimed. “Shh.” Lu told me to putting her chubby finger to her lips. “It was a dark and stormy night. The sky was a sickly gray shrouded with dark ominous clouds that dumped bucket loads of water onto the people below. The wind howled angrily and was so fierce it caused entire branches to fall from the trees and onto my lawn. All around it looked like a tree had barfed, sticks, leaves and pine needles were everywhere. My parents had gone out and because of this weather would not be coming back soon, the power had been flickering on and off all night until finally it gave up the numb darkness befell the house, because of the eerily darkness I couldn't do all the studying I desperately needed, I'm not sure if I would be able to concentrate on it anyway because of how loud it was outside or do anything at all because it was so dark, but because of the ferocious night there was no way I was going to be going to bed way to loud. So I sat in my living room staring out the window at the night sky. Despite what was happening outside I felt calm, calmer than I had ever felt before like a veil of serenity, of just being had fallen over me. Cold, and warm, soft and rough, heavy and light, everything balancing each other out until I just was. I couldn't get to sleep earlier because of how loud it was, but now all I heard was the soft hum of static which slowly beckoned me into dreamland." "BORING!" Lu cut in. "Nobody cares how you fell asleep, wheres the action?" She demanded. My dad sighed, "The action is coming now will you please let me continue?" He asked. "Fiiiiiine" My Lu grumbled. "There was a bright red blinding light that pierced my skull and sunk within the cracks of my brain, piercing everything as it sunk deeper, like needles, I groaned. “Go away.” I grumbled thinking I was still dreaming. But then I heard a scream and my eyes opened with a jolt. I wasn't sure how long I had slept. I just knew It was still dark, dark except for the bright red flames lapping at the sky reaching up, reaching for the stars. fire. Fire FIRE! My brain switched to flight or fight mode, alarms blared inside my head making it hard to think. But then there it was, a loud scream that sank deep into my heart begging me to do something to help them, I sprang from the chair I was sitting in and fumbled to get my shoes on, I needed to help them. The house was a bit far away tucked in the countryside which was probably why the fire hadn't been put out yet, no one noticed it. Not thinking fully I sprinted out into the night, completely regretting it when a large branch knocked me to the ground some of its twigs drawing blood from my flushed cheeks, but I remembered the screams and got up trying to stay steady against the viscous winds, the rain pelted me as I ran as fast as I could avoiding large branches as they fell from the trees. I just kept running letting my desperation fuel my movement, the urgent pounding of my shoes against the asphalt as I slowly got closer to the burning building. I stopped in front of the house, the smoky air filling my nostrils, I fell to my knees coughing instantly, my eyesight was blurred but I needed to do something. I looked and saw a girl who looked around my age but it was hard to tell. Very hot, nice tan. I thought. "Ewwww!" All of the sibling's exclaimed at once. "So while mom's burning in a building all you can think of is how she hot she is?" I asked. My dad cleared his throat. "Well she was hot, literally and figuratively." He pointed out and my mom rolled her eyes. "Well do you want me to continue or not?" He asked. "Keep telling the story!" My little brother piped up. "Okay so as I was saying your mother was trapped by a wall of flames, she was on the second story and the only side not covered by flames was the window, but the window was high and all that was beneath it was hard asphalt, The other option was to die. “WINDOW!” I screamed at the top of my lungs immediately coughing some more. She didn't show any sign that she heard me so I yelled again. “JUMP OUT YOUR WINDOW!” I screamed desperately. “BUT IT'S SO FAR DOWN!” she yelled back. “I'LL CATCH YOU.” I reassured her, or as reassuring as you can be when your breath is ragged and you'r kneeling down beside their burning house. She looked conflicted and unsure. “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?” I screamed and sudden realization came over here, she needed to jump. “I'LL COUNT TO THREE.” I told her running underneath her window, I could feel the burning heat of the flames right next to me. I could feel the sweat trickling down my forehead and the ash in my lungs, but this girl needed my help. “3, 2, 1.. JUMP.” I yelled, the girl spirited forward and jumped out the window like how you would see a superhero do in a comic." "I like the next part." My Lu announced. "Hey things were just about to get interesting." My older sister Megan sighed. "Interesting?" My dad demanded. "Are you saying that not all of it was interesting?" Megan shrugged. My dad sighed, "Sometimes I don't know what to do with you four sometimes." "Just tell the story already." Lu demanded. "Okay here we go again, But we didn't have the luck of superheroes, I ran underneath her but I wasn't strong enough to catch her. She fell on me with such force that the last thing I remembered was the inky blackness consuming my mind.” My Dad told us. “Well what happened next?” My sister demanded. "Can I go a minute without getting interrupted?” My dad asked. "Nope." Lu told him. "Well-" “How bout I tell because I'm the one who wasn't unconscious.” My mom teased and poked my dad's arm. “Go ahead Milady.” “Well, after I jumped out the window and landed on him, I realized he was out cold, I was scared and I didn't know what to do, but suddenly the porch lights flickered back on you could hear the buzz of electricity humming happily, I knew I needed to help the boy, which was sort of ironic because he was the one who was supposed to be helping me.” My mom smiled and nudged my dad playfully. Lu stuck my tongue out at my dad. "Loser, didn't really do a good job or rescuing her if she had to rescue her!" My mom ignored Lu and kept going. “We had a neighbor who was only a fourth mile down the hill so I took your dad in my arms and I ran for my life, the rest was a blur after that, calling the fire department them putting out the fire we were both taken to the hospital of course, I got my burns treated and got the pieces of glass removed from my skin but you can still see the scars.” She showed us her arms which were covered in white jagged lines. They covered her face, neck , arms and legs. Everywhere that wasn't covered when she jumped, which was a lot because she was only wearing a tank top and short shorts. My dad cut in and started telling the story from his perspective yet again. “The first thing I remembered when I woke up after being unconscious for a little bit was your mom, she was sitting beside me holding my hand. And when I asked her what happened she put her finger to my lips and she leaned over me, one of her blonde ringlets falling onto my face as she leaned down and pressed her warm lips to mine.” “EWWW!” My sister declared. “Skip that part none wants to hear it, go to when it gets interesting again.” She demanded and both my mom and dad blushed. “Well after your dad woke up he got discharged from the hospitals after a couple check ups, we hung out a lot, dated and married three years later, and eventually had four amazing children.” On cue the four of us all rolled our eyes. “I still don't get how this is an autumn story.” I grumbled. “Because It's in autumn, dummy.” My sister told me. “We don't say that word, calling someone a dummy isn't nice..” My mother told her, and my younger sister rolled her eyes. “Since that's it can I go text my friends now?” I asked standing up. My mom and dad both sighed and mumbled something that sounded like teenagers. “Sure go ahead.” My mom sighed.


Michael never felt freer than when the oval sun dipped below the cold earth. Sprinkling the sky with an ombre of oranges and pinks, to settle in an ink-black with white freckles. Faint warm glows growing from simple homes melted into the sky like blended watercolours. Michael breathed deeply into the new air, the static and wild air. His feet grounded like roots into the earth and the wild air swirled into his lungs. His eyes remained delicately closed, on the brink of opening; just barely closed. A butterfly kiss of closure. Michael found joy and contempt in opening his eyes to the pitch black and watch it morph into dark colours as his eyes adjusted. He felt in those moments of morphing from blind to nocturnal that he became a part of the night. There was no joy here. The butterfly opened and on this foggy night, Michael was surrounded by the sea fog of his hometown, tainted with the staining blood of light. It was like orange glasses had been placed upon Michael's head while he swayed in the night. It was suffocating. Michael could feel the pollution enter his lungs with every breath. It was anxious, quick, and hot the breath coming out of him. Adding to the fog that swirled around him. Michael felt invisible arms wrap around him, smothering his body and pulling him into this polluted fog. Sick of the sick, Michael, wrenching his arms from the invisible force, sprung to his car. The door slamming shut behind his entering form, the keys clinking against each other as they were being thrust into the ignition to only miss and slam into the wheel. Michael's hands were shaky, trembling in soul-crushing fear of the sickness outside. Again the keys slammed, Michael breathing in a bubbling breath, a deep bubbly breath; slowly with shaking hands slid the key with precision into the ignition and twisted. The car bleeding into life and Michael sucking in gurgling breaths with relief. Hands clutched in a death grip the steering wheel, it looked as though bones were a second away from protruding through the pale skin. But the movements were so fast, from a death grip and a shaky breath, one hand jittered out to change the gears while the other indicated to enter the road and no sooner than when the steering wheel was grasped Michael was on the road. It was hard for Michael to focus through the orange pollution, he felt sick at moving through the nauseating gas. His arms stretched out uncomfortably straight, his back glued to the seat, erected, as his eyes bulged from his head. Michael tried not to breathe out of fear the pollution would be seeping through the air filters. The car was chugging and winding up the steep hill presented to Michael and he broke his fear of pollution for fear of his tiny shitty car for a second. But then his small car broke through that barrier, the barrier where the polluted sea fog could not go through. Through a gasping fish breath, Michael saw the tall shadowing trees, the inky black sky sprinkled with white freckles, the gasps between tree trunks changing colours depending on the growing foliage. And best of all.

No pollution on the roadside. Michaels now relaxed right limp arm slumped down to the headlights and turned them off, plunging him to even more darkness. Michael knew the way. He didn’t need that pollution to now the way he thought. It wasn’t as good as been outside amongst the inkiness of the night-time world. He couldn’t cement his feet to the ground and grow the roots he wanted to, but it was better than the orange pollution. So, Michael hummed pleasantly to the night, and winding down his window he breathed in the musky forest air. It was peaceful until Michael heard the artificial hum of the monster he was about to face. It sounded like death and chaos and soon the car spluttered over a small hill and there between the trees to the left the power building the monster sat with faint cat-like glows and an evil smile to its aura. The place where Michael worked. Michael thought about how painfully long it had taken him to get the graveyard shift at the powerplant. He thought about the itchy uniform he constantly had to wear and how he felt like he lived in a straight jacket constantly. So soon soon soon . Whispered in his head and for the first time his smile cracked in a shier grin, but he pushed it back into his mind because the security booth was next to him now. It was a simple nod, a junky metal arm raised, and Michael’s car pulled forward into its spot behind the plant. He had done these thousands of times, but only tonight did it feel static, exciting. The beep of his car locking sending an erotic thrill down his spine and a spring in his step. Soon, soon, soon. It was all robotic the next movements of his. Signing in, walking to his station, glancing the security camera screens, and sliding into his old, probably will break if he was any heavier, chair. There he waited. Flick. The chairs next to him scratched as the premonition smell of cigarettes filled Michael's nostrils long before the murky remnants clinging to his co-worker’s clothes returned from their hourly break. The door slammed shut and Michael's tongue swelled with excited saliva, like Tantalus, he was so close yet so far from what he craved. Quickly sticking out his tongue to release the pressure he clicked it back in as he sprung from his seat. The view on the security cameras showing all fellow workings slowly peeling away to the designated smoking area, well away from any flammable objects that were stationed inside the building. Rubbing his tongue on the roof of his mouth in a slick thinking motion Michael thought of how lucky he was no one knew he smoked. For if they did then he wouldn’t have been left alone to watch over the whole power plant for 10 minutes. 10 sweet minutes. It had all been planned. The second the last person walked across the fuzzy security screen leading outside and the door softly closed behind the form, Michael hit the silent lock button. A stupid button, only in emergencies would the whole building need to lock down but here they were with a silent one. It was like a silent siren calling to Michael every night because for months he could have done this, but only until he was alone and knew the combination of keys could he answer the silent call. So he did. The silent alarm locked all the doors and the unaware co-workers puffed like trains. Michael licked his lips to have a break from his excited and swelling tongue. Striding out of the room Michael made the quick and fluid steps, repeated millions of times before this night, to the control room. Soon, soon, soon. Soon the control room door will hush open with a metallic click, soon the smell of late-night dinners will fill Michael's nose, and soon the clicking and squeaking of rubber boots will fill the silence but humming room. And soon became now and now there Michael stood before the brilliant red cut off button. The suffocating will end soon he thought but before he thought of his plan. His hand will graze the silky red handle graced with vibrant. Emergency cut off! Oh, its never been more tempting. Michael sucked in the stuffy control room air and flopped his head backward where the top of his spine would send that stinging feeling down his body. Where sucking in a thick breath could be felt filling his small throat, expanding and splitting the seams of flesh. Exhaling out emptied his stomach and rounded his spine like a cat. And looking away, as his shoulder blades pressed up towards the ceiling, his right uplifted and gripping the red rubber he pulled the lever. The room erupted in the Emergency red and Michael lightly swiveled like a dancer on ice, starring blankly, he breathed in and thundered towards the door. With unpredictable excitement Michael whipped open the emergency door, banging the fire emergency memorabilia on the other side. His boots hit the concrete slapping like skin and Michael ran screaming towards the smokers saying that, “some psycho entered the building!” And immediately the smokers ran inside the building following protocol. While in the rush Michael ran past the hole in the chainmail fence. Michael kept running. Running. Now, now, now. His feet pounding on the earth in the same rhythmic beat of his heart. His breathing came out visible due to the change of temperature and it came out swift and fast. The further he got, the deeper into the forest he found himself, and soon he skidded to a stop on top of the tallest hill he could run-up. Before him, the forest clearing broke away to a view of the now sea fog clear town. At least that what he would have seen if he had not plunged them into darkness. The sky in that short time from when leather red had fallen, exploded into a sea of white swimming fish. Blues and purples melted like paints amongst the inky black. Bubbling and falling in the rhythm of the universe. So there Michael exhaled the polluted breath he had been holding, falling forward, collapsing to the dewy ground. Rolling like a dog and spreading his arms wide like a bird he looked upon the melting sky and felt himself too melt into the inky abyss. It felt like breathing for the first time. Now, now, now. An orgasmic experience. Projecting his torso upward into a seated position Michael looked back towards the power plant. How sweet it will be. Would it. Michael concluded that yes it would be sweet. So, he smoothly leaped onto one foot and streamed through the dry earthy leaves. The fresh smell of excitement smelled of fallen leaves and dewy grass; and it streamed straight through Michaels flares nostrils. Just don’t let them turn it back on, it's so simple, it's so sweeeet. Oh, it is so sweet. Michael moved like returning sea fog to the power plant where the smokers ran around in secret looking for the crazy man. Just what you need. Sure is. Because as Michael remembered, behind the door, the emergency door. There laid the fire ax perfectly handing parallel to the emergency button. The fire emergency memorabilia. The memorabilia that rolled into Michael's hands like an engulfing fog. And it swung easily between his hands and there was the invisible smell of fire, ash, and burnt skin. Smoke rolled into the building like a thin layer of sea fog, just the start of the thick pea soup. As the ax sang with a metal buzz. I don’t think pollution will stay this season. No Michael supposed, he guesses it won’t. The first of many rounded the corner before him, and the smoker spluttered polluted words, but the ax was already making him choke. It had swung high to the right and falling to the smokers' throat it sliced the meat as easily as a paper cut. The blood collected and bubbled through the smoker’s lungs to soon spurt out in a water gun stream once the ax was jostled out of the slick flesh. The heavy body of the smoker collapsed to the ground, wide eyes starring up to a once close co-worker. Michael lifted his hand and grabbed the vibrant red neck he had created. Pushing down until the body fell in a contorting position backward. There Michael starred deep into the polluted eyes, the orange eyes, the smoker’s eyes. Soon the light, that pollution left the smoker's eyes and Michael took that sweet shaky breath of fresh air in. Michael collapsed his head into the crook of the smoker's bloodied neck and sucking in the sweet air, felt again the orgasmic bliss of melting into the world.


In the morning somebody knock on the door, a person gave a packet to Alicia and laughed and said please see the footage. It is hilarious.                                                          * ‘I am mad at her’. ‘I will run away from her’. Eddie said to Alicia. ‘Don’t be panic I am also facing the same circumstances.’ Alicia tried to compose him. They are sitting in the balcony and talking about how sad Eddie was. ‘Whenever I ask her, her answer is always ‘No’ a big ‘No’.’ ‘But she loves you.’ ‘I don’t believe.’ And Eddie started crying. ‘Hey Eddie stop crying and do not worry. I am always with. We are buddies your best friend Alicia will not leave you in any condition even if you will demand me to leave.’ Alicia giggled and her infectious smile gave a grin on Eddie’s face. ‘I did this because I had a deep craving for it.’ Eddie sobbed and feared. ‘But I think you should tell her the truth.’ ‘No, never did you see her eyes? She will kill me.’ ‘Eddie she already knows it. She only needs you to confess.’ ‘Really?’                                                * Ok so this is the present let us explore the history. Eddie is the only child of his parents and only grandson of his grandparent. He is blessed to born in a loving family. He says his grand mother is his best friend that is why he calls her by her name because in friendship people address each other by name. Alicia is his partner when everyone is out at work. She fulfils his every wish. The bonding of the family is precious. Eddie’s passion includes Cookies, Chocolates, Cakes, Alicia, family (I wrote Alicia and family separate because she is his best friend not grandmother), playing and travelling. This order is strictly important except for ‘C’ words which can be shuffle at only first three places. You can put chocolates before cookies, or you can put cookies after chocolates or cakes, but do not you dare to put them after first three places it hurts Eddie. In daytime other family members are busy in their offices so they take dinner together because they love to spend time with each other. After every meal Mr. Eddie wants any of the “C” sweet (Cookie, Chocolate or Cake) well I was wrong not only after meal in every hour he has a deep craving for “C” sweets but …… ‘Eddie one day one sweet either cookie, chocolate or cake.’ His mom said. ‘Alicia, see mom does not let me eat what I like, if big can eat what they like why can’t I?’ Eddie cried and complained. ‘Oo my darling your mom loves you that’s why she said so. And if she is saying ‘No’ that means it must be really bad for you’ ‘I do not believe.’ He blubbered again. Eddie is very clever he does it daily to emotionally blackmail Alicia and poor Alicia she cannot put up with his tears. ‘Do not cry. Do not cry. Here is a cookie for you filled with dark chocolate. Now smile my Boy.’ Mom Alicia Mom Other three members of the family responded immediately. They stared at her pointed their finger at her and said ‘he is getting stubborn and tricky. He knows how to get the things he wants.’ ‘Few tears and Alicia will bring everything he wants.’ His grandfather said. Alicia hugged Eddie and said he is just a kid. Let him live his childhood. She gave him a hongi. Everyone else laughed at Eddie’s naughtiness and talking about him at the dinner table. That was two days before Christmas Alicia was at shopping. Eddie asked his mom to buy some cookies and chocolates from a bakery a stone throw away from their house. His mom said, ‘no you will have cavities, I already told you to have only a cookie in a day. But you eat them throughout the day.’ Oh poor Eddie, Alicia is not there to fulfil your tantrums. He was down in the dumps. He was looking at the bakery from the window people were eating Choco pies, cookies, pastries. His mouth started secreting more saliva. He could not stop himself. He went in the dining room and instructed everyone not to disturb him, not even for dinner because he was already feeling disturbed for ‘C’ sweets. And said I am sleeping I am angry. His salivary glands giving him many ideas how to stop their secretion. He secretly went in the store hide himself in a corner and waiting for closing time. ‘Yippie bakery is closed now I can eat as many sweets as I want. But guess what he is 6 years old he can not reach out to some of his favourite cookies. But he had a Clever mind!! He dragged a table stood on it and take out chocolate filled cookies, chocolate pastries, cakes…………Aahh my mouth is watering. He sat in a corner ate many cookies his hands and mouth became brown completely covered with chocolate. He was licking his hands and as night was passing, he fell asleep with those ‘C’ sweets having in his hand. OMG he woke when sun rays hit his eyes. He started worrying mama will discover me I need to be in my room. But how door is locked how will I get out of here. He was searching for an exit and left his chocolaty fingerprints everywhere. He saw a back-side door latched from inside he opened it and run away to his house. When he reached everyone was getting ready for office. They saw his brownish face and hands. His mother was shocked she asked what happened how many chocolates did you eat? You were supposed to be in your room when did you woke up and went out and ate chocolates. But she was in hurry getting late. So, she left for the office and asked her mother-in-law to message her what happened.                                                * Here bakery was opening. Owner was surprised when he saw the bakery, he was sure a theft had happened. He investigated the complete shop nothing precious was missing except the secret ingredient of his recipes, cash was at its place as it is. But every edible item was scattered on the floor. He noticed small chocolaty fingerprints everywhere. Back-door was opened. When he investigated the CCTV he laughed out loud. Hey this is Eddie but how did he enter here. He knocked the door and gave a packet to Alicia and laughed and said please see the footage it is hilarious. Well, my investigation is over but something very important is missing I need it back. That is the secret ingredient of my store. He laughed again when he saw Eddie. Alicia was puzzled. First, she cleaned Eddie’s hands and face and then sat to saw the CCTV footage. When she was watching her phone ringed; ‘Mama where is Eddie he was not home last night. His video is getting viral everywhere with a caption “Eddie eat more chocolates but give me back my secret ingredient” and people are laughing in office and showing me the video. You know he needs a lesson he did something wrong. He cannot enter anywhere privately to eat sweets. You will not pamper him anymore.’ 'Ok.' Alicia replied. Alicia: hey buddy where was you last night? I think you ate many chocolates and cakes. Eddie was angry. ‘I am mad at her’. ‘I will run away from her’. Eddie said to Alicia. ‘Don’t be panic I am also facing the same situation. She does not allow sweets to us also.’ Alicia tried to compose him. They are sitting in the balcony and talking about how sad Eddie was. ‘Whenever I ask her, her answer is always ‘No’ a big ‘No’.’ ‘But she loves you.’ ‘I don’t believe.’ And Eddie started crying. ‘Hey Eddie stop crying and do not worry. I am always with. We are buddies your best friend Alicia will not leave you in any condition even if you will demand me to leave.’ Alicia giggled and her infectious smile gave a grin on Eddie’s face. ‘I did this because I had a deep craving for it.’ Eddie sobbed. ‘What did you do?’ ‘Do not tell anyone yesterday I asked for some cookies mama said no and you were not there to help me, so I broke in the bakery and enjoyed many chocolates, cakes and cookies. My mouth is still watering, and I cannot forget that sweet smell. Alicia you should be with me those cakes and cookies were awesome. Unfortunately, I fell asleep and came back in the morning that’s why you caught me red-handed. ‘But I think you should tell her the truth.’ ‘No, never did you see her eyes? She will kill me.’ ‘Eddie she already knows it. She only needs you to confess.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes’ ‘How does she know?’ ‘I do not know. She just told me on phone.’ Wah wah wah……………… Eddie cried again. ‘Do not cry darling but tell me what you stole from there?’ ‘I did not steal I just picked up something that was too yummy.’ ‘What did you pick up?’ ‘Three bottles of chocolate sauce there filling made me hungry. It was awesome not the regular chocolate sauce we eat at home.’ ‘Go and give it back to the bakery man.’ ‘No, it’s very tempting. Please do not tell mama.’ ‘What happened Eddie what is tempting and what you do not want to tell mama?’ he heard her mama’s voice from back side. ‘Nothing mama.’ 'Are you sure it is nothing.' 'yes mama.' ‘Then come downstairs before dinner we will watch something together.’ ‘What will we watch?’ 'Come and see.' Eddie feared his mama could not utter a single word. Everyone was sitting on the table with a serious face and they invited the bakery guy too mama turned on the tv. And as soon as video started, they find it difficult to control their laughter. And Eddie his eyes were wide open. He hid his face in Alicia’s lap and started crying. His mother came held him and said. ‘my sweetie when did you became so big, I am not annoyed but please give the chocolate sauce back and do not do it again. I am having something for you afterwards.’ ‘Eddie was sad and angry he brought those three bottles first gave it back but then immediately took it back he did the same thrice and at last he grabbed the bottles and very sweetly said I can’t give it back it’s very delicious.’ Alicia said ‘Eddie to enter in someone’s property and take their belongings without their permission is wrong. You cannot take other’s stuff. You return it then we have a surprise Christmas gift for you.’ ‘very sadly he returned those bottles.’ Mama has something for you. 'What? suddenly his sadness converted into a joy' Wow!!! I love you mama!! I am not mad at you at all. You are the best. Eddie had a dozen bottles of the secret ingredient ‘the yummiest chocolate sauce and many ‘C’ sweets .’


The air was cool in the morning when he stepped out onto his porch to head to work. This was to be expected in early October, and he was thankful for it. The summer had been a hot one, and he’d been ready for the opportunity to break out his jacket and long sleeve shirts by the end of August. But, unfortunately, the summer heat had held firm throughout most of September. Now though, the heat had finally broken, and he was looking forward to the brisk air of fall. He turned, checking to ensure he’d locked the door before he made his way down the steps and out onto the sidewalk. “Good morning Ms. Galespi!” He called to the older lady seated on her porch smoking a cigarette. “Oh, good morning, boy!” She called back, her breath heavy with smoke in the cool air. “Off to work?” “Yes, ma’am.” He said, smiling at her. Then, he paused, taking the time to greet her properly before continuing on. “How are you this morning?” He asked. “Oh, I’m well enough.” Ms. Galespi said. “Good. Kids gone off to school already?” He asked, checking his mental inventory for all information about the woman. “Yeah, bus just picked them up.” She said, taking another drag from her cigarette. “Those things are crowded. Kids tend to act like fools a lot of the time. I remember how it was back when I was a kid.” He said. “Yes, sir.” She said. “Unfortunately, I can’t get them there myself. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” “Yes, ma’am. Not fair you’re the one to have to take care of them. Has to be hard on you.” He said. “Well, you know how it is. Their mom, well, the less said about her this morning, the better.” Ms. Galespi said. “Probably.” He agreed. “Perhaps she’ll come back one of these days. Take care of the responsibilities that are hers. Sometimes I can’t believe I managed to raise a woman like that.” She said. “I wouldn’t count on it, ma’am.” He said, knowing the kid’s mother would never be back. Not anymore. What she’d done to those kids, what she’d put them through, had been wrong. She wouldn’t be back, never again. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right, son.” Ms. Galespi took another long drag from her cigarette. “You’d better be on your way, don’t want to be late.” She said. “You’re right. We wouldn’t want that. They pay me to be there on time, so that’s what I do.” He said. “You’re a good boy. And a good neighbor.” She said, waving at him as she exhaled smoke again. He frowned. “Those things aren’t good for you, ma’am. But, if there is anything I can do to help you….” He started to say, but she cut him off. “Now, son, respect your elders. I know these things are killing me, but they’re about all I have left anymore.” She said. His frown deepened, unsure how to accommodate two conflicting thoughts. Finally, he chose to take her advice and let the subject go. “Good morning Ms. Galespi. I’ll see you later.” He said, waving as he continued on his way to work. Work was uneventful. As always, he clocked in on time, greeted his coworkers, and set to his tasks. That was the way things were and the way things should be. He worked through his breaks, like always, never drawing attention to himself or the bit of extra time he put in while others were off drinking coffee or smoking. And he was careful to be back from lunch five minutes early as well. Sure, they didn’t usually pay him for the bit of extra time he put in throughout the day, but that wasn’t the point. Work was important. It didn’t matter what you were doing. Whether you were stocking shelves, doing someone’s taxes, or running a business or nation, your job was a part of who you were. And more than that, it reflected “What” you were. He took that seriously. He was a good man, and though he was typically surrounded by people who were less than he was, it didn’t matter. Who he was wasn’t dictated by the other people around him or what they thought. Who he was, who he really was, was dictated only by himself and his actions. As he left work for the day, he decided to stop by the store on his way home. Making his way through the parking lot, he saw a middle-aged woman struggling to balance her cart and young child. Her purse had spilled onto the pavement, and she was holding the child’s hand as she attempted to scoop the items from her purse into a small pile. Cautious, knowing how people often reacted to the intrusion of strangers into their daily lives, he approached. “Miss.” He said, stopping several feet away. She looked up, her eyes nervous. “Huh?” She mumbled, taking his appearance in quickly before looking back down at the spilled contents of her purse. “Miss, you look like you’re having a bit of a time there. May I help?” He asked. She looked up at him, then at the little girl holding her hand, then quickly at the cart full of groceries that was slowing rolling away before glancing up at him again. “No, I…” She started to say. He took several careful steps forward, stopping the cart and holding it still with one hand, the other held out to his side, palm open. “You’re trying to juggle a lot there; the least I can do is hold your cart for you. Maybe I could help you get the groceries in the trunk while you get things situated?” He offered. She regarded him again for several long moments before she relaxed and smiled at him. “Thank you, yes. That would be a big help.” She said. He held the car while she gathered the spilled items from the ground and then opened the trunk for him. “Thank you again.” She said. “Of course, you go ahead and get her in the car; she’s looking tired.” He said. The woman looked down at the little girl hiding just to the side of her mother’s leg, still holding her hand. “Sounds like a plan.” She said. He watched her lead the small, shy child around to the side of the car and began putting the bags in the trunk in an orderly fashion. He was careful to ensure the lighter items went on top so that nothing would be broken or crushed. When he was done, he stepped back, pulling the cart off to the side. “There you are.” He said as the woman walked around the car to the driver’s side. “Thank you again.” She glanced at him one more time, taking in his whole appearance for the first time. “I’m Jamie.” She said, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jamie.” He said, shaking her hand. Something hard pressed against one of his fingers. A wedding ring. “You’re very sweet, would you like to…” She began. He frowned. “I’m sorry, I just got off work and am in a bit of a hurry. Please, drive safe; I’m sure you have someone waiting at home for you.” He said, turning to guide the cart towards the store. “I’ll take care of the cart for you.” He said, not looking back. Inside, he gathered up the few items he’d need for the week and headed towards the registers. The self-scan was open, as always, but he didn’t care for them. They were too impersonal. A sign of the times, he supposed. So instead, he went to one of the slightly longer lines and waited for an actual cashier. As he neared the front, his attention was drawn by a man’s gruff tone. “Can we hurry up already?” He said. The woman in front was handing a small pile of coupons to the teenaged cashier. The older woman was small and frail and looked startled by the man’s outburst. The middle-aged man behind her looked just as surprised; the cashier looked terrified. “I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes now. Let’s go. I have things to do.” The man said. “Sir…” The cashier tried to say. “No, let’s go. I’m not standing here waiting for you to scan all that crap just so she can save twenty cents on her cat food. She’s probably got too many of those monsters running around her house anyway. What, no one else to take care of?” He said. The woman looked shocked. She glanced at the cashier, “I’m sorry since my husband died….” “No one cares about your cats or who they’re filling in for. Let’s go. I have to get back to work already.” The man said. “Sir, uh, you could, have, you know….” The cashier tried to speak, but the man cut him off. “If I wanted to use the self-checkout, I would have. I hate those machines. They’re even dumber than you kids. Lets. Go!” He said. The man in front of him looked visibly nervous now. “Look, if you’re in that much of a hurry, you can go ahead….” He said. The man cut him off too, “I will.” He stepped in front of the man, glared down at the small woman, and then at the cashier. “Let’s go already.” He snapped. The cashier finished scanning the woman’s coupons, shaking as he tried to hurry. Finally, he took her money, made change, and smiled nervously at her as he loaded the last of her bags into her cart. “Have a good day, ma’am.” He said. “Thank you.” “You too.” She whispered, hurrying away “Now, let’s go.” The man said. The cashier, for his part, simply stood there. “Sir, there is no reason to be rude.” “Rude!” The man said. “It’s rude to waste everyone’s time with cheap coupons and stories about your cats and dead husband. No one cares. Let’s go.” “Sir, please, if you would just….” The cashier tried to say. “If I have to call your manager over here, we’re all going to be wasting a lot more time!” The man said. Watching all this from what was now third in line, the good man spoke up. “It’s alright, young man. Just ring him up.” He said, his voice calm. The cashier looked back at him and immediately seemed to relax. “Yes, of course.” He said, taking the man’s items and quickly scanning them before putting them into a single plastic bag. The man paid him, grumbled a few more obscenities, and hurried out. The good man put one hand on the shoulder of the man in front of him and smiled. “Would you please watch my things for a moment?” He said. The man only nodded. Later, the good man stood outside an old but well-kept house. The cool night air on his face was both relaxing and uplifting. He loved this time of year. When the season began to shift from the heaviness of summer into the light air of autumn. It always made him feel just a little more alive. Fall was almost like a breath of fresh air right before the cold, starkness of winter. In the dark, he watched the lights in the house flicker. He’d been waiting for a while now but was in no hurry. Things would play out as they needed to. Eventually, most of the lights in the house went out, and he made his way through the backyard. The fence had been no obstacle, and it had been simple enough to find a secluded spot near the detached garage from which he could keep an eye on the house. He tried the knob on the back door, knowing it would most likely be locked. It was, of course, but he never wasted time making assumptions if he could help it. The man lived alone; he’d made sure of that, just as he’d made sure he had the right house before preparing for the task at hand. It hadn’t been hard to find the address, not once he had the man’s license plate. The internet was a pretty valuable tool if you knew how to use it. Sadly, there were people in the world who used it for all kinds of horrible things. But there wasn’t much he could do about that. He was just one man, after all. One problem at a time. He felt the door click open quietly as he worked the lock and slipped inside. He moved silently through the house, taking his time to let his eyes adjust to the changing light as he moved. He found the man sitting in a small home office. His face illuminated by the computer monitor as images flashed across the screen. Distracted by his activities, he didn’t notice as the good man crossed the room behind him. Not until the hand slipped over his mouth. “Don’t move.” The good man said. The man froze, shocked and startled at being caught in such a compromising position. He choked slightly as the knife pressed against his throat. “You were very, very rude today.” The good man said. The man tried to say something, but he choked again. “No, it’s too late for that. First, you were very rude to that poor old woman and the young man at the store. And now, I find you here, and it turns out, you’re even more awful than I’d realized.” A single tear slid down the man’s face as he tried to work his mouth, then he gasped silently as the knife slid across his throat. The good man held him as he died. After all, no one should die alone, no matter how bad they might be.


All is fair in love and war.

Love and war.  Two of the most ancient of human endeavors inexplicably linked because of their essentiality to moving the human race forward.

“Hold on, my mask is fogging up.” The man dressed entirely in black clipped the walkie-talkie he had been speaking into to the front of his vest and quickly removed his mask, wiping the clear visor with the sleeve of his shirt.

“I’m good. Let’s move.” The man moved nimbly through the trees, finally bursting through a dead bush and coming to the edge of a clearing. Diving forward, he came to a stop crouched behind the engine block of an old rusted school bus. Roughly twenty yards in front of the bus was a small decrepit shack. That was their target.

“I have eyes on the shack. Are we one-hundred percent positive the target is inside the shack?” “Roger that,” came the reply. “But be careful, intel says there are at least two tangos inside.” The man checked his weapon one more time and took a few deep breaths. “On my count. One. Two. Three.” The man in black came around the hood of the bus and took off in a dead sprint for the shack. Three other similarly dressed men emerged from the trees, weapons in hand, on the move. Four versus two. It was going to be a slaughter.

The man in black made it to the shack first and hit the front door hard. The brittle wood shattered under the force of his muscular shoulder, and he spun to the right. He rapidly squeezed the double-trigger on his gun and hit the first tango in the shoulder and then in the stomach.

“Behind you!” Someone outside the shed shouted. The man in black spun around and came face to face with a slim figure also dressed entirely in black. He could tell by the hourglass shape of the body that it was a woman. A blond ponytail stuck out from the back of her mask, and she had her hands in the air. The man in black didn’t hesitate and squeezed the trigger twice. Red instantly covered her chest and stomach. Game over. “I had my hands in the air, jerk!” She shouted.

The man in black laughed and ripped off his mask, wiping the sweat from his face. “This is paintball, Cara. I know you; you would have immediately shot me in the back as soon as I turned around.” She removed her mask and smiled. That adorable smile where she blushed, cocked her head to the right and glanced down at the floor. “Whatever, Jack,” she said, brushing some loose strands of hair back and moving toward the door of the shack. “I’m done with this. That actually hurt.” “Come on. One more round?” “No way. I’m going to have these bruises for weeks.” They stepped out of the shack and into the sunlight. “You’re going to have to pay to replace that door, you know,” she said as they sat beside each other with their backs leaning against the shack. The other paintballers were already making their way to their respective bases to strategize for the next fight. “Water?” Jack said. “Please.” Jack dug around in his backpack and came up with one unopened bottle. “I only have one.” “We can share,” Cara said, taking the bottle, breaking the seal, and taking a long drink. She handed the bottle back and let her head fall back, looking up at the puffy clouds floating among a perfectly blue sky.

Jack took a drink from the bottle and then splashed some on his head in an effort to cool himself down. The scene was serene. The sounds of walkie-talkies crackling, paintball markers going off, and players shouting had been replaced by birds singing, leaves rustling, and squirrels scampering around in search of a nut.

“So,” Cara began. “Have you gotten your N-400 back yet?” She was referring to the naturalization form that—if approved—would allow him to become an American citizen. “Not yet. America’s immigration system is a—” He stopped himself. Cara hated it when he cussed. “It sucks.” “Well…” she said a bit more hesitantly. “Have you talked to my father…about us?” Jack’s stomach twisted a bit, and he shifted uncomfortably. After all, her words could easily be interpreted as: are you going to ask me to marry you? In reality, the question was a fair one. They had been together for nearly four years, ever since their first meeting at the Kerckhoff Coffee House on the UCLA campus.

She was there as a political science major. Nice. She knew three languages. Cool. She played the violin. Awesome. She was gorgeous. Even better. Her father was a well-connected US senator on the Intelligence Committee. Perfect. He was also studying political science. He was there as an exchange student from Ukraine. He was going through the naturalization process.

Or so he had said. “Not yet, Cara. You know how I feel about you, and I want to get married, but I want to finish the naturalization process and pay off some of my debt first.” “You know as well as I do that we don’t have much time. I want to get it done before…” Her voice trailed off.

“I know, Cara. I know. Please don’t worry.” “Your naturalization probably would have gone a lot faster if we had gotten married.” “I’ll talk to him soon,” he lied.

She sighed and grabbed the water bottle from his hand. “It’s so hot today.” He nodded absent-mindedly. He thought back again to their first meeting. She had fallen for him instantly. He was tall and muscular with a chiseled face but a smile that made him seem so…approachable. She had made the first move, sitting down across from him, an iced chai tea in her right hand. “You look like you need some company,” she had said.

He remembered everything about that day. She was wearing a green sweater with brown ankle-high boots. Her hair was in a messy bun, and her Gucci glasses were just a tad too low on her nose. An attempt to show off her perfectly-manicured eyebrows, he guessed. “I kind of do,” he had replied. He had fallen for her hard. And that was the problem. Because now he had to kill her. * * * He never expected to have to kill the girl. He was a young FSB case officer on the rise when leadership approached him with the mission: move to America and hook up with a certain pretty girl to gain access to her well-connected father. A reverse honey trap. “Is this something you think you can do?” They had asked Vitaliy—or Jack as he was known in America.

Of course, he thought he could do it. He was young, reckless, and confident. And within a month of moving to America, he had the girl wrapped around his finger. But not just her. Cara’s mother swooned over the respectful young man who dropped in every Sunday afternoon for dinner, didn’t keep Cara out too late (most of the time), and periodically had flowers delivered for both daughter and mother. He was the perfect future son-in-law.

Even Cara’s father—the powerful chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee—liked him. The young man was willing to help whenever and wherever he was needed. The Senator had even occasionally spoken of him on the campaign trail when discussing immigration during his successful reelection campaign the previous year.

In short, Jack—or Vitaliy—was loved and trusted by Cara and her parents, and he had used that exceedingly to his advantage. Because of Jack, the FSB had been warned ahead of time of a plot by a group of CIA-funded Russian dissidents to bust Kremlin-critic Sergei Morozov out of jail. Because of Jack, the FSB had arrested five moles within the president’s office. And because of Jack, an outlandish plot to assassinate the Russian prime minister had been foiled and the perpetrator executed.

Everything was perfect. Russia got what it wanted, and Jack got a beautiful blond American girl. That was until the cancer diagnosis. Then, in what came as a shock to the political world, the Senator announced he had been diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer and had less than a year to live. The next day the FSB contacted Jack via secure means and told him it was time to pull out. The mission was over, and he was to come back to Russia. And then another message came through:  Eliminate Cara. Make it look like an accident. The FSB hated leaving even the slightest liabilities or loose ends. But it was at that moment, he realized that Cara didn’t just love him; he loved Cara. He truly didn’t want to kill her. In his mind, a balance scale swayed back and forth. On one side was the option to kill Cara. On the other side was the option to refuse and run from the FSB for the rest of his life. He shuddered just thinking about what they would do to him if he were ever caught. He had been to the basement of Lubyanka and heard the tortured, un-human shrieks of the individuals unfortunate enough to cross the FSB. If caught, his punishment would be far worse than execution. He really only had one choice. * * * They were once again among the trees. While Jack and Cara both enjoyed relaxing and partying on the beaches of LA, Cara was a born and bred San Francisco girl, and there was no place she loved to be more than among the redwoods of Northern California.

Light streamed through the branches above and lighted the intimate trail they were on with patches of bright sunlight. The trees around them were covered in spongy moss, and bright green ferns lined the path they were following. Jack could sense Cara was giddy. They had had a wonderful few days at Cara’s parent’s secluded log cabin and set out early in the morning to do some hiking. Jack could tell Cara believed today was the day. Today was the day when their new life would begin. The path ahead dead-ended at the foot of a massive redwood that stretched nearly three hundred feet into the air and had a circumference of at least one hundred feet. All along the bottom of the tree and going at least ten feet up, initials were scratched into the bark. For years, lovers had stopped at this spot and linked their lives together by carving their names side-by-side in the living bark. “Do you have a knife?” Cara asked, placing her soft hand on the craggy wood. Jack pulled one out of his pocket and stepped forward.

JW + CL . He encircled the four letters within a heart.

They sat together in the dirt, hand in hand with their backs to the tree.

“Have you gotten your N-400 back?”

“Cara, why do you keep asking?” Jack replied. “When I do, you will be the first to know.” “You’re never very forthright with information. Sometimes it takes a little prying.” She paused, and Jack knew the next question. But it never came. She said nothing. And there they sat. The only sounds being the birds singing, leaves rustling, and squirrels scampering around in search of a nut. A thousand thoughts were going through Jack’s mind. One was that the gun underneath his jacket had never felt so heavy. Jack looked over at the beautiful girl he had now known for four years and noticed that she was silently crying. Wet streaks were running down each of here cheeks. Jack sighed and squeezed her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth. Jack finally broke the silence. “I’m so sorry, Cara. I’ve lied to you. I’ve worn a mask of deceit for the past four years, stringing you along to gain access to your father.” He didn’t know where those words had come from, but they were now gushing out. “I’m a foreign agent, Cara. I was sent to meet you to steal secrets from your dad.” Cara was speechless. Her face was a look of pure surprise. “What—what are you saying?” Jack ignored her question. “The thing is, Cara. I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment we met at the cafe. I love everything about you.” He stopped and looked at the dirt. Ants were crawling around on his left leg, but he did nothing. “My name isn’t Jack. It’s Vitaliy. I’m Russian.” Vitaliy suddenly stood up and turned to face Cara. The mask was off. He could tell by the look on her face that she was struggling to comprehend the words coming out of his mouth. But it didn’t matter. Vitaliy dropped to one knee and reached into his jacket. “Cara, please forgive me.” Instead of a ring, Vitality pulled out a pistol. This didn’t need to look like an accident. Screw the FSB. A single gunshot echoed through the redwoods.


“You’ll never know unless you try,” a voice called out, breaking the silence of this long-forgotten treasure room. With a gasp, Sam dropped the box, letting it fall back to its hidden alcove. Only time knows how long the rusty old chest had sat there, and what was once elegant metal etchings adorning it, now show the tell-tale signs of a tarnished battle lost long ago. Sam knew a place like this would carry a curse, or perhaps at the very least, a memory, feelings so powerful and potent, unable to truly be forgotten. That’s how it always goes when hunting for treasures. With a deep, steeling sigh, Sam once more picked up the chest. The moment Sam lifted the chest there was a raspy sort of ghostly breath, and then another more lofty, feminine, and whimsical. The first spirit to manifest itself was on Sam’s left, and presumably the owner of the first voice. He appeared as an older male, but had the look about him of a rugged and grizzled wizard, with a look in his dead eyes that had seen far too much of the world. The next to appear was a younger, youthful spirit, like that of adventurous child; a spritely little thing who resonates a boundless energy even in her presumed deathly state. She looked up at Sam with eager enthusiasm in her hollow eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on and open it!” Sam looked down at her, and then at the other curiously, then back to the childlike spirit. “So it was you who said that then?”  “Yep,” she answered with cheerful vigor. “No.” the other spirit, answered, with a cold and stern response. Sam’s attention darted back and forth between the equivocating spirits. “Okay, so which is it then? Wait I’m sorry, who are the two of you? Are you the ghosts of this chest? ” Sam asked. “Yes” she answered. “No” he answered. Sam promptly sighed, at which point the older being loomed forward, closer. “We are not ghosts, not exactly. We were not alive, nor have we died. It is easier to say we are merely spirits, who watch those who would find this chest.” “Don’t be so formal you old codger!” the younger spirit shouted, before gliding over next to her counterpart. “We are spirits, but we have names, ya know? I’m Ertha! And we call this grumpy coot here Ol’ Cig!” Ertha extended a spectral hand out towards Sam. Sam reached out for it anyway, a gesture of kindness, knowing full well how intangible it was. “Hi, I’m… Sam.” “Hi Sam! Great to see you here! I love it when new people show up! Ol’ Cig and I don’t get out much these days, you know?” “Right. Now that you have gotten your introductions done, Ertha…” Ol’Cig groaned. “Oh, yes!” Ertha exclaimed, as she moved behind the chest. “Well go on then!” Sam’s hand hesitated as it lingered over the lock… It could be so easy to just do it… “What are you waiting for?” Ertha cajoled. “You are afraid,” the perceptive Ol’Cig spoke with an almost calm understanding. Ertha cocked her head towards Sam. “What is there to be afraid of? Don’t’cha think if we were gonna hurt ya, we would have?” Sam’s hands began to feel shaky. “I am not scared of you… This is not my first time with spirits and I see that you meant well…” Sam began. “See? You get it! Nothing to be scared up of. So just open up!” “I...think I am afraid of opening the chest,” Sam confessed “What? Why? Don’t be silly! It’s a treasure chest!” “You think it could be a trap.” Ol’ Cig commented. “Or it could be treasure!” “You will never know.” “Unless you try!” “Enough! Just stop for a moment!” Sam shouted, holding the box tighter, gripping it, shaking. Sam didn’t understand why this was such a struggle. The journey here was so easy, so adventurous and fun; that is what treasure hunters do right, find the shining gems amid darkness and decay? But the struggle was always the same. The meticulous and observant spirit of Ol’Cig studied Sam’s hesitations carefully. “I know you, Sam. How you are right now, I have seen it before. Some would call it cowardice, some wisdom. All I see is self-preservation; the most basic of mortal instincts. There have been a hundred adventurers before you, who were reckless and went diving after a treasure before they have all the information. But that’s not you, is it Sam? You are not reckless. You are smart. That’s why you haven’t opened the chest. And that is it, isn’t it? Unless you know, you will never try.” Sam, overwhelmed in the uncertainty, bellowed a groan of frustration, and dropped the box as they buried their face in their palms. The chest, landed in the small spectral hands before hitting the ground, and loftily floated back to its resting place. Ertha, then attempted to place her wrest Sam’s attention back. “Hey! Don’t listen to Ol’Cig, he’s nothing but bad noise. Sure, ya can play it smart, and go for self preservation, but that’s what animals do! And you are not an animal! What kind of life even is that? I bet ya didn’t become an adventurer just so you could get this far and go home empty handed, huh? Fortune favors the bold, Sam! So be the person you know you want to be! Pick up that chest and just open it. Even if it’s dangerous, then at least you will know! I don’t mean to speak for ya, but if I were in your boots, I would! Because to me, a life of never knowing is far worse than whatever trap or curse may or may not be inside. For better or for worse, you will at least have an answer to this mystery. The only way to get closure is to open. So go on Sam… Unless you try, you will never know!” Sam looked up from their hands to see the semi-opaque child-like face of Ertha making direct eye contact. The spectral aura gave off a warm and calming glow, the kind that would settle the nerves and inspire confidence. This of course, was interrupted by the chilling breeze of Ol’Cig’s cold calculations. “What do you even know about the people or the world, Ertha? Nothing. How many have been led astray by your misguided whimsy? I have lost count! You are a child, a speck among the grand scheme of the cosmos. You act on whim and speak without genuine consideration of consequences. You hope for the diamond in the rough adventurer among a sea of grave robbers. You greet and guide them all to a treasure, and recklessly expect the results to be different. My tact may be cold and brash, but I am trying to keep another adventurer from their grim fate!” Ertha turned around and stood her ground against the looming old wizardly specter, in all the hands-on-hips, matter-of-fact sass one might expect from an ancient childlike spirit of whimsy. “Hey! I may not have been around as long as you, but that doesn’t make me any less valid than you! I keep helping adventurers because people are always different! Don’t be so bitter and jaded because you lost your artifact an eon ago! This is the only one I have left, and I’m going to make sure the right hands find it! There is nothing you can say in your Old self that can stop me from trying again and again! It’s not reckless for me to keep hoping!” Ol’ Cig looked down at her, a focused gaze. Sam would never notice it, and Ol’ Cig in his stubborn self would never admit it, but the smallest of smirks tugged at the corner of his ghostly mouth. He didn’t agree with Ertha on nearly anything, but he did appreciate the fact that if he was going to be stuck with a rival for all of eternity, at least it was someone he could match wits with. “Reckless, maybe not. Foolish, certainly,” he said, a little more calmly than before. “I would rather be a happy fool, than be smart and bitter and miserable for all of eternity,” she replied sharply. Ol’ Cig nodded; he didn’t have much of a retort for that. A moment of inspiration, a revelation finally hit Sam, who had been awkwardly caught in the crossfire of these two eternally-bickering spirits, finally speaking up. “That’s it…” Ertha and Ol’ Cig, realizing how caught up in their own battle they got, turned their attention back to the adventurer who started this whole debacle. They addressed Sam in, speaking in perfect synchronicity. “You are going to open up then?” “You are going to count your losses then?” “No… Well yes, but no, that’s not what I mean… I’m talking about the box. That’s the riddle of chest isn’t it? Every great treasure has a puzzle to solve, and this is no different. Each of you are a piece of the puzzle.” Sam shuffled along and grabbed the treasure chest. Ol’Cig in his wizardly glory looked down at Sam with a curious and knowing glance. The free spirited Ertha was less, subtle, her gaze transfixed on Sam, and beaming ear to ear. “What you say, both of you is valid. Your arguments are both correct… And that makes the both of wrong… Neither of you can truly tell me what I should do. I got this far from my own wits and instincts, and, that is what I need to listen to. ” Sam’s hand moved across the old weathered lock of the chest, keeping eye contact with the spirits. Snap! Clank! A smile. “After all, I will never know unless I try."


“Wow.” There is a lengthy pause as she stares across the table. Her eyes scan every detail of the face before her. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she says. “I never thought I’d see you ever.” She slouches in her chair. “You’re very pretty.” “Uh, no I’m not. I have this huge zit in the middle of my face.” She crosses her arms and looks away. She smiles, remembering those days. “It’s barely noticeable and—” She raises her palms, covering her face and shouts, “Noticeable means you noticed!” “It’s on your chin, hardly the middle of your face.” She pauses, considers, then continues. “You did a really great job with the cover-up. Honestly, if you hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have noti– seen it at all.” She drops her hands and sits up taller. “You’re pretty, too. Like, better than I would have thought.” “Uh, thanks?” “You’re welcome.” “I look old.” “You are old.” “I’m tired.” She adjusts her glasses and rubs her eyes. “Not as tired as me.” She also rubs her eyes and adjusts her glasses. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, though. It’s a good color and the style is flattering.” Her shoulders slump once again. “I wish I had nicer hair.” “Are you kidding? I would love to have your hair. It’s so—” “Thick!” “–thick. And the curls–” “Curly! Ugh.” She smooths the fly-aways that end at the base of a ponytail. “Are you playing tennis?” She grows animated for the first time. “I am! Hoping to make Varsity this year.” “Good luck.” “Thanks, I need it.” “You need to believe in yourself. You got this!” “Pfft. How about you? Do you play?” She chuckles. “I do. But, hmmm, how do I say… I am much less competitive now.” Her eyes widen at the idea of not being competitive. “I guess I outgrew the need to win. Plus, you know, I’m not as agile as I used to be.” “Do you exercise regularly? I hear people your age need to exercise regularly.” “Regularly is subjective,” she says. “It’s funny, I hated gym class in high school but as an adult, I kind of wish it was required for life.” “I hate gym class. Jazzercize?” She chuffs, crosses her arms. “So stupid. And the uniforms. Gross. You know half the kids never even wash them? Leslie removed her shirt from the locker the other day and it was stiff from dried sweat. She shook it out and the whole row smelled like B.O.” She gags. “Then, she wore it.” “Sometimes it’s the actions of others that help us find our own way.” She gives her a look of mock and awe. “Fortune cookie says what?” “What? Oh, haha.” “So, what do you do? You know, for like work and stuff?” She sighs. “Definitely not what I always thought I would be doing.” “So, no professional tennis career?” They both laugh. “No, and no marine biology off the Pacific Northwest either.” “That’s okay. Cascadia wasn’t really your dream job. It was just an excuse to get the hell out of dodge.” They share a moment of silence. “Nice clothes, you must be successful.” “Success is relative.” “Got any kids?” “I do! A daughter. She’s wonderful. Smart and funny.” She smirks. 	“Competitive. I think you’d like her.” “Husband?” This is asked with more hesitation and perhaps less interest. She bobs her head. “Just one?” “At a time? Of course!” They laugh. “Seriously, though. Just one. We were married for a very long time.” Her voice dips as she grows wistful. “I’m sorry.” She wipes a tear. “How about you? Are you dating?” She practically howls. “Dating? Sounds so formal.” Then her demeanor settles. “No,” she offers with a shrug. “Who would want to ‘date’ this?” Her hand moves along her body in an all-encompassing gesture. “Stop! You’ve got a lot to offer. Smart, funny, cute.” “Easy for you to say. You’re all put together.” This elicits a groan. “How about school? You like school, right?” “I like being at school. It’s not home.” Another shared moment of silence. “You applying to colleges yet?” She balks. “I’m barely a Junior. That comes next year.” “Ah, okay. What classes do you enjoy?” “I love science. And despite getting straight A’s, I do not love math. They keep making me take next level courses even though I’ve met all the requirements for graduation. I’m only a Junior!” She nods sympathetically although she believes that’s a good thing. “And socially? Who are your friends?” She grows sad. “Donna moved over the summer.” “I remember. I’m sorry.” “And then Kate went to Europe with Beth’s family so now they’re like BFFs.” She’s sinking into the seat again. “Must be nice to have an established circle of friends.” She ponders, then scoffs. “Co-workers. Neighbors. But friends?” “You don’t have the same peer pressures.” “Jesus, don’t get me started on pressures.” “I can’t wait to grow up.” “I wish I was young again.” “You are so lucky,” they recite in unison. No laughter this time as they reach across the table and clasp hands. “I can’t wait to be–” “I wish I was–” “You,” they say together. They rise and walk around the narrow table, meeting in an embrace. “You are amazing,” they both say, words tumbling out in synchronized rhythm. They laugh. “Say it,” she says a beat before the other. “You say it,” she repeats. “Together?” “Can we help it?” They laugh again. She hugs her tighter and whispers, “On three… one.” “Two.” Their voices overlap, “I am amazing.” And for the first time, they believe it. They begin giggling. The giggles erupt into full, robust, genuine laughter. The kind you feel through your whole body. The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried, not that you’d want to. The sound sparkles, the sparkles grow. They clutch each other as the shower of lights consumes them, breaking off into a cascade of floating stardust. “Farewell, mom,” the daughter says, tipping the ashes into the coastal breeze. “I hope you know how amazing you are.”


The night gargles and spits out the wing of bat, eye of owl, voodoo doll and dead man’s scowl. Wild beasts in the cranium: Stasi whips and Nazi boots, Uzi bullets, Gestapo plot – these are the feasts of the minds of the crazy, deep into the sweat of garrotted insomnia. They do not deserve to dream. She dares to touch. She traces what is left on the outside; each pore a co-ordinate on her flatness, her invisible Cartesian planes. The body becomes a map with imaginary hemispheres, two poles. She finds her Arctic and thinks of polar bears in the snow. And she knows that the men sneering with the guns have killed so many that she conceives their deaths in scarlet ice melting and draining into her hypothalamus. She is suddenly cold. The map: she finds a bruise at the Equator. The callous lover she took has had his weight, his weight-thud on her hips. She knows she is alive when she feels his pound, his throb, his desperate probe into her space, her empty place, the void of his pleasure. Then the heave and the pant faster and faster until she thinks that he will break her beneath his sudden groan. Alone now, and all that remains is the bruise at her Equator; the contusion, blues and greens surreal: the pelvis speckled with the algae of his desire. Alone. The body, a map. She finds lines raised like bark: breasts, hips, thighs – each line a reward for the tummy swollen with the promised gasp of baby. The marks. She passed the children through her birthing place, where they emerged milky and sticky with a pulsing knot to the belly. She reached and they gnashed at the nipple while she smiled at the smallness of their toes. Her body: now simultaneously corpse and corpus. How will she know which streak belongs to which child? She panics. The lines are there, but the children have gone. Three. There should be three, but there are none and she remembers that they were snatched from her, abducted from the stink of her mental illness. They have stolen the children and she cannot touch the lost shoe, the sun hat, the plastic lunchboxes sealed at the corners over peanut butter sandwiches on brown bread. And she seethes. She seethes. They have taken the children and they are not where she needs them to be: snug-as-bugs in their beds with the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceilings. She is naked and the bones rise up to hide the place where the flesh should be. The weight of her has fallen and the children are gone and the tropics have taken leave and the poles play skipping rope and she feels herself blossom to the doom of her existence. Her thoughts are comma – caption – plot. Niagara Falls. Sahara dust storm. The pillow is wrong; she wants the feather, not the foam, but it has slipped to the floor and her arm outstretches like the General pointing toward this Guantanamo of her mind. The body weary, the brain too wide awake. She scours the room for sleep. It is bare. She has hidden the photographs. She has hidden the hand-painted pet-rocks, the stick-figure pictures and the potato prints given to her in small rushed hands and smiles assured of embrace. The cupboard. The clothes. The shoes. The belts. The hats. The silk scarf from Istanbul. The body moves and wants to hold cotton and florals and the nylon pantyhose that make her eczema flare. In the cupboard, she finds whiskey. Whiskey sips, the orifice screwed clean but for the band around the neck, the choke. She glugs and something in her burns and she must have more. Now she is desert, the quiet parch of memory. And the whiskey fills. The boil of ether quells a mind that dances naked at the intersections in the rain. And she will reign it, the mind. She is mad. She swigs the whiskey. She is whiskey. She swigs the mad. And the bed is the ceiling and the ceiling the bed and the duvet slumps in the corner, and she cannot stop this. The cacophony of phoneme, singing note. She is diva, crescendo-diva, aria lifting through time to the ceiling and the voices – the voices … the voices will have her gaoled. She has failed the test of motherhood without the chance to write it and she is sure that she could pass if only. Yes, the marks; the stretch-marks bonus points and her work always so well done with star stickers. She searches the night for stars, but it is too dark and her moss smell has filled the room. She studies the dressing table. It once belonged to someone else, but she can’t remember the woman’s name. The name and the dressing table. Dressing. Like a panacea upon a gaping wound. She is a haemorrhage and the bottles of paint and the grey pencil skirt will – Ah, the pencil skirt? Yes, she will make a good pencil; she will connect the dots in numerical order to discover the picture. She starts again to dress and now she is the aftermath of famine in the looking glass. The mirror concludes that she is not worthy of motherhood and she daubs the paint upon the face and wears the festive mask of the mummer and the mirror, mirror on the wall is mocking with eyes that pierce as she stoops to find the bottle and her clothes are loose and she is becoming nothing but the ether and she feels so much lighter. She is numb. The raw flesh has lost its nerve and she stretches to reach the hanged car keys. She puts them in the pocket, safe with the memories of the three children. Vivid now, she pictures foetus, palm-sized blind-child, not yet formed. The mind, the schizoid mind throws them into her pocket: three Tom-thumbs and her car keys. She will travel. There is work to do. A job. That is the first number on the dot-to-dot. She has a job with words and a swanky title. She is chief, chief like the fire-séance myth where she is the flute and the others are playing the fire and she is the dancing feather in a drab grey office with windows on the inside for people to watch the spectacle of flute becoming nymph in the fishbowl. She is salmon swimming upstream and the cars hoot and she thinks of the old fairgrounds sprung quietly as mushrooms in the sleep of her youth and she hears the music in her head as the tin notes louder, spinning, and then the lag of the music machine as the bumper cars stop. Oh, this is fun. If only she had left home later there would be more cars to play, but it is twilight and she is on the freeway pushing the pedal down, down, playing the cruel lover’s sex pound rhythm on the pedal and she is stop-start-wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee and she feels free and she hears laughter cackle and it is hers before she stops before the red light. The whiskey. Ah, in the workbag beside her. Another bottle of numb. Yes, anaesthetise the place where once was heart, liver, pancreas and lung, a textbook full of mitochondria and Golgi bodies, all stripped along with the children. And she says their names and suddenly she is bone and she tastes the brittle marrow sucked dry and she would be no good for the stocks. She sits at her office desk, letters surfing and dipping and reappearing like alphabet soup. She must mend the words. There is the news of other places, other people, and it is no longer sad enough for her. She shuffles the papers for tragedy, scrolls the screen PageDown into the gutters where she finds the number 36 and she hates that the end is always even and she wants to make it odd, but there are no half-measures, only the cavity-glug of her throat and her whiskey. The odd will never have the last word. The people in her head escape. One voice is chanting and one is screaming and one is defiant and will not speak but her story falls out anyway with the gob and the spit and the teeth-lipstick-red and there are faces in suits to snatch up the whiskey and she feels herself unsettled from her cat-curl and she knows that they will take her away and when she kicks she sees a woman pull down the pencil skirt so that her dignity is intact as the timer buzzes and she realises that she has lost the race to find the children. Drunk. And sleep and defeat blanket her as she is stretched and belted in the back of the ambulance with the siren, blood-thirsty, whirring.


Her vision dances before her, flecks of near blue in an endless black sea, stumbling about like drunken ants. She digs her knuckles in deeper, and blue brightens to white, a starry sky painted against her eyelids, then beams of bright light, then dizzying spirals that slowly swallow the darkness. Maybe if she pushes hard enough, they’ll swallow her too. She brings her hands down to rest in her lap, one atop the other, and in time the brilliance subsides, and she is once more alone in inky blackness. All around her are the sounds of panicked people that should be at rest. She focuses on the rough stone beneath her instead, cold as the desert night. She ought to be wary, sat as she is, a restless city beneath her, their cries drifting to her ears on the wind. But some slight, terrible instinct within her fears that to leave her refuge and descend, would be the most dangerous thing of all. She sees brief glimpses of reds, and oranges, dull and throbbing. Perhaps figments of her imagination, perhaps not, but dread pulses through her regardless. Her head hangs low, spine curving forward like a triumphal arch, severed in two. A single spasm could send her tumbling over the edge.

The reds and oranges continue to bloom like weeds, just as the white did, as if hoping to engulf her. Razia opens her eyes. She looks down, to see a world ablaze. **************************************************************************** They’d lain in wait beyond the city walls. Tens of thousands of pale demons – armoured ghosts, bloodless ghouls. She doesn’t know when they’d first arrived. It feels like a lifetime ago, but she remembers the time before. She remembers a calm, of sorts. A crystal night, when she had climbed up onto the city walls and seen nothing but stars, eternal and unending. A darkness not permeated with the glare of firelight on metal, and silence not corrupted by the constant brays of dying horses. The city has not been dark, truly dark, for many months, but she would rather the uneven night to the inferno she sees now.

“Hell must be empty,” her mother had once said, “for the number of devils in the world.” She thinks now, that her mother must have been wrong. She looks around, and knows that Hell has followed its servants here. The very air burns. **************************************************************************** She cannot stay on this roof, sedentary, sedate, as much as her fluttering heart implores her to stay. She feels exposed, and vulnerable, and she knows that while the streets hide untold dangers, they will still be safer than simply waiting for fires to spread and claim her. Voices rage below her. She uses that disquieting blend of terror and triumphant mirth to mask the sounds of her own descent, and when bare feet finally touch down on dusty earth she keeps close to the flickering shadows of building, innocuous and unnatural. This is her home, the city where she grew up. These are the alleys she played in as a child, the homes where her friends and family live. She can only pray that the familiarity will serve her now. The dark shields her like an old friend, while surrendering the foreign devils without mercy, pale faces reflecting the firelight like fallen moons. Her mother calls to her in her mind, in her memory. “My little shadow,” she’d laugh, walking between the rows of buildings as she visited her patients, bringing food and medicine, comfort and clothing, and Razia would doggedly follow her footsteps, though her feet would ache and she was seldom allowed inside. Today, when the cries had rang out that the walls had been breached, heralded by choked screams, her mother had looked at her with bright eyes and wordlessly told her to flee. Today, when her mother had left the house, Razia didn’t follow. But she can still be a shadow. She moves like one now, silent and stealthy. Intangible. If she can convince herself of that, then maybe the flying arrows and stray blades and wandering hands will believe it as well. If she can will herself untouchable, perhaps she will make it through this night unscathed. ****************************************************************************

The air stinks of smoke and the night is thick with screams. But for just a moment, Ravia feels removed from it all, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. For a moment, here, in this alleyway, as the city burns around her, she is only aware of one thing. The man lies on the ground, stiff and unmoving. She thinks she could recognise him, but she looks away before she can be sure, not wanting to know. Lidded eyes unseeing, rigid fists press deep into his flesh, tight around the sword hilt protruding from his stomach. The ground around him is streaked red. She imagines him, the man he was, dirt beneath his fingernails as he desperately tried to claw himself towards help, to safety, before succumbing to insurmountable pain, to the beckoning of death, and simply holding on instead, as his grip slipped on the life bleeding out of him. She moves closer. More screams – and laughter too, she can hear now, but screams always are the best at making themselves heard at night. She knows these streets like a sailor knows the night sky; even amidst the chaos, she could walk the path to her uncle’s shop with closed eyes. The mosque is around the corner from there. She is sure, with a sudden, plummeting certainty, that that is the focus through which the demons will unleash their Hell. People must have fled to the mosque when the battle horns sounded, seeking safety, sanctuary, salvation. The void within her remembers the cries she tried to block out on that roof, and their words take shape in her mind now, though she did not want to understand them then. She sees smashed doors and burning buildings, but not a single person, and has the horrifying suspicion that those who did not run to the mosque were dragged. Screams and laughter, and the screams demand more attention, beg more loudly to be heard, but it’s the laughter that sends shivers down her spine. She wants to run, but she has nowhere to go. And she wants to survive, but she doesn’t know how. Choices stretch out before her, and she fears that they all lead to death. She moves closer still. **************************************************************************** She kneels. A dampness soaks through the knees of her shalwar. The hilt is a curious thing, strangely crooked, topped with a cross. She tries to adjust the hands, to better study the sword – there is a little resistance, then a loud crack, and she can move the arm aside with ease. The blade, what little she can see of it, is narrow and flat. She tugs, but there is little give. She thinks it must have been straight at one point, but now it sticks, bent against the ground. Useless.

The screams are growing softer, hoarser. Her resolve strengthens with every one. If the only thing she can do now is give witness, she will not shy away. She turns instead to the man’s belt. It holds a dagger - small, with a beautiful curved blade and a hilt that fits her hand as if moulded for her grip, as if it were made for her to wield. Part of her laments that she cannot use the demons’ own blades against them, but the better part knows she is as like to damage herself using a sword as the enemy. Perhaps she will do the same with this knife, but it is at least familiar, and will not unbalance her as she walks. And for all the strength of her will, she cannot bring herself to approach the devastation unarmed.

The taste of smoke has made a home in her nose and mouth, and she is preparing to venture even deeper into the hellfire. She will need protection. She can readjust her hijab to loosely cover her nose and mouth, and must be content with that. She reaches out to close the man’s eyes, and then stands. She doesn’t know the entire Salat al-Janazah, but it feels wrong to say nothing. So she recites the Takbir, and hopes someone will be able to perform the complete rites later. And then, still in the shadows, she begins to walk to the mosque. **************************************************************************** She watches from the shadows, as the mosque, it’s doors barred, is set ablaze to depraved laughter. She chokes on smoke and other people’s screams, and ash clings to the tears that stream down her face.

Heat floods the night - she tells herself it is still the night, though the sky is so thick with grey that she doubts she’ll know when the morning comes, because if this is only one night then it can still end when the day breaks - and dries her throat, her mouth, her lungs. She welcomes it - it keeps her quiet, silences her sobs. And through it all, she refuses to look away. This is her burden to bear, the price of her unearned fortune, and she pays it willingly. So though her eyes sting, with sorrow and anger and frustration, she opens them wide, and lets the sight of flames engulf her.