I don’t smoke. But during my four weeks in Primrose Lodge , I spent many hours in the smokers’ hut. It was a small area, overhung by a tired and twisted oak, with some rustic benches and two or three smelly containers for stubbing out fags. Although I was one of a small minority of non-smoking, non-vaping addicts, “the hut” was (fumes notwithstanding) the best place to enjoy some decent company. It was always the spot where the conversation was most entertaining and where we could debrief after some heavy sessions of varied forms of therapy. It was in the hut, on my third day in rehab, that I met Helen. She had just arrived and was clearly struggling with the early effects of some pretty bad withdrawals. Apparently, she wasn’t yet on the full program, and she had not been in morning therapy.  With attractive dark hair, striking green eyes, and high cheekbones she should have been a beautiful woman. But, at that moment, she wasn’t. Dressed in a drab, grey tracksuit, life hung heavy on her and she looked tired and defeated. She sat, a cigarette between in her fingers, listening vaguely to an animated conversation between old Anna and a pale young man, about Anna’s cats.

Anna, I knew, had been in rehab at least three times. Clearly a rehab groupie, I had found her highly intelligent and surprisingly insightful. The young man I did not know. Opposite them sat a young woman, Nadia, who was in the facility for treatment of some kind of severe personality disorder. She was looking now, with some interest, at Helen.

“Hello,” said Nadia in her usual intense and sporadic fashion, “What’s your name? What are you here for?” Helen turned to her in surprise. The others stopped speaking and, with friendly curiosity, waited for Helen to answer. This was typical smokers’ hut form, and I was interested to hear her story. “Umm,” Helen began, the colour rising in her face. “I’m Helen. I’m not sure I want to say anything about why I’m here right now.” “Come on,” said Nadia, “Of course you can tell us. Everyone here is addicted to something, so you’re not special. And we’ll find out in ‘group therapy’ anyway.” Taken aback, Helen was silent for a moment. She looked nervously around at the smiling, friendly group. “I have come for a detox,” she said defiantly. “I had a little too much to drink over the weekend.” With that, she stubbed out her cigarette, and left. “She’ll come round in a day or two,” said Nigel, a friendly, middle-aged man with a bright red nose. He’d been in the facility for a couple of weeks already and seemed to have had a kind of spiritual re-awakening.

“They don’t all have the same journey as you, Nigel,” answered Linda, a young woman with very heavy make-up who sat on his left. “But I hope you’re right. It looks like she needs some help.” And, before long, it appeared that Nigel had been right. It was a day or so later when Helen, like the rest of us, began to declare at the start of our sessions, clearly and forthrightly, “Hello, my name is Helen. I am an alcoholic.”

Maybe, I hoped, she was going to start dealing with her denial. I began to hear some of her stories. It was clear that drinking a little too much on the weekend was only a small part of the problem. Often drunk, she revealed how she spent most of her life trapped in a kind of emotional cage and behaved accordingly. The addiction, like for all of us, held her in a zombie state, deteriorating all that could have made her great. Helen’s life and marriage were both falling apart. And as far as Helen was concerned, it was because her abusive husband made her life a living hell. I kept wondering what we would hear if he could tell his side of the story. One morning, the counselor asked Helen to share with the group some of the ‘icons’ from her life in addictive alcoholism; moments that demonstrated the damage she had caused to herself and to others. “I kinda remember one evening,” Helen began at length, “although not very clearly. Tommy was away on business. He doesn’t give a s*** about me, you know. I was supposed to be home so the babysitter could get somewhere. But I stopped in with some friends for a drink, and had a couple too many.” “A couple too many?” prompted the counselor. “Oh I don’t know,” Helen said. She became flustered and impatient.

“I drank too much, anyway. I was late home and the babysitter had to rush out. I went to my room to get changed, but I really needed another drink. I took the bottle from where I always keep some vodka hidden in my drawer and drank what was left in it. I don’t remember much of what happened then, but I think my daughter came in to show me a picture.” There were tears in Helen’s eyes. But I couldn’t place the look. Hardness. Defiance. Anger. Frustration. But not, I was pretty sure, contrition. “What happened then?” asked the counselor. “I think I slapped her. Hard. Because she had bad bruising on her face and a cut from my ring. I told her to f*** off, and to show somebody else. I was totally f**** myself. Why did Tommy leave me to look after the kids?” We sat in silence, waiting for her to go on. The pain and sadness in the room were palpable. “What finally brought you to Primrose Lodge ?” somebody asked. Helen looked at the floor. After a long silence, she continued. “I had a drink before I picked up Chloe from school. I crashed the car on the way home. Hit a traffic light. Chloe broke her arm, and I got some pretty bad bruising. We weren’t strapped in.” Helen looked around the room, anger in her eyes again. “It was my husband who made me check in here. But it also him who made me drink that day. He is such a bastard to me. It’s all I can do to cope.” Days in the rehab became weeks. And finally it was time for me to leave. The day before I went home, Helen was in my last group session.

“Forgiveness is the key to freedom,” shared Lenny, a feisty old man who had come into Primrose kicking and screaming. What a change we had seen in him.

“Resentment is the 'number one' offender. It destroys more alcoholics than anything else,” he quoted from the AA ‘Big Book’. Several people nodded. We all knew it was true.

And then, in that moment, I noticed the look on Helen’s face. She looked furious. Grim, with a fierce determination. I felt a deep sadness for this woman. Why did she refuse to embrace the obvious and miraculous truth that forgiveness would finally set her free. To cling to her resentments would be the end of her. It was three weeks later when I was able to join the first of the regular sessions held for those of us addicts released back into the wider world. Outpatient agony clinics, I guess you might call them. It was a lovely reunion between friends, after the intense time we’d had together “inside”.

Anna was there, and I asked her if she knew much about what the others were doing. Nadia was still in therapy, she said, obnoxious as ever. Nigel was apparently doing well, on a good track, and regularly attending 12-step meetings. She said she hadn’t heard from Linda.

“And Helen?” I asked. “Any news?” Anna looked at me sadly. “Back on the bottle,” she said.

“Her husband kicked her out and is going for a divorce with full custody of their girls.” I was new to this journey. But the terrible and confronting words of the AA Big Book came forcefully to my mind: “Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path. Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves. There are such unfortunates. They are not at fault; they seem to have been born that way. They are naturally incapable of grasping and developing a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty. Their chances are less than average.” Was Helen one of these? Did she have the capacity to be honest? I didn’t know. But this journey was not one I felt I could take in any other way.


I am not happy with what I have done but I did what I did and I cant change it. Let me start from the beginning. CHAPTER#3 THE BEGINNING. "Mom wheres my makeup?" "Right were you left it on tour make up stand." "You know I wish you wouldn't wear makeup it bad for your skin." "Found it thanks mom." "I know you hate makeup but I love it." I applied my makeup to make my face look better. Today is going to be the best day ever. Its talent show day at school and I want to look my best. I also hope that I get in the top three winners that is my dream. I got to school. I cant wait to see all my friends. I walked to my locker to see my friends waiting for me. "Hey girls." They dont look very happy. "Dont hey use we know what you did behind our back you back stabber." "What are you talking about?" "I would never talk behind  about anything." "Were talking about the talent show you went behind our back to do the show by yourself without telling us." "Is that what this is about?" "You both said you wanted nothing to do with the talent show." "Yep you said it we want nothing to do with the talent show and now your part of it and we want nothing to do with you." "What?" They said nothing else and walked away. They told didnt tell me that I couldn't join. Whatever I guess we are not true friends after all. I put my stuff in my locker and headed to the auditorium. I am so excited to show my dancing skills. I watched as the other kids did there talents on the stage it's almost my turn I started walking on the stage when I was stopped by the police. "Hey what gives?" "Emily you are under arrest for robbery and murder." "What I wouldn't hurt anyone I am not that kind of person." They pit the hand cuffs on me and walked me out of the school. I was put into the cop car. We got to the station they walked me into a cubed room for integration. "We are going to ask you some questions." "Ok I have nothing to hide." "Wheres the money?" "What money?" "I am not a thief." So there still talking about that robbery that happend last night. "Ok if you wont confess." "Where were you the night of the robbery?" "Bakeing cookies with my mother." "After we made cookies we sat down and watched horror movies all night." "Ok thanks for tour time." "Book her and get her a bed in jail." "What but I didnt do anything." "You better get me my lawer." "I also want my phone call." They walked me to the phone. I called my mother. "Hello." "Hi mom it me Emily." "I was pit under arrest for last night's murder." "I am so scared." "I asked for a lawer as well." "Good girl I will be there soon." My mother hung up the phone. The police walked me to the sell that i am going to stay in for I dont know how long I am hoping not long. I talked to the lawer with my mother. I was told I was going to stay in jail until they found out the truth. The police said they had a video with my face on it. They showed me the video but it wasn't me it was my exfriends. "Thoughs two are kids from my class." "Who are they?" "Carly and Lilly." I was walked to the jail sell again. "What but it's not me this isn't right." I was literally thrown into the sell. I cried myself to sleep. I stated to makeing lines on the wall for days that I am in jail. It's already been twenty day how many more before I can go back home and sleep in my conftable bed. I cant wait to see my mother and my family again. I miss my mother so much. I would say the same for my father but he was never there for my mother and I he left when I was born. The days here in jail are all the same I work in the laundry room for half the day and after lunch I ckean all the dishes. That's my life now. My mother visits me once a week. That's the limit for me is one day a week because they dont want me to conspire with the outside world and have them kill and rob another place. I don't know why this is happening to me. I mean I know why because my exfriends  framed me for something just because of this talent show. "Emily your mother's on the phone." They walked me to the phone and the window thank let's me see my mother. I pick up the phone. "Hi mother how are things?" "They would be better of you were out." We talked for five minutes less time than before. They grabbed me I pulled away. "No I get more time with my mother." I grabbed the phone again. They grabbed me and hand cuffed me. "No!" "Mom." I started crying. I look at my mother she was crying to. I was thrown in the sell again. CHAOTER #2 Today is day one hundred and tenth day being here in jail I get to put another line on the wall. I haven't been able to see my mother since the whole thing that happend I miss her so very much. I am so happy that today is the day I go to court. About and hour i was on the stand being asked questions. After everything in court it's time to hear what the judges have to say. "We find the defendant guilty of robbery and murder." "What theres so much saying that I am not guilty and your all saying I am guilty." "This is unjustified." "I want justice." I was taken by force by the police. We get back to my jail sell and I was once again thrown in jail. I lay in bed refusing to eat and or do anything. CHAPTER#3 I woke up I went to put another lone on the wall but all the lines that I put up were all gone. What's going on everything started to fade away. Disappear from my eyes. I jolted awake. It was all a bad dream. I thought I was in jail but I am at home in my comfortable bed. I jumped out of bed ran down stairs my mother makeing breakfeat. "Moring sweetie your up early." "Mom you will never believe  it but I had a bad dream that I was in jail for the rest of my life." "I  would make lines on the jail wall but it all disappeared before my eyes and I woke up and now I am here talking to you about." "Wow that's a bad dream for sure." "I am so happy that you are not wearing makeup today." "Yea  your right about it." "That's the first I am right?" "I dont believe it." I laughed. "Your right." "I also remember you telling me that I am beautiful without all that makeup on so I am listening to you and not wearing makeup." "I am  so proud of you."


ACCEPTANCE I packed my lunch and two beers in the ice chest on my twenty foot Sears aluminum boat. Then I loaded my favorite Penn rod and reel and my tackle box. I went back into the house and collected my wallet, checkbook and keys before taking Sarah into my arms and hugging her tightly. I looked into her eyes and said, “Old girl, you are still the love of my life. Don’t you ever forget that!”

She laughed and brushed the gray hair from her eyes and said, “After fifty-three years, I’m not likely to forget!” Then I tenderly kissed her lips and walked out the door.

Before going to the boat ramp, I headed to the local State Farm Insurance office. When I walked in, my current agent, David Beam III, greeted me. His grandfather and father had been my agents before but I had outlived them. Like I’ve outlived so many people.

“I’m here to pay my premiums, David!” I said, as I began writing out a check.

“I wish all of my clients were as conscientious as you!” he said. “So many let their policies lapse. But you’re actually a couple of days early.” “Well I want to make sure Sarah is protected, in case anything happens to me.” I replied.

“Heck, you’re indestructible!” he stated. “Bet you survive me!”

(TERMINAL!) “Don’t bet on it,” I said, as I handed him my check. “That covers everything, right? Cars, property and life ?” He confirmed it and handed me my receipt. I went back to my truck. I put the receipt where it would certainly be found. I started driving to the boat ramp.

(HOSPICE!) I shook my head and turned on the radio to banish the doctor’s words from my brain. It didn’t work.

At the boat ramp, I carefully launched my boat and on the second attempt, the twenty-five horsepower Evinrude outboard motor roared to life. When I bought the boat and motor forty years ago, the salesman told me that if I maintained the motor, it would last me a lifetime. I had to smile. It seems he was right. I headed towards the jetties and from there ran out into the Atlantic Ocean. The seas were flat, the sun was shining, the boat was running smoothly and it was a wonderful day ( STAGE 4!) to be alive. I ran due east for two hours. The motor began to sputter as the gas tank started to empty. Normally the twelve gallon tank was faithfully filled before I ever launched the boat. But this would not be a round trip. I figured I was around forty miles offshore. This would suffice.

The engine stalled out as I prepared my rod and reel and after baiting up with a frozen sardine, I cast the bait out. So many happy memories in this boat. I had bought the boat and motor after I mustered out of the Marines in ‘63. Three tours of duty in Vietnam was enough. Dozens of firefights and more hand-to-hand combats, usually at night when we were overrun by Charlie. The only way to survive was with your K-Bar knife. Him or me! ( CANCER!) All of that time, all of those fights and never a scratch. I was the only jarhead in my unit to not win a Purpleheart.

No wonder I began to believe I was invincible. Untouchable. Almost immortal.

I came back from the war and started racing cars. Everybody called me The Man With No Fear. I’d cut in between cars with barely an inch between us, while going 180 mph. Won a lot of races too. But there were miscalculations as well. One resulted in a seven car pile up. Four dead drivers, one crippled for life and one hospitalized for two weeks. Not even a bruise on me.

I began to get cocky. Nothing could get me.

I was in The Twin Towers on 9/11. I was in town on business and I had some time to kill before my appointment that was two blocks away. A cousin worked on the thirtieth floor of the first tower and I went up to say hello to her. But she was going into a meeting and begged me to come back at lunchtime. I agreed and was walking out of the building when the first plane struck. She did not survive.

Suddenly my reel began screaming as line ran from it. I had a big fish on and I ( METASTASIZED!) began fighting it. I instinctively knew this would be an amberjack and it would serve my purpose beautifully. Twenty minutes later, I pulled a forty pound “jack” into the boat. It began rapidly flipping its head and tail against the bottom of the boat, desperately trying to avoid its death. But a couple of deep cuts from my fillet knife ended its quest for life.

I tied a rope around the amberjack’s forked tail and secured it to one of the boat’s cleats. Then I held the lifeless fish over the side of the boat before expertly slashing and stabbing the fish on both sides. Then I let the fish down into the water where it floated alongside the boat.

Amberjacks have tremendous amounts of blood and oil in their bodies. Sharks like blood and oil.

I re-baited the hook and started pursuing another.

I tried not to reflect on my mission today but it was impossible to not.

I had met Sarah at a party and fell hard for her. While she was intrigued by my death-defying lifestyle, she also was fearful. When I proposed, she said she’d marry me, only if I settled down. And I did.

But it seemed Death was still chasing me. I was in a corporate jet that mysteriously crashed. I was the only survivor. My Fiat was literally run over by an eighteen-wheeler. I suffered a concussion and a broken foot. Witnesses said it was impossible to survive (Pancreatic) the crash but I hobbled away.

In Tampa, I was accidentally in the middle of a gang shoot-out. The target and four of his “posse” were walking ten feet behind me when an Escalade coasted up and three uzis poked out of the passenger side windows. The shooters emptied their magazines into the five men. A few late shots barely missed me. Those bullets hit the wall of the building I was about to enter but all I suffered were a few minor lacerations from splinters caused by the bullets ricocheting around me.

I had a physical with my primary doctor fourteen months ago. “Amazing that a man of your age is in the condition you are!” he proclaimed. “You have the vitals of a man fifty years younger. You even have all of your hair although it is starting to turn gray. You obviously have fantastic genes. I’m frankly mystified and very jealous. I can see you living to be a hundred and twenty years old. Try not to step in front of a bus, you lucky bastard!” I walked out smiling and feeling wonderful. A hundred and twenty years! I hoped he was right.

But six months ago, I started feeling like something wasn’t quite right. I started coughing and hacking. I was weak and my legs were trembling. My appetite was off  (Advanced) and I saw blood in my stools. A lot of blood.

I didn’t let on to Sarah but secretly starting Googling my conditions. Then I made an appointment to get another physical, but with a doctor two states away. I gave a fake name and paid cash for everything.

I had a reason for being secretive.

I was informed the tests would take two days so I told Sarah an old war buddy was dying and asked to see me. She wanted to accompany me but I told her no. I said I wanted some privacy before seeing the dying man.

Especially since I might be the dying man. During the six hour drive, I refused to believe I was possibly ill. If I was, it certainly would be minor and require a daily regimen of a pill or two. After all, I had cheated Death so many times, certainly I would keep on doing it. My doctor’s words, “A hundred and twenty years!” kept ringing through my head. Surely he would know.

I had no doubt I was wasting my time and money. But I had to know for sure.

I was not prepared for the hospital bill that was presented to me. I handed over all the money I had and signed a promissory note for the rest. However it was under a fake name and address so good luck to them for collecting.

But I was especially not prepared for the diagnosis. Stage four pancreatic cancer. The doctor gently informed me this was the most deadly cancer and the survival rate was measured in months. Plus it had spread into my lungs and intestines. “Sounds serious.” I jokingly said. He said not to give up hope as medical advances were being discovered all the time. But he also mentioned quality of life and enjoying what time was remaining. His nurse gave me several pamphlets on hospice care.

At least he was upfront and spared me a bunch of hypocritical bullshit.

He shook my hand and wished me well and marched away, leaving me to digest the death sentence I had been given.

The drive home was mostly a blur. I was prepared for possible bad news, but not that bad. Surely it was a mistake. A lab technician had bumbled a test. Or my records were mislabeled or inadvertently mixed with somebody else’s file. Yes! That had to be the explanation. I could not be dying !  I hadn’t survived all I had to end up unconscious in a hospital bed with a catheter and diaper keeping me clean. NOT ME ! And the image of Sarah, sitting by my bed, keeping a vigil as I withered away made me nauseous. So I drove home, convinced that I had given a great deal of money to an uneducated quack. He was wrong. It was as simple as that.

I was not dying! But when I pulled into our driveway, I got out of the truck and had to rush around the corner of our garage and vomited violently.

It was a bright red color.

OH SHIT! Sarah greeted me with a tender hug and a kiss and asked how my trip was. I told her how depressing it was to witness a man wither away.

And suddenly I realized the truth of my statement. I was dying! I had lived my entire life dodging, avoiding and giving Death the finger, and the bastard was claiming His prize sooner than I planned.

That night I lay next to Sarah in our bed unable to sleep. If she learned about my condition she would demand that I submit to every possible and very expensive test and treatment. It would bankrupt us and I’d die anyway. So I made my plan.

I spent the next week working around the house. I fixed the leaking faucet, squeaky door, hole in the fence, painted the bathroom and all of Sarah’s “honey-do” list. I took her to dinner at her favorite restaurant and even drove her to see her cousin, whom I did not care for. I mowed the yard and weeded the flower beds. And twice we made love. She jokingly asked me what had earned her so much special attention. I could only smile in reply. The final thing to handle was our life insurance. It paid triple for accidental death. And I needed to ensure there was no way the insurance company could avoid paying.

That was why I was so secretive about my identity. I didn’t want anybody but especially Sarah or my insurance company to think this was anything but an accident. I want to make sure Sarah is financially comfortable after I’m gone.

I get another solid bite and reel in a nice red snapper. Perfect! This will help complete the idea that this was nothing more than an ordinary fishing trip with a tragic ending. I slipped the fish into the icebox.

I pulled out one of the sandwiches and a beer and enjoy them as I savor the peace and beauty of the ocean. Fishing was one of my greatest pleasures and I’m glad to be having this last time.

Suddenly the boat had a hard jolt that caused it to start rocking and me to drop my sandwich and the beer.

They were here! I stood up unsteadily and peered over the side of the boat. Half of the amberjack was missing and several long gray forms could be seen flashing in and out of the cloud of blood trailing from the remains of the fish. Several large fins were zig-zagging along the surface as more sharks came to join the feeding frenzy.

I untied the rope that held the partial amberjack in place and pulled the carcass closer to the boat. Another shark, about a seven foot hammerhead, came up and ripped off several pounds of the ‘jack and more blood flowed out.

It was time.

I quickly checked the boat to make sure I hadn’t overlooked anything that might raise alarms or questions. Everything looked right but then I saw the shadowy black shape standing at the stern.

“Hello,you old bastard. I’ve avoided you all of these years but you always win, don’t you? So you’re here to claim your prize, right?” It might have been my imagination but I’m sure that Death is watching me. Waiting.

I released the rope and the remains of the amberjack then pulled out my pistol, a Smith and Wesson .38. I held it in my hand and jumped into the water.

I came to the surface and treaded water long enough to see several sharks finishing off the amberjack. I muttered, “I sure hope that damned doctor was right!” Then I put the gun’s barrel against my temple and squeezed the trigger.


[Trigger warning: mental health, suicide/self-harm] The brief at the night school class is clear: Paint a self-portrait in monochrome . I choose yellow. It sits there between green and orange on the art teacher’s colour wheel. He spins the paper circle and all the colours briefly blur to white. I choose yellow because it is the colour of happiness and sunshine. The colour of the sunflowers in the Van Gogh painting the teacher showed us. Yellow flowers in a yellow vase on a yellow table against a yellow wall. The colour of butter and comfort. The colour of my favourite dress. But when I open the draw of yellow oil paints, harsh metallic names glare out at me – cadmium, sulphur, titanium – as if from the tiny squinting black letters of the poster in the chemistry lab. Hazardous, poison-tasting names. ‘He used to eat the paints’, the teacher had said. ‘Lead-based paint, you know – it sent him mad…’ * The first week, I sketch the outline of my face – the too-sharp nose, the too-thin lips. Studying myself in the rust-blotted hand-mirror, I take each detail down, mercilessly. The other women gossip and share advice. Most had chosen to work in blues or greens, after the colour of their eyes. I chose yellow. By the time the teacher is closing the blinds, I had a workable outline of my face. Casting one look back at my sketch, I see the blank pupils, white unfilled holes where a soul should be. * The second week comes and we enter the classroom from the blunt cold of a November night, trailing long knitted scarves and the mulch of autumn leaves on our shoes. The others were greeting each other by name now. Setting eyes on my sketch again, its lines seem to have shifted – the face narrower, the forehead more lined, the expression more pinched than I had remembered. I had aimed for a neutral smile, like the Mona Lisa the teacher showed us – but what I see now before me is a thin grimace outlined in hard HB and not a smile at all. But the colour will cheer up the lines of my face, I am sure. I select a sunshine yellow for the background and wash the canvas quickly with broad confident brushstrokes. Yellow, the colour of the roses I received on my first ever date. The colour of cartoon smiley faces and the notebook my mother gave me that says Positive vibes only on the cover. Also, the colour of the laburnum tree in the garden of my childhood home. One seed pod, my mother said, could kill you. Yellow yellow yellow for danger. * The third week is noticeably colder and our breath clouds in pale halos around the art studio. The other women talk about their families and the latest episode of a series I’ve never seen. Revisiting my canvas, the yellow of the background is not the warm hue I remembered but the pale and washed-out shade of sickly winter sunbeams – an anaemic, bloodless colour. No matter - I will pick richer yellows to shade the portrait itself and the muted background will only serve to highlight the brightness of the face. I pick out a bright lemon to highlight the cheekbones and forehead and nose and a deep mustard to work in contrasting shadows under the brow and lip. It will be an exercise in delicate chiaroscuro (I remember taking down the new term in my small, cramped hand, which did not seem to do justice to those smooth Italian syllables). ‘ Chiaroscuro, ’ the teacher had said, ‘The art of balance, the perfect harmony of light and dark.’ But stepping back to appraise my shading, I find there is no balance in the lighting – the highlighted cheekbones and forehead and nose are too bright, a lurid, luminous yellow, and the mustard shading has dried too dark, carving deep pits of shadow under the eyes and hollowing out the cheekbones to ragged caverns. The face that stares back from the canvass looks wild and sleepless. Recently, the nights have become an endless string of minutes. In the darkness, the luminous yellow numbers on the alarm clock haunt my vision. I screw my eyes shut but the numbers dance behind my eyes. ‘They used to eat the paint, you know,’ my mother had said. ‘The factory girls painting the clock faces would lick their brushes to get a fine point. Later, their jawbones rotted and fell from their faces. The paint was radioactive of course.’ * The fourth week finds my portrait even more altered. The highlights and the scoops of shadow have only widened in disparity as the oil paints dried, throwing the jagged mountain-range of features into ghastly contrast. My brush-strokes had been too bold, too careless, and now I see that the paint had dried textured and uneven, creating the impression of a leprous disease, yellow flakes of oil paint hanging from the cheek bones like sloughed skin. I try to cover the strangely bright and poisonous-looking shade of the highlights, but that lurid yellow won’t budge. It seeps through the new layers of paint I apply (hand moving quickly now, barely shaking) like the stubborn sunshine that creeps around my bedroom blinds each morning after a restless night, chasing sleep away. The others don’t even try to engage me in conversation now. They sit and chat Christmas plans and exchange compliments on their progressing portraits – how the seascape of blues in one woman’s monochrome really evokes the colour of her sea-deep eyes, how another’s choice of lilac perfectly reflects the wistful serenity of her manner. I chose yellow. Or did yellow choose me? Thinking back to the first week, I cannot quite remember my rationale – something about sunflowers and sunshine. Something about a yellow tree that grew in my childhood garden. The thoughts whirl and blur like the snow-flurries that now rattle the windows of the studio. As I paint, the yellow burns itself onto my retinas, that sickly, bilious, jaundiced colour. It flickers now always at the corners of my vision – half-glimpsed yellow shadows that dance away laughing when I turn to look. That night, I purge my room: I turn the alarm clock with its yellow numbers to the wall, I stuff my favourite yellow dress to the back of the wardrobe, I bin the yellow roses my mother sent. * Week five and it’s everywhere now. It was the yellow carrier bag the cashier handed me this morning (my weekly shop: five packets of fags and headache pills). It was the yellow billboard that promised to sell me a happiness I cannot find. It was the yellow curtains in the therapist’s office (the silence stretches between us, I cannot explain the yellow fever in my mind). My hand flies across the canvass now, knuckles white around the brush, trying to capture the smiley sunshiney colour I’d imagined. But the paint vomits onto the canvas like so many brushfuls of bile. The girl in the picture looks sick, her sallow skin pinched in uneasy discomfort, the unnatural yellow eyes staring back at me with a look of contempt. That night I lock myself in the bathroom and scrub my hands raw but the thick oil paint clings to my fingers and the yellow contamination has infected the grain of my skin and seeped deep under each nail like yellow blood that marks me guilty guilty guilty of a terrible crime. * Week six. She is talking to me now. She whispers very quietly and the others cannot hear. She recites the curse-words with a twist of her lip: Ugly! Sinner! Bad! I take the paintbrush to her mouth but it doesn’t stop her talking. I heap brushfuls of paint between the thin lips but the voice sputters out still, spitting flecks of yellow in my face. I abandon the brush and squeeze paint from the tube into her mouth with shaking fingers. Still the bilious yellow voice comes and now she’s vomiting yellow paint and it’s running down the too-sharp chin and the too-thin neck. Between thick mouthfuls of yellow, she spews the familiar words: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you . ‘What do you want from me?’ I ask. And she tells me. And suddenly I’m running and now I’m outside and the wind rips a ragged scream from my lips as I duck out of the yellow search-lights of the street lamps and disappear into the night. * ‘It was an odd case indeed,’ the fresh-faced psychiatrist said, wrinkling his brow and taking another sip of the scalding coffee that he wouldn’t have time to finish before the end of his break. ‘A young woman, admitted with D&V, diaphoresis and heavy salivation. Later became delirious and fell into a coma. We suspected a deliberate self-poisoning of course but the tox screens came back clear. We had to get the big guns involved from the poison centre but they nailed it eventually – cytisine , main alkaloid toxin in the laburnum plant. Beautiful tree actually, the laburnum. Very pretty – really brightens up any garden. I should get the Mrs to plant one. Anyway, she must have chowed down on a whole heap of it. She survived. She’s in Pleasant View now of course, suspected emerging schizo-affective. Apparently she still won’t talk. Not one word. Only that damn tune that she hums over and over again. You know – I finally placed it! It’s an old Donovan song, right?’ And with that, straightening his tie and abandoning the half-drunk coffee, the brisk-gestured psychiatrist left the staff-room. The others on their break couldn’t help but laugh at the eccentric doctor, striding down the corridor to the beat of his voice raised in song: And they call it mellow yellow! Mellow yellow! They call it mellow yellow!


I had it all planned out. I bought flowers, I made her a drawing, I even went as far as making her a cake. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I put on a nice outfit, I had even taken a shower that morning so I could ensure that I smelt okay. I still remember that feeling of overwhelming joy as I was setting it all up. I had put a large banner above the window in her room and I remember spreading the bouquets of flowers I bought her on random shelves scattered around the place filled with all of her memories. I placed the cake on her desk and opened my computer so I could play the music playlist I had worked on for hours perfecting for her. I remember envisioning her smile and imagining how happy we would be together once she agreed to be my girlfriend. It was agony waiting for her to get home from hanging out with her friends but her mom kept me company. I still recall the sound of her door knob opening and the sound of her voice as she greeted her mother. I could hear her walking up the stairs and I felt my heart speed up. Gosh i was so happy and so excited. I could see the door knob turn and I felt like I was going to pass out. I got in position beside her bed and as she opened the door I said,

“Would you do me the honor of being my beautiful girlfriend?” She looked around the room with a smile that could light up the whole world, then she met eyes with me and all of a sudden her smile faded and it seemed as if the world had gone dark again. She looked at me confused, almost scared as if she didn't know who I was. That was the moment where I physically felt everything fall apart. When I felt the world shift from underneath my feet.

“I’m sorry, but are you sure i know you?”

I smiled for a minute, waiting for her to laugh and come and hug me. But she never did. She stood there with the same confused look on her face. As if she truly had no idea who I was.

“You're kidding right?”

My voice shook as I spoke. I tried my hardest to act calm and put together. Surely she had to be kidding. I mean we've been friends since the first grade. She shook her head slowly and she had a look of sympathy written on her face.

“ Kayla, come on. We've grown up together. We've been friends since like the beginning of time. If you don't like me then say so but there isn't a need to go so far as pretending like we've never met.”

“ I don't think you have the right girl dude. I genuinely don't know who you are. I mean you look familiar but i don't think you're at the right house. The Kayla this is for though must be pretty lucky.”

I sat down on her bed and ran my fingers through my hair as she sat next to me.

“Look it's nothing to be embarrassed about. I've shown up to the wrong house before it's not a huge deal.” “You seriously don't know who I am? You're not pretending just to get me to leave you alone.”

She smiled a little and a part of me felt a bit better. She lightly bumped her shoulder with mine as she spoke.

“What kind of awful person would do that to you? You seem sweet. Besides, if you really knew me you would know that I am not that kind of person. What's your name lover boy?” It hurt to hear her ask. As if all those years of wonderful memories had somehow escaped her mind overnight.

“ I'm Phoenix, You're Kayla I can safely presume.”

“ Oh so you admit you're at the wrong house?” No. i knew for a fact this wasn't the wrong house. I knew that the teenage girl sitting next to me was the same girl that I learned to ride a bike with when I was seven years old. I knew she was the same girl that I had fallen in love with. She laughed a little as she waited for my response and i decided to save myself from the embarrassment.

“ I guess it's a possibility that this is not the correct address”

She laughed and shook her head and after a second or two I found myself laughing with her. Although at that moment I was still confused as to how in the world she could just forget about me and all of the moments that we had shared, I figured that was a problem for tomorrow. I was going to spend tonight getting to re know this beautiful girl that was laughing in front of me. Although i didn't mind. I always loved listening to her talk. The sound of her voice was always one of my favorite sounds. And that's exactly what I did that night. We stayed up talking until the sun came up. We laughed and I told her stories about us, not that she would know. Everytime i told her a story of something that we had previously experienced together she would always laugh. Almost as if she remembered it. I still remember walking home the next day with the feeling of happiness and sorrow sitting on my shoulders. It was nice getting to talk to her that night but i still struggled to comprehend that it was possible for her to forget all about me. I didn't want to believe I was that forgettable. We didn't talk much after that night. Maybe it was because she thought it was weird that i had claimed to know her or maybe it was because it hurt me a little too much to be around her now. Whatever the reason we still don't talk. I still think about her sometimes. I'm still not really sure whether or not she forgot about me or if she was just pretending. I guess now it doesn't matter. I hope she's doing well. I would ask her but with my luck she wouldn't even remember my name.


Once upon a time, when I was a fierce Product Manager, I was invited to the Company's Top Hundred annual meeting. Neither I nor any of my group colleagues - invited as well- were part of such a select group, but our manager had decided that year to do a bit of self-promotion and convinced the organization that we were worthy of being included. So when the day arrived, we were there, the top hundred, a few organizers, and the ten extra-worthy ones, in a remote location, surrounded by greenery and chirping birds, ready to discuss the organization's mission and vision during the day and drink and eat at night. One of the first topics of the day was the human side of the business or, better said, the classification of the humans in that room. A few days before, we had worked on a questionnaire to give us (and those around us) an idea of our character and traits as professionals. The results were supposed to divide the group into a healthy mix of "personality colors" because mixed organizations should be better performers. There should be "Red": aggressive and goal-oriented. "Blue" were the calm ones, detail-oriented. "Yellow" were the energetic fellows who pulled everyone to work with smiles and enthusiasm. And finally, "Green" were the empathetic people who would build bridges, able to listen and process emotions and information. So we filled in all the questions days before and waited patiently for the results of the workshop morning when the organizers distributed letters around. Then, they asked us to identify ourselves with the round sticker in the letters on our shirts. Everyone opened the envelopes, and shortly after, the colorful dots started to pop up: red, red, red, red... everything was red. There was only a green one, the human resources representative, a little woman, who wore her little green dot like a champion for the two days we were offsite. After discovering that most of us were alpha-to-be, aggressive, and goal-oriented, it was a challenge for each of us to let go of our objectives and dreams. The real test came when we were asked to work in teams (very homogeneous teams). The day, which had started with nervous energy and pride in being in a place where I was not supposed to be, continued with the discussion of the different business segments' values and goals for the following years. I found myself in a group with Mr. Bright, the owner of the newest and most future-oriented group of products, and a couple more people working in other areas of the Company. The segment I was responsible for had the most significant market volume. Still, some people considered it old-fashioned and "easy" compared to the newest technologies. But before I could introduce myself, it was clear none mattered. When we were about to introduce ourselves to the work team, it seemed there was a contest to see who had the "biggest one," and I had been somehow disqualified from the competition before even saying my name. Together with the Human Resources lady, I was one of the two women in the room, and the men around (the ones who did not know me before that day) were amazed when they saw the red circle in my shirt. "Red?" asked Mr. Bright. "Expecting something else?" I replied. "It does not help diversity," he said, smiling at me before walking away to speak with someone else.

The rest of the day was not much better. Whenever I tried to speak up, the others buried me in questions and doubts. After all, my work was easy, and Mr. Bright's products were the pride of the Company. It did not matter that my segment was the cash cow, the one paying for other projects. To them, I had an easy life. I should smile more and be more... green. By the end of the afternoon, we presented the results of our discussions, and what a session that was, with everyone trying to speak over the others, joking about the value of this and that, showing how valuable each and everyone was for the organization... It was a nightmare, but it was over. Or that's what we thought. After several rounds of presentations, the organizers announced a surprise for us. They led us to the main room of the convention center and asked us to take our seats. As we settled in, our attention was drawn to a massive curtain and a pair of overly enthusiastic individuals in front of it. The curtain was dramatically pulled back, revealing our surprise: a group of horses, each attached to a small chariot, lined up on the other side of the glass. "Today, you'll race," said one of the organizers. Hundreds of people sitting in that room looked at each other like they had seen a UFO. Fifty-five chariots with fifty-five horses waited for us. Before we were asked to meet our new afternoon companions, we were told what we were supposed to do. "You'll be paired. Each chariot will have a driver in front and a steer person in the back. You will do a first round of recognition with the horse owner and a second round on your own. You'll be timed, and the team with the best time will be the champions." No one moved. My nervous energy from the beginning of the day was long gone. Right there, the only thing I had was much closer to a panic attack.

When the organizers started calling for the sets of two names that would join each horse, I never thought the other person to ride with would be my biggest issue... until I heard his name. Mr. Bright smiled at me, and when he was near enough, he put his hand on my shoulder and, in the most condescending tone ever imagined, told me: "Don't worry, I will care for everything; you don't need to be scared." At that very moment, I felt my blood boiling, but I said nothing. I smiled back and walked with him outside to meet our new team partner. Growing up, I had no pets and never experienced "country life." I had seen horses close before, but those beasts- despite being magnificent- never made me desire to take riding lessons or care of them.

Next to the horse was its owner, a calm middle-aged man who told us that if we took care of the horse, the horse would take care of us. I thought then that the man was selling his product too optimistically, but after a few not-so-glorious discussions that day, I kept my opinion to myself and sat by his side in the chariot to start the recognition ride. When the horse started to move, the sun was shining, and there was a light breeze and a few clouds in the sky. We rode in dirt paths and crossed little creeks; we moved below trees and saw birds and squirrels above us. It felt nice, almost peaceful... until it stopped and the man asked us to choose who would be on top. I was already sitting by his side, so, in a very casual way, I picked the reigns and didn't let go of them even when Mr. Bright told me it would be better if he drove. I did not move; I just smiled and told him to get ready to start. It was funny to see his face. It almost felt like no one had ever told him "no" to anything. When we were waiting for the sign to start, I realized the weather was changing. There were more clouds, darker. The wind was not a light breeze anymore but something much stronger. The trees looked like they were dancing to a violent tune, and the birds seemed disoriented, but I did not care. I was laser-focused on driving that chariot and having the best time ever. Another horse stopped by our side, and a few seconds later, I heard a "go"... and we... didn't. I did what I had been told, but the horse did not move. Our neighbors in the race were long gone when I finally made the horse move, but not even in a straight line. The horse, utterly uninterested in whatever I told him or commanded, did zig-zag across the field, peed, and stopped to eat grass. At the same time, Mr. Bright started screaming because I was "doing it all wrong," and when I was about to reply to him with what I thought about his behavior, the horse ran. The animal did not gently move or pick up its pace. No, it ran as if a bee had just stung him, and it did not matter what I said or yelled at that magnificent creature: it just carried us along. I had branches hitting my head, it started to rain, and my partner, Mr. Bright, did not seem as cheerful and confident as before. When we arrived at the creeks, the water splashed everywhere, and from then on, I heard a weird "chouf, chouf" for the rest of the trip. I tried to gain control, but it was in vain, and at a certain point on the way, I just convinced myself we would only stop whenever the horse wanted... and so it was. The animal did the whole route as it wished to, and when it saw the green spot where we had started, it suddenly reduced the speed and moved with such gracious movements that no one could understand why we were in such a disgraceful shape. When we stopped, I did not see Mr. Bright. He was not in the little platform behind me. I looked again and saw him on the ground, secured to the back of the chariot, all muddy and bad-tempered. He stood up, furious, and walked towards me, mumbling something (probably not nice) when the organizer of the race came to us, microphone in hand, euphoric first, surprised when he saw the mud monster by my side: "Oh my God, you were awesome! We've never seen such a fast race! How did you do it?" I was about to start laughing, but then I saw the red dot on my shirt, covered in mud. I removed the little sticker and looked at the horse. "Teamwork, I guess," I said, and everyone around started to clap and cheer.


There are many things I remember. That's the curse of being human. I remember the way light streaks across the ground like it's reaching for you, to wrap you in warmth. I remember the way it feels when a warm breeze ruffles your hair and brushes across your cheek. The feeling of hundreds of warm blades of grass under your legs, and the smell of the dirt that gets stuck to them. I remember it all, but those memories don't feel like they're mine. A faint memory of running my fingers across damp flower petals fills my head for just a moment, like a spray of perfume that quickly settles to the floor. They were pink on the outside and red on the inside, and as I ran my finger across them, little raindrops fell off the curved tips of the petals. As the memory settles like dust, I feel that feeling of my fingers on the cold flower petals spreading and twirling lightly in the air around me as if it is dancing, just for me. As quick as it came, though, it faded. Lost to the ground. Cold emptiness, like my body is falling through the floor, is all that is left. It seems to echo now, louder than before. Crashing against my heart like big waves trying to rip me apart. I tighten my grip on the arm of my chair and drop my head into my curled-up knees. Around me, there are a couple books scattered on my desk. A glass of water, a pack of gum. The hum of my computer charger and the wall in front of my face. This is what is real. It's been so long since it's been anything else, so long that my own memories no longer belong to me. They are instead the ghost of a child. A child who played in the sun, and collected bright flowers, and sat in the grass. A child who haunts me and won't let me forget all the things that used to be. No matter what, I just won't forget. I accidentally bite my lip too hard and the skin breaks. Reaching my hand up to my lip, I swipe my finger across the surface. I'm bleeding. I push away from my desk and make my way to the kitchen to get a paper towel, holding my finger up against my lip. Late afternoon light coming in from the big kitchen windows cast an unnatural shape on the whole room. I walk straight to the paper towels and press one section against my cut. I make my way back, my eyes following the light all the way up to the window as I walk. I suddenly stop, frozen in place. I know I couldn't have seen it, but I have to check. I rush to the sliding door and push it open, stepping outside. It is still barely spring. A cold breeze hits me in the face. Around me, trees stand without their leaves, and the grass lays dead. As I get closer, I stop breathing. Another frigid gust of wind blows against me, but I don't move. In front of me is a single flower in full bloom. Its pink surface gives way to the deep red inside. I reach out to touch it. Its thin, flimsy surface is cold and wet and it feels waxy between my fingers. Looking at it in my hand, I suddenly start to cry. I feel the tears running down my face, making a path down my cheeks. I collapse under my legs and sit there for a second, looking at the flower and feeling the tears run down my face. "Are you okay?" A voice calls to me from the distance. I turn to see my younger brother walking my way. I let go of the flower and quickly wipe my face with my free hand, still holding the paper towel to my lip. My brother reaches me and sits down on the grass. He looks at me with his thick eyebrows in a furrow. "Did you cut your lip?" He finally says, reaching towards me. I clear my throat a little and nod. "Yeah, I just bit it. It's not a big deal." I respond, gently pushing away his hand. His face changes, his shoulders relax, and his eyes suddenly dart around a little. Then he stops. "It's okay. Cuts are bad while you have them, but they always go away. That's why it's okay." He says, his voice picking up pace as he talks, becoming excited that he found the answer to my problem. "You're right. Thank you." I respond, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. His eyes dart to the flower. "Whoa! is there a flower already?!" He yells, his little voice full of joy. He reaches over my lap and touches the flower petals. I watch his little hands running over the pink surface of the flower, holding the stem. His hands are still little, his fingers a little chubby. They stand out against the thin petal of the flower. For some reason, I reach out to flower, wrap my hand around the stem, and pluck it. For a second I look at the flower in my hand, a little shocked at what I had done, and why. I feel my brother's eyes staring at me in confusion. I sit there for a second, feeling the silence all around me. Then I start to smile. I roll the stem back and forth between my fingers and make the flower twirl a few times, then I take it and tuck it right between his ear and his fluffy hair. It sits perfectly next to his bright eyes. He looks at me, still a little confused. My smile grows. "It's alright, buddy. Because flowers grow back." I then watch his smile grow in return. He reaches up and fixes the flower behind his ear before looking to me for approval. I smile at him. "It looks great. Do you want to go inside to look at it?" I ask. He nods and jumps up off the ground, running towards the house. I lift myself up as well and brush off my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of him running through the yard. I look up. He zig-zags back and forth through the dead grass, the sun reaching towards him through the branches of the dead trees. I almost feel taken aback, watching him run and laugh through a yard of dead grass and dead trees while he wears a bright flower in his hair. Something swells up in my chest and another tear falls down onto my cheek. I imagine a million flowers blooming year after year so that children can come run their hands over them. I remember once again how I felt when I was running and playing with flowers as a kid. The memories still don't feel like they're mine. Rather they belong to my little brother. To all the little kids. But not to me. Not anymore. I start after him towards the house, watching him jump up the steps two at a time while holding the flower in his hair. He turns to me and smiles, his bright face lighting up. This memory is mine.


Write about someone who’s lived on a tropical island their whole life and is leaving it for the very first time. We Must Bid You Adieu Maria had never heard of Greta Thunberg, the Swedish climate change activist nor has she ever heard of the shrinking ice caps and the loss of habitat for polar bears. She has not seen the poignant images of polar bears on ice floes searching for food. But she knows something is seriously wrong with the climate. In her village of Tebontebike, in Abaiang she is photographed standing beside an uprooted coconut tree. This tree used to be 100 metres from the shore, but now the sea level has risen and this is creating havoc for the islanders.

Maria’s fate is similar to that of the polar bears-because of global warming the ice caps are melting. The polar bears are hungry and desperate. Because of global warming, the sea levels are rising and the islands are being submerged under water. We associate coconut trees with idyllic tropical islands but when these trees are uprooted, the dream turns into a nightmare.

“Why is this happening?” her grandson Tiaon asked.

“It’s because of global warming” his grandmother replied.

“How does that affect the sea level?”

“It’s to do with the melting ice sheets. Our beautiful island is very vulnerable.” She went on to explain about the rise in sea levels which was approximately 3.2 metres annually since the early nineties. She told her grandson that Abanuea and Tebua Tarawa had already disappeared. And if something wasn’t done, their whole island would be submerged.

Tiaon looked concerned. Usually his grandmother would be telling him about the different names for coconut which indicated their stage of ripeness. Every culture has a unique vocabulary which evolves in response to the circumstances of their daily lives. In the Inuit language there are many different names for snow, including ‘qinu’ which was slush, ‘aputi’ which was snow on the ground, and ‘qanik’ which was falling snow. Maria would tell stories about the men going out in their sarongs to collect shellfish and that when he was a man, he would join them.

“And why have we moved the babai pits?” her grandson asked.

“Because of the rising sea level” she replied. And then she said, “the sea brings us the fish, and we are dependent on it. But when the levels rise to this extent, it takes our land and our livelihood is threatened”.

A root crop known as taro is planted in the babai pits and because it is a carbohydrate, it is widely cultivated in coral atolls.

A meteorologist, Edward Lorenz introduced the concept of the ‘chaos theory’ where he postulated that if a butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazonian jungle, a storm would destroy the half of Europe. So when the polar bears float on ice floes it means that the ice caps are melting and as a result the melted water causes the sea level to rise and as a result Maria’s coconut tree lies on the sand like a fallen hero in a Greek battle and she is forced to move to her babai pits. And then when the sea levels rise again, more and more of her island will be swallowed up and she wonders where it will end. Where will her children and grandchildren move to and how will they survive?  So Maria’s fate and that of the polar bear were inextricably linked. The bear is ravenous and it is searching for food. Maria is not at the edge just yet but as she stands beside the fallen coconut tree, she knows that this is an ill omen. If there were no coconuts how could she make toddy, her family’s favourite drink which was made from its sap? And how could she make kamwaimwai, which was made from the coconut sap? And how would they survive without the fish and the shellfish and the taro?

Maria’s faith was a great source of inspiration. Her mother used to tell her about how Catholicism was brought to Kiribati. Two labourers, Betero Terawati and Rataro Tiroi had been converted while working on a coconut plantation and they asked the Pope to send some priests to Kiribati. So Maria prayed earnestly that the sea levels would subside and they would lose no more land.

The islanders had gathered coral rocks and built walls in order to protect their land against the rising sea levels but these measures did not address the underlying issues of global warming.

Maria loved Abaiang. To her it was a tropical paradise. Although she had lived a simple life and needed to work hard, she had always been happy and never wished for any other life. When Tiaon’s mother died, she looked after him and she tried to do her best for him. But how would he survive if they had to leave their beautiful island and their simple way of life? Tiaon would lose his inheritance as he was an only child and he presumed he would fish and gather seaweed and that he would never want for anything. He would never be able to grow sweet potatoes or papaya. He would never be able to rear pigs and chickens and cattle. He did not enjoy academic study and as soon as he came home from school he would immediately go out and help his father in the fields or he would help him gather shell fish and sea weed.

The islanders had meetings in the local community centre to discuss the way forward. Their leader relayed to them the policy set out by their president Te Beretitenti Taneti Maamau. Maria listened to his vision statement on tackling climate change. The speaker talked about 1992 UNFCCC on Climate Change and the 2015 Paris Agreement and after a while she started daydreaming as she felt it was too vague and all she could think of was the uprooted coconut tree and the ever encroaching sea and she felt that these accords would not stop the rising sea levels. It was a bit like King Canute trying to order the tides to desist.

In her poem ‘Our People on the Reef’ the poet Jane Resture wrote: For what is happening to the beautiful isles we know? Tuvalu, Kiribati and Tokelau the Marshall Isles that place of smiles The rising sea will reclaim our ground nothing but water will abound our people forced to leave for higher ground. While far away they pour their fumes into the clear blue sky not knowing and never caring why

the world is beginning to die. So land of our forebears despite how much we cared for you the time will soon be when we must bid you adieu.


The night was young and tranquil in the small town of Chester, Vermont. A young man walked the undisturbed streets with his head down. Anybody to pass by could tell there was something troubling his heart. The streets were dark with only the moon and a few street lights illuminating the area. The man grew tired of walking and decided to settle himself inside a bar, empty just as the streets were. He sat there waiting for his drink in his own solitude. The slow patter of rain sounded on the windows making the night even more dreadful. The man sighed, laying his head on the counter.

“Hey what’s going on man?” the bartender inquired. He was a hefty man but had soft facial features. The bartender sat the man’s drink gently beside him. The man looked up at the bartender, noticing the concerned expression upon his face. He could tell his soul was pure but could never know his true intentions. The man wondered if the bartender really did care or if he was just putting on a welcoming act. The man’s eyebrows furrowed, the look of confusion crossing his face. “I'm not here to judge man, what's troubling your mind?” The bartender’s eyes softened as he stared at the man longer. He noticed the bags under the man’s eyes indicating he hadn't slept well. He knew this man was hurting inside, a dream had been crushed. The man sighed, “I give up.” He took a sip of his drink, the alcohol burning his throat. He knows alcohol isn’t the answer to his problems but it gave him a sort of comfort nonetheless. “Every one of my movie pitches have been declined.” Tears peaked at the corners of the man's eye. The bartender could tell he looked defeated. An upcoming director with his dreams crushed by every producer he came in contact with. The man took another sip, indulging himself in the taste.

“I see.” The bartender paused, looking at the man in front of him. He got to thinking, he wanted to help this man.

He was interested in the situation and thought to take the responsibility of this man's career into his own hands. The bartender wanted to watch him succeed, he hated to see the desolate look on the man's face. The bartender snapped his fingers and with a loud click of his tongue he knew, “I know someone.” the man's eyes snapped up to him, a confused expression crossing his face. The bartender flashed a toothy smile towards the man. “Trust me,” he leaned forward to get close to the man. “Provide me with a movie pitch by the end of the week and I'll send it to a guy I know on the inside.” The bartender looked excited. He knew exactly how to make this guy's career take off. The man stared at the bartender in shock. It took him a minute to process the words he's just heard, the bartender can help him. Why, the man wondered. Was it out of pity, or was he actually interested in the man's work. Could he actually help him? The man had many questions bottled up in his mind. The bartender kept staring giddily towards the man. “You better get off now and work on that movie pitch!” the bartender waved his hands towards the man, letting him know he needs to get the job done fast. The man jumped up suddenly, realization setting into his brain. This man can save his career! The man rushed home to his apartment not caring about the pouring rain, he could worry about that later. As soon as the man was home he grabbed his notebook and began to work. He looked through all his old ideas, the ones that were rejected and tossed to the side. He came up with some new ones but they were not to his liking. He heaved a sigh feeling frustrated. How could the bartender help him if he can't even come up with a good idea? The man felt defeated once more. He decided to take a break and make some tea to calm himself a bit.

The man sat in silence, no thoughts roaming his brain. He sat there with his hands on his head feeling frustrated. Why couldn't he think of anything? The only noise that broke the dead silence was the tea kettle hissing, indicating the water was ready. The whistling of the tea kettle set his mind off. Thoughts started roaming here and there. He knew exactly what his movie pitch would be about. The man quickly forgot about his tea and got to work. He spent hours upon hours writing for his movie pitch, but finally it was ready.

The next night he quickly rushed to the same bar he had been at just hours before. He walked in with a bright smile upon his face. He noticed the bartender from the night before was there working once again. He sighed in relief. The bartender looked up as the bell on the door dinged letting him know someone just entered the building. His face lit up as he looked over the excited man. He knew he got it done and he knew it was good. The bartender noticed the stack of papers the man held in his hand,

“I'll give it to him as soon as I am off my shift.” The man's eyes had a sparkle to them. They were filled with wonder and hope. Hope that the bartender could save his career. The bartender noticed this which gave him a warm feeling in his heart. He knew he had made the sad and desolate man from last night into the happy and hopeful man he is today.

The man slowly set the stack of papers onto the counter while the bartender pulled out his phone. “Put your number in my phone so I can get a hold of you when I hear back from my buddy.” the man blinked more excitement filling into his heart. He quickly entered his number into the bartender's phone and gave it back to him.

“Thank you,” the man looked at the bartender, grateful he found someone to help him through his hardship. Someone to stop him from giving up on his dream career. The man left the bar walking back to his apartment. What would he do with himself until he got the call? He knew it would be a few days till he heard back but he was excited nonetheless. The man felt all his motivation setting in. He noticed his apartment was in shambles, dishes and papers scattered everywhere. So he cleaned, using his motivation to his advantage. Cleaning was a good time killer because by the time he was done it was now time for him to go to sleep.

The man woke up with a jolt when he heard his phone ringing. Could it be the bartender? He quickly grabbed his phone and answered without looking at the contact. He heard a sigh on the other side, that’s not a good sign. “Hey man,” it was the bartender. His voice was dull with no hint of emotions. The man's face dropped, they didn't like the pitch. His career was over and that was it, his dream of being a director crushed. The bartender chuckled, making the man's face contort with confusion. “I’m just playin’ man, they loved it!” The man laughed with excitement and confusion laced in the undertones. He was in disbelief that someone actually liked his movie pitch. This would be his big break! The man burst into tears even though he was still laughing. All the hardships were over and his career was about to take off. He didn't know what to feel whether it be excitement or nervousness. “Thank you,” the man sighed. He can figure out how he feels later, after his movie makes it out there.


"You know what I was thinking? The dez is like a simile for the world... I mean like, many people just see nothing, but in reality there's a lot of beauty if you just look... in one of the two most beautiful countries in the world (or at least outside of Germany and Austria)" "Yah, that's very true, babe :) the dez is just great!" "Yah it is (: you know what else is great, or even greater?" "What?" "You" "I love you, you know that?" he said, smiling at her lovingly and taking her hand in his. "I love you too" she replied, lovingly squeezing his hand back smiling at him lovingly back. "This is what life is about... you and me, and mates and family, and nature... none of that whole who's got more money, fame, the latest whatever... none of that stuff matters at the end of the day, this does..." "Well said, babe" he said smiling at her and seeing her do it too. A little while later, nearing a town... "We're gonna need to stop by the servo too, running low..." "Okay, and good time to refuel on snacks and lollies too hey" "Right heh" Moments later...

"That's strange... is that a person? out here alone?" "Hmm... it seems to be..." "I swear, if we're about to be attempted murdered... well, they'll fail miserably because I've watched way too much true crime for them to get anywhere with that idea. But let's not assume anything, we'll be fine..." "Yah, for sure" "Slow down, let's just see what they're about..." "I don't know about that... "We'll be fine, if anything, you can floor it" "Okay..." "Hello... are you alright?" "Yes, yes... I just got in a silly argument with my partner and they took off... some people..." She turns to see him rolling his eyes like "oh great..." "Oh, well, we can give you a ride back into town if you need... good to get out of the sun for a bit too..." she told the man turning back to him, and feeling like a certain person is thinking "we're deffo gonna get murdered or something now..." "we won't..." "Don't worry, I'm not a danger" And on this they turned to each other like uhh... good? ...awkward silence... "You know, not many people would stop to help someone in need, especially when there doesn't seem to be something in it for them..." "That's true... But we should all be helping each other... human or otherwise... every life is important and valuable and capable of good things, even if humans seem to lose track of that.. that's also why volunteering is great, but it's fun too a lot of the time. And we always help whenever we can. And he's a lifeguard too, and I volunteer and donate all I can too. And it's nice to help the homeless where one is whenever possible too. It's needed more than ever and you never know who you could be helping or how much of a difference you could possibly make..." "Very true indeed. You're wise. How old are you?" "Ageless. Hah, no but seriously, we're young and old enough at the same time." "Fair dinkum...." "So where are you coming from?" "Oh, just a town nearby... but I travel quite a bit... work and such, I'm sure you understand..." "Yes... well that's nice. Hope things are going well for you." "Yes, they're good, thank you. And things will get better for you too." "Cheers for the vote of confidence. It's already great but I wouldn't mind things getting even better, of course." she said turning to her right, smiling at him to see him smile back at her. "You two kids are blessed to have each other. After everything... So I hope you two remain well and happy together for a long time." "Well, thanks mate. That's all I want as well. Anything for him hey... I love him" "Same for me for her of course" "It's beautiful to see young people actually in love, considering how many erroneously believe they are but aren't and it's all hormones and lust and the like... you can tell when it's real, yknow... if you know..." "Right" he said. "And... It took so long to get to him, and it was a needle in a haystack of the world, it seemed like it would take a miracle to get to him... but if I knew one thing, is that he is worth it... I've never felt that way about anybody before... well, mix of never felt that way and never thought I'd feel that way again or even be remotely happy... and I kept hoping and wishing and praying and everything, and doing what I could... and knew I wasn't going to give up on him, on us... and here we are. Happy and in love and everything... he's the best that's ever happened to me." "And I'm happy she did. She's the best that's ever happened to me too, and I love her too." he chimed in. "And I'm happy for you two. You two are special, and you've got something special, and it radiates out, youknow..." "Yes, we know, but it's always nice to hear someone else say it too." "I'm sure..." "Random question, but are you vegan?" she asked the man. "As a matter of fact, yes I am. The value of real nutritious is highly underestimated, especially lately. But of course, that also depends where I am. I travel quite a bit, as I've told you, so it's important to do your best and be living at one with nature as opposed to off it. So as long as you respect all beings, then that's what matters. But as I'm sure you know, people being earthly beings, make mistakes and that's alright. But as long as you all do your best and are happy and well." "Exactly. And it's important to remember that and wish more people would understand that as well..." she told him. As the servo came into sight, she turned around to give the man a head's up only to see him gone. "What the-?!" "What ba- the f? Where did he go??" "He was just here! And it's not like he just fell out... maybe he was a spirit or something?" "I don't know... maybe we just hallucinated him..." "Nah, he was deffo here..." As he pulled into the servo to fill up, he realised it's already full as if it's just been filled too... "Babe, look at this! It's already filled up! But we were low..." "So yah we deffo didn't hallucinate him... and I'm surely not complaining... there's so much to the world we don't know or understand yet... however strange it may be..." "Yah... that actually happened to us though..." "Yah... that's pretty great though, honestly..." "Yah, it is... They're so not going to believe this!" he said. "Maybe... But then again..."


The clock struck 11:00 and Darlene looked over at her oven. How did she mess that up, she wondered. She was sure she had timed out the turkey so it would be done before the 12:00 dinner, yet the timer said there was 1 hour and 45 minutes left to cook. She checked her rolls and they were raising perfectly. They would be ready to go in on time, but that turkey worried her. In Darlene's world, you don't undercook turkey. Jeremy was turning 18 today. It had been a difficult year, 2020, and Darlene was determined to give her youngest son the best birthday she could. All her other children were given large parties on their 18 th birthdays, but the health regulations forbid it during these pandemic times. So, Darlene had to opt for making his favorite meal and buy all his gifts on the internet. They might even try a virtual interaction with his grandparents, but Darlene had her doubts that would work. Neither were really comfortable with new technology. The phone rang  just as Darlene was about to drain the potatoes to be mashed. She turned off the burner and walked over to the phone to look at the caller ID. It was Jeremy's girlfriend, Carla. Darlene hesitated. Should she answer it? Jeremy has a cell phone, why wouldn't Carla call him on that phone? Darlene picked the cordless phone off of its charger. “Mrs. Tyson?” Carla asked, her voice stressed and concerned. “You need to go to Jeremy's room immediately.” Darlene turned and ran towards the stairs. “I'm going there now. What is going on?” “I was talking to Jeremy on the phone when suddenly he dropped it. He sounded a little strange right before he dropped the phone. I don't know what is going on and it scared me so much I called the house.” Darlene burst into her son's room and found him flat on the floor, jerking back and forth. “He is having an epileptic seizure,” she said into the phone. “Oh my God,” cried Carla. “Is there anything you can do?” Darlene knelt down on the floor next to the dark-haired boy. She moved his hand so that the arm was at a right angle to his body, his hand pointing upwards. Darlene then took Jeremy's other hand and placed it on his cheek. She took the knee furthest from her and bent it so that the foot was flat on the floor. Gently, the mother rolled the young man onto his side so that he was facing her. Darlene then moved his top leg back a little to help balance him in that position. The woman then went to his head and tilted his chin back to open up his airway so he could breathe. By this time Jeremy was beginning to come out of the seizure and stopped moving. His eyes slowly fluttered open. “Stay still, Jeremy,” Darlene said as she sat on the floor next to him, her hand resting on his arm. She noted his breathing was normal. “Mom,” he muttered. He sat up slowly, still blinking his eyes as he became more aware. “Mrs. Tyson? What is going on?” Carla's frantic voice came through the phone line. “I'm sorry, Carla. Jeremy is just coming out of the seizure now. It is going to take a little time for him to orient himself.” “I didn't know Jerry had epilepsy,” Carla exclaimed. “What if that had happened when we were together? I would have had no clue what to do to help him!” Panic was in her voice. “He hasn't had one in a long time, I am sure he was thinking it was completely under control with his medication. We can talk about how to help him later. Right now I have to make sure he's OK before I rescue any of my food that may be burning at this time.” “Have him call me back when he's doing better. I don't want to bother him now.” “Carla? Thank you for calling me and letting me know something was wrong. Your quick thinking may have prevented him from hurting himself and alerted me to the fact this condition isn't under control.” “You're welcome. I'm glad this turned out alright. Have him call me when he feels better.” Carla hung up the phone. “Mom, I'm feeling fine now,” Jeremy said as he stood up from the floor. Darlene looked at him, trying to determine if he was back to normal. He smiled at her and reached out his hand. His grip was firm. Darlene was sure he was OK. “How long has it been since the last seizure,” she said once she was standing up. Jeremy walked over to his desk and pulled out a black notebook from the top drawer. He turned the pages until he came to a chart. “5 years, Mom. 5 years, 6 months, 10 days to be exact. Do you know the type of seizure this one was?” Jeremy was making notations on the page as he spoke. “No, I came towards the end of it. You collapsed and were jerking around a little bit, but not as bad as some of the other times I found you.” Jeremy wrote some information down. “Looks like we will be visiting Dr. Nordahl sometime in the near future,” he said as he closed the book. “Thanks, mom, for being here when I needed you.” “You better thank Carla as well. She's the one who called me and alerted me something was happening.” Darlene looked at her watch, “Oh no! I've got to get back to the kitchen and try to salvage this meal! Do you think you will be up to eating?” “Yes, Mom. I'm fine now. You go back to the kitchen and I'll call Carla and let her know everything is better. I'm sure she's worried.” Darlene gave Jeremy a kiss on the forehead before leaving him in his room. Once in the kitchen, Darlene looked at the oven timer and found she still had 15 minutes left on the turkey so she put the rolls into the oven and set the second timer. She then hurriedly mashed the potatoes and put them aside and started the stuffing. Meanwhile, she put the green beans on, the corn, and the canned cranberry sauce. When the turkey was done she pulled it out of the oven and verified the temperature gauge said it was 165 degrees inside the bird. She then punctured the oven bag it was in and drained off the juices so she could make the gravy. Soon that was done and it was time to finish setting up the table. Scott joined her and together the parents finished setting the table. Scott had been delivering mail and managed to finish his route before noon. He was able to get home in time for the meal but had to go back to the post office in an hour. As they worked together, Darlene told him about the seizure. He nodded when Darlene told him Jeremy would need to see his doctor as soon as possible. The timer went off and Darlene gave Scott the turkey and utensils to carve it while she rang the old dinner bell Scott's family had used on their farm when he was growing up. Jeremy came running down the stairs, followed by his older brother Craig, who was home taking virtual college classes. The other 4 children in the family would not be able to attend the meal, due to health regulations and not being a part of the family bubble. After they sat down at the table, Scott asked Jeremy to say the prayer for the meal. The young man bowed his head, cleared his throat, and said, “Thank you Lord for this fine meal my mother managed to prepare despite being interrupted to rescue my sorry ass. Thank you for creating her so she could create me and so she could make this marvelous meal. Thank you for the food we are about to eat, for keeping me alive for another day, and for the love of this family who has always been here to support me. We pray to you, Lord, in your son's name, Jesus Christ, Amen.”


I think this is the worst place to be in. There are no calendars; I don’t know what today is. No clocks; what time is it? There are no menus; I’ve been eating the same food since I got here. I can’t sleep; the lights are on all of the time. There is no privacy; anybody can see what I am doing. This place is really driving me mad. “I hate this place! Jail sucks!” “What are you in for?” asks John, the other guy in my cell. “I’m not sure why I’m here. It started out because I was hungry and went out to get something to eat.” “And they arrested you for that?” “No, of course not. But you don’t know the whole story.” I could not tell him all of it, because I did not know it all. At that time, I did not know that many people thought Barbara Taylor was the nicest woman in Sharpeville. Almost everybody knew her. She had been walking downtown on the Monday morning when I was arrested, and she had just left St. James Church, where she and a small group of parishioners had been counting the money put in Sunday’s collection basket. Next, Barbara planned to go one block away to the Hope House, a shelter for women who were the sufferers of domestic abuse, to ask if they needed her to help clean the office. And before she returned to her apartment for lunch, she wanted to stop at the public library to prune the rose bushes she had planted out front. She believed there was always something to do or someone to help. She was an attractive 72-year-old woman, and she dressed up when she went out for these chores, because she liked to look nice. So that morning she brushed her long silver hair, put on a light summertime dress, and wore comfortable shoes for walking. She did not have far to go, every place she went was nearby, but she knew she was getting old and she did not want to have sore feet when she returned to her apartment. Her eyes were blue and her eyeglasses had thin silver frames. An umbrella she carried if there was rain that morning. And always, she toted a very large brown leather handbag, because she liked to have everything with her that she needed: snacks, books, her fat wallet, the morning mail, her cosmetics, her comb and brush, an extra pair of shoes, a large bottle of drinking water, as well as anything else that would fit in it. Some people, if they could be believed, said she carried a puppy in it too. I was able to tell John, my cellmate, that I had been downtown that Monday, and because it was close to lunchtime, I had decided to go into Nick’s Full Eclipse Bar & Grill for a cold beer and a toasted cheese sandwich. I brushed my dark hair away from my eyes and tried to neaten my short beard before going into Nick’s. I felt hungry. I was about to cross East Main Street when I saw Barbara walking on the sidewalk. She was coming from the public library. However, it was not Barbara that I noticed. It was her bulging handbag that had my attention. It looked like a prize to me, something I had to have, and I could not live without it. Anything that big had to have something good in it. Hopefully, a lot of cash, I prayed. I could imagine tens and twenties and fifties falling out of the huge handbag when I turned it upside down. And some expensive jewelry in it would be good too, I hoped. When I got into Nick’s, I would be able to buy a pitcher of beer and a steak sandwich and have money left over. I could not believe how lucky I was that day. I wanted her handbag! This was going to be easy, I contemplated. Her handbag was loosely strapped across her left shoulder. All I thought I had to do was run from behind her and snatch it and keep on running. It would happen so fast, she would not realize that I had it until I turned into the alley behind Nick’s and disappeared. I laughed. It would be like taking a handoff from the hands of a quarterback and dashing toward the goal line with the football and scoring a touchdown. I looked around. There was no one else on the sidewalk. There were no cars passing by. It was a perfect opportunity! This was the moment. I needed to do it quickly. But I had to stop laughing. “Something tells me that it didn’t work out like that,” said John. “Not at all,” I told him. “That’s why I’m here.” “I think I’ve seen Barbara Taylor,” John said. “I think I know who she is.” Barbara was not as old and slow as I had thought she would be. Maybe she heard my footsteps behind her. It could have been her instinct. But I did not surprise her. She was holding tightly to her handbag by then. “Give it to me!” I yelled as she pulled one way and I pulled the other. “No!” she exclaimed. “Get out of here, right now!” “Not without your bag, old lady.” “Who’s an old lady?” And she started swinging her umbrella at me. “Stop it!” I screamed. I might have thought she was old and slow, but her umbrella hurt every time she hit me with it and she was not turning loose of her handbag. “You’re a terrible young man,” she reprimanded me. “You ought to be doing something good with your life, instead of attacking someone that you call an old lady.” Damn, I thought. It was heavy. I wondered what could be in her handbag that could weigh so much. There had to be more than money in it. That was about when the bottle of water fell out and burst on the sidewalk. I slipped and fell down. It was a perfect opportunity for Barbara. “Quit kicking me!” I screamed as I rolled around on the sidewalk. “You’re starting to make me mad!” “I’m already mad,” she told me. Then she kicked me again. “You’ve made me so mad that I can’t stop kicking you! I’m going to kick you until your little butt turns black and blue.” And she kicked me again and again. “Where’s your mother, young man? Do you think she would like to see you like this? While trying to take a bag away from an old lady!” She was hitting me with her umbrella and kicking me with her shoes when people began to come out to the sidewalk to see what was going on. Nick, in his Nick’s Full Eclipse Bar & Grill apron, came out too. There were at least a half dozen people watching her beat me. They were amazed. They had never seen Barbara like this. They had only seen her when she was doing good things in the town. They had seen her cleaning windows at the Hope House and calling out bingo numbers at the nursing home on Friday nights and serving plates of food at the home for the homeless and taking out the trash at the center for senior citizens, but never, ever, anything like this. Two or three of them had to pull her off of me. I got up and tried to brush myself off. I wiped my wet dark hair away from my eyes. I felt my chin as if she, in her anger, might have pulled the beard off my face. But I could not run away. There were people standing around me that would not let me go. I sat on my cot in the jail cell and looked at John who was sitting on the other cot. “I was hungry and wanted to eat,” I said. “She just got in my way.” “Do you know what I’d tell you?” asked John. “No, what?” “Don’t mess with Barbara Taylor!” he told me. “I know that now. I know it!”