Philip whistled across the street. He felt good. Life was good! Mr. Brown: Philip's boss, was not an easy man to please, but he had just given him a raise. was pleased with him, and he had just received a raise.

Philip had lost his father the year before, and apart from the house he had lived in, he had left nothing. He had not worked much before his death, and the family's finances were meager. After the funeral, Philip had to go straight to work to support himself and his mother. With that, he had to give up his dream of going to college. Philip's father had not left him worldly wealth, but he had taught him the importance of integrity. He was hardworking, conscientious, and obliging. Everyone liked him, and besides, he had discovered that he enjoyed working in Mr. Brown's store.  Philip was happy to have a job and to support his mother. Most people who knew him liked the friendly boy with bright blue eyes and an honest face. As I said, most people. Except for Mr. Peters. He was generally known for his gruffness and, above all, his avarice. Philip was never bothered by his unfriendliness. He thought him: apart from accumulating money, there was nothing that interested the old grumpy bear. Despite his financial prosperity, he had to be a lonely man. Philip and his mother lived on a hill, at the end of a winding village street, in an old-fashioned house painted white, in the middle of a beautiful green field. The most beautiful lawn in the area. -"Tea?" Philip's mother asked as he walked merrily into the kitchen. -"Tea? I am hungry like a wolf!" he replied, but when he came a little closer to his mother, he saw that she had been crying. -"Mother," he asked worriedly, "What is it?" -"Mr. Peeters was just here." she replied in a broken voice. -"Why did that old miser bother you?" Philip asked angrily. -"He says we owe him thousand dollars." his mother replied. -"A thousand dollars?" Philip exclaimed in astonishment. "Didn't Dad pay off our debts just before his accident? He told me that himself. I remember it very well." -"Yes, your father said that, but..." his mother began. -"Where is the receipt?" her son interrupted, "Let's go look in the papers," -"I think the receipt is lost." his mother cried.

-"Lost?" Philip was shocked, "How is that possible?" -"He laughed in my face." the desperate woman lamented, "Let me tell you the whole story. But first have a cup of tea, boy." "Oh, I don´t want tea anymore." her son replied matter-of-factly, "Now tell me." -"About five years ago, your father had borrowed money from Abraham Peeters. At the agreed time when the money had to be paid back, I still remember it as if it were yesterday because it was extremely hot that day, your father paid back his debt to Mr. Peeters and got proof of payment. I saw that myself. Dad put the receipt in his pocket and then went to see his cousin, Paul. His wife was so terribly ill at the time. On the way, however, a violent storm arose, and just as Papa was about to pull into Paul's driveway, he was struck by lightning. That stunned him. It took him weeks to regain consciousness, but he never quite became himself again. Weeks, if not months later, I once asked for that receipt, but we could not find it. We have looked everywhere, turned everything inside out, but found nothing. And to be honest, Dad could not remember any of that. In any case, Abraham Peeters had left for California and never returned. His entire possessions were then left to his brother James. At the time I didn't worry much about it, and your father certainly wasn't in a position to worry about it." -"Mother!" Philip said forcefully, "Hold on because I don't understand your story at all." -"I'm trying to explain it to you, son." his mother said, startled. "On the day that receipt was signed, our old cat jumped on the table and knocked over the inkwell. The ink ran all over the table, and that note got stained with ink. The old Peeters was an advocate of absolute cleanliness, and of course, he thought an ink-stained note was impossible and tore up that note, I mean the receipt. He wrote and signed a new receipt. I've seen that myself." Philip sat looking at his mother thoughtfully. "I was convinced old Peeters had torn up that stained receipt, but that's exactly what James Peeters showed me this afternoon. He said he found it among his brother's papers." Philip's mother finished her story. -"How are we going to solve this?" Philip asked, "We don't have thousands of dollars to pay back right now." Philip got up and paced angrily in the kitchen. -"I'm afraid if this goes to court, your story won't be worth much, mother." he said with desperation in his voice. "Moreover, I am convinced that Mr. Peeters believes that he has a valid debt certificate in his hand. And that old miser will go to any length to claim every penny of it. We have to take another look, search thoroughly whether we can't find that evidence anywhere." -"I'm afraid that's a lost cause son." his mother wept softly. And it was. They couldn't find the note. -"Peeters is such a mean man, he had to laugh at that whole story about the cat and the inkwell." Philip's mother moaned. Philip couldn't help but admit that it sounded very unbelievable. There was nothing left to do, but to sell the house to settle the debt. Philip's mother seemed to have aged so much since Peeter's claim. He had turned very pale; his boyish face looked haggard. At first, he had hoped to settle, and his boss, Mr. Brown, had offered to borrow money on a mortgage on the house, but Philip was terrified that he would not be able to pay the interest on his salary. He wasn't afraid of hard work, but he didn't want to end up in an endless state of debt. He saw no prospect of paying it off. The house was sold and together with his mother, they moved into a small, rented house. Down by the river, because the rents were affordable there. Philip had died inwardly at the mere thought of his mother being evicted from her home in this way. She tried her best to hide her feelings for her son and to give him the impression that she was cheerful, but she found all of this very bitter. The house and lot had been sold and this was their new life now: in a small house down by the river. She had lost everything she was used to. This was a particularly heavy blow to her. Philip felt distraught and discouraged. His step lacked bounce and his face had lost its smile. He yearned for his childhood home. He was deeply unhappy. That winter, Philip's father's cousin, Paul, died. He left behind two small children. Their mother had died the year before. The two little boys were left penniless and homeless, as there were debts on all sides. "What will become of those children?" Philip's mother lamented. "We have to take those children in with us, son, and offer them a new home." -"Mother please!" exclaimed Philip exclaimed, "We don't have a penny of our own." -"We are the only family they have." his mother sighed sadly. - "Think about yourself mother." Philip continued, "You already deny yourself so much and you work way too hard!" -"Oh, stop it son! You should do it with love for those poor souls. Their father was your father's cousin. They are family, and we have to do what we can for those children. We can don't let strangers take them. Who knows what will become of them." Philip spent a week thinking about it. Taking in those kids meant two extra mouths to feed. His mother saw it as a privilege to take care of those boys. -"Okay mother." he finally said to her, "We're going to give those boys a new home. And so it was that Jonah and Sam, ages eight and five, came to live with Philip and his mother. They were a bit naughty and very lively. Before long it was Jonah's birthday. But there was no money for a present. -"Why don't you give him one of Daddy's books? The one with the nice red cover, the story about the pirates, little boys like that, don't they?" Philip's mother suggested. The story was not very special, but it was Jonah's gift, and on the day of his birthday the boy got it at breakfast. But that day there was another cause for celebration: when Philip wanted to wrap the book the day before to make it look like a present, he flipped through its pages carelessly, when suddenly he sprang up, his face white as marble. -"Mother!" he gasped. -"What's wrong son?" she asked in alarm. -"Look at this." he whispered, holding up a yellowed piece of paper. Mother and son looked at each other in silence for a moment. Philip began to laugh, and his mother let her tears flow. -"Do you think this note is valid as legal evidence?" she asked, sobbing. -"And why not?" Philip said dryly, "We'll have to leave it to Mr. Peeters' sense of justice. But it's worth trying anyway." -"Can a judge force him to pay us back the money?" his mother asked worriedly. Mr. Brown accompanied Philip when he went to talk to Mr. Peeters and together, they were able to convince him of the authenticity of the note. Peeters was a hard, stingy man, but he prided himself on his honesty. -"Then the story of the cat and the inkwell must be true." he bellowed gruffly. By spring, Philip, his mother, and, of course, the boys had settled back into their beloved home. -"We really owe our happiness to those boys, don't we, mother?" Philip said. "Because of their birthday, we found that misplaced receipt." Philip’s mother shrugged her shoulders and said timidly: "In the end, you were the one who decided to offer those boys a new home with us." "I didn´t want to do it at first,” Philip said, embarrassed, "if you hadn't come up with the idea of taking those boys in, it wouldn't have happened. It's your selflessness that has given us the privilege of having those boys with us. And for that: I thank you mot


My friends, Bob Schlagel and Lillian Hyde, had finally started to plan their wedding. As community and church leaders, they always help others, so when they began receiving invitations to celebrate their upcoming wedding, neither felt comfortable with the idea of others planning a special event just for them. Therefore, I offered to help organize the events for them. As Society and Lifestyle page editor/reporter for The Linoak County Gazette, I had all the tools necessary to create a planner. This job wouldn’t be easy but no job with doing is easy.

Most people were excited for Bob and Lillian, this engagement had been a long time in coming. Bob had cared deeply for, even been in love with, Lillian since high school. Lillian however, had fallen in love with Finn McCarthy. Finn and Lillian were engaged following high school. Soon afterwards his life was cut short in a head-on, hit and run collision with a motor vehicle. His untimely death coupled with the fact that no one discovered or disclosed who was driving the car that killed Finn left Lillian with a gaping hole in her heart. That is until October when the most unlikely thing happened. Bob finally professed his feelings to Lillian and she slowly opened her heart to his affection. The whole town was a bit shocked at the announcement of their engagement on Christmas Day. This was the biggest Christmas miracle since the Advance Twentieth Century Limited drove through the Great Blizzard of 1935 to arrive in Bushwick, with passengers and Christmas mail still intact, pulling into the station at 12:01 in the morning on Christmas Eve.

There was just one sticking point but it was a big sticking point. After the news of Bob and Lillian’s engagement hit the paper I received an anonymous tip from a source telling me that I would find information leading to the identity of the person who struck and killed Finn McCarthy at the Belden Summer home outside of Bushwick. We found it very odd indeed. Yet the tipster was as good as they said, and although the information was not specific, it left a breadcrumb trail to follow. The first of those crumbs led me and the police to a hospital in Erie City. Following that came threatening messages in the form of bouquets of flowers, attempting to scare Lillian and me off the investigation. We ended up beating the “messenger” at his or her own game.

While we still have no idea who the messenger is, the last time they gave me a floral gift, they announced resignation but attached a card which read "For Now". Whoever it was hadn’t finished. I will continue to help the police investigate even as Lilli and Bob begin to solidify the plans for their big day.

To say I have a lot of work ahead of me was a bit of an understatement. As well as continuing to explore Finn’s death and writing the special features for the Spring wedding season, I still have my regular Sunday column to write. Lillian and Bob both have thriving businesses that help this community. It's going to be a real pleasure to help them as their wedding and party planner.

 I arrived home that evening to a very happy Pomeranian barking at the top of his lungs. Mr. Gillespie the most opinionated fur covered companion I’d ever owned. I found him to be a great listener, but only after he’d been fed. After feeding the dog, I made myself a pasta salad with fresh herbs and grated parmesan. It felt so good to sit in my own kitchen to eat. I settled in to study the calendars that Bob and Lillian had given me together with the invitations to engagement parties. There were invitations from both friends and organizations in the community. It was Bob and Lilli’s intention to hold their wedding ceremony on June 1; this was the birthday of Lilli’s Aunt Ginny from whom she inherited Ginny’s Cookie Jar . There were a lot of invitations, and only so many openings in the calendars (Including my own). I began to highlight dates on a master calendar. I sat for a moment looking at the impossibility of coordinating all these parties, events, dinners and intimate gatherings with close friends. I looked at a contented Mr. Gillespie.

 “Gillespie we have got to start thinking out of the box!” I said aloud

The first order of business however, was the Linoak County Bridal Show to be held this Saturday and Sunday. I would be there to get facts for my story. Both Lillian and Bob would be displaying their various wedding cakes and sweet confections made by their bakeries. Ginny’s Cookie Jar Gluten Free Bakery, was noted for the traditionally decorated cakes. Bob’s Best Bakery was noted for being a little more daring in their cake recipes and decorating style. Besides her own display, Lillian said she was planning to shop for a gown and a suit for Bob that would match her vision for the wedding. She asked me to help her find the right shop, of course I was thrilled. I know most of the bridal and fashion shop owners in the county from past articles I’ve done for the paper.

I penciled the bridal show in on the master calendar and then went to the living room to watch some TV.

I’m not a morning person so when the alarm went off Friday morning I nearly turned it off. However, I remembered I was to head over to the Convention Center in Applefield to look over the preparations for the bridal show. I hauled myself out of bed, fed the dog, dressed, then I drove to Applefield .

I drove into the parking lot and I saw that the antique front doors had been transformed to a bridal bower. It truly was stunning. I walked through the old wooden doors to see decorators doing their best to make the whole room inviting. Ray got pictures while I spoke to the decorators about the theme for this year’s show “Give Me Your Answer True”. A take on the old song “Daisy Bell”. I took a moment to speak to a few of the bridal boutiques about helping Lilli pick out a wedding dress. They were all too happy to help.

Friday evening was spent firming up facts for my Sunday Supplement story on the bridal show. I never went into a story of this size without marshaling my facts first. By 9:00 pm I was ready for bed. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The alarm went off early Saturday morning. It was a very chilly day for the last week in February. I followed my usual morning routine, stepping out of the door promptly at 7:30 to meet Ray at the Convention Center. I pulled my Mini Cooper out of the garage then called Mrs. West to let her know I was leaving. She’s my dog sitter and all around wonderful neighbor.

When I arrived at the center Lilli was already there waiting for me at the door. She looked very upset. She was shaking. Pauline looked angry, the girls just looked terrified.

“Lilli what the heck.” I exclaimed.

  She handed me a box with my name on it, the sort of plain white boxes in which flowers come. From the look on her face I knew it wasn’t a good thing. I opened the box and inside was a black rose. While it’s called a black rose it’s really a very dark purple rose that looks almost black. A threat in the form of a flower.

“My gosh! Where did this come from!? I asked, louder than I had intended to.

“It was waiting on the table with mine.” She said.

  She was flushed and looked as though she was holding back tears. No doubt she was tachycardic.

“Does Bob know?” I asked.

“No he doesn’t, he had to go back to the shop. He should be here any moment.” She said. “I would break down in tears but I’m not giving this low-life any more satisfaction today.”

Just then Bob came through the door. Lilli grabbed his arm tightly and ushered him back out into the parking lot to tell him what had happened. He grabbed her around the waist just in case the tachycardia got the best of her. Then he told Lilli, “Well that’s it! That does it! No matter what, we won’t give up on our wedding plans, we won’t stop searching for Finn’s killer, but it won’t be business as usual either.” He motioned for me to join them.

“I think you should place that wonderful rose in a vase, don’t you? I believe you should inform that fool that scare tactics won’t work. Moreover, this whole idea of going to every party under the sun won't work. It is unclear how much, if any, information he or she has about our movements. Tracy we’ve got to come up with a plan to nail this person once and for all!” He said vehemently “Lillian don’t worry, I’m calling Axel Persson right now. He’s not on duty today. He’ll come if I ask, and of course I’ll pay his daily rate.” Said Bob as he took his cell out of his pocket.

Lilli and I found a vase and put our “gifts” on the table.

We felt safer with the presence of Deputy Axel Persson (not that I felt unsafe. The coward wouldn't even face me but Lillian was a different story.)

I began to circulate within the building taking notes for my articles on the show while Ray took photos. One designer, new to the area, designed a bridesmaid gown that reminded me of Glynis Johns's dress from The Court Jester, one of Lillian and Bob's favorite movies. A costume party was the answer! It would take some doing to keep it secret but it’s the only way to ferret out the person threatening my friends. I raced back to the table to talk to Lilli.

“Lilli, can you step away for a second. It's important.” I asked breathlessly. Her table was busy but this could not wait. Her Aunt Pauline nodded. The gluten free bakeries were set up in a small room off the main showroom floor.

I sent a text to Bob and Axel asking them to meet us in the annex on the back of the building. It was empty and we could have a conversation in private.

I discussed my idea for the engagement party with Axel, Bob and Lilli. It would be a great way to protect Lillian while also being a lot of fun to plan.

“In short this is the idea. I have looked at all the invitations that Lilli and Bob have received. Essentially all the invitations are from close friends or organizations to which they belong. I’m not so concerned about the party at the Elks Lodge or the Northern Lights Bakers Assn. I think we could short circuit all of the scheduling by holding one big party with a twist. I think we should plan a themed costume party. Only the theme will be absolutely close hold information. Only certain individuals will be invited. Individuals that the Sheriff has already vetted. The invitations will go out by encrypted emails from my office address and through a secret group on social media.” I said excitedly. One designer created a costume that looks exactly like the one worn by Glynis Johns in “The Court Jester''. That theme would be perfect. There are plenty of costumes available in that genre. I added, “We let it be known that the party is a costume party but not the theme. Bob and Lillian’s circle of close friends will cooperate. Since I know the Editor, I am confident that the newspaper will cover the cost of the costumes in exchange for exclusive rights to the story. What do you think of the idea?” I continued. “I just happen to know a costumer in our city who can help us.”

Axel said “All that from seeing one dress in a sea of dresses? That’s amazing! Speaking from a security standpoint, any members of security staff would be able to blend in with the party goers. Maybe you should send out some fake invitation postcards. You know how many people read those without permission. Word will get around that way for sure!” I suggest everyone be given some kind of identification.”

Bob chimed in “The purple pimpernel.” Lillian burst out laughing (it was good to hear her laugh) “That’s perfect! Everyone will be sent a purple pimpernel on a small chain. One simply shows the flower at the door” We can create those ourselves! I love it!”

“A party that will be like a grown-up version of Hyde and Seek.” I said

Everyone groaned

As the day wound to a close I could see the relief on Lillian’s face. She was happy and smiling. She and I spent the last hour of the show looking at dresses and tuxedos. Her favorite dress was a Regency Style wedding dress. Her colors would be dark purple, light people and a subtle yellow to match the viola flowers she’d be carrying. The perfect dress for her personality and figure. She will look gorgeous.

She confided in me that she was looking forward to her engagement party even though it had been years since she attended a party just for fun. She said with a laugh, “I am sure that Bob will get a huge kick out of dressing in a Tudor costume. He’s really a big ham.” she continued “I know that there’s no guarantee that this party thing will work to catch our “floral friend” but I think this is a great trap! You are just brilliant.”

In the showroom, I ran into Axel, who offered to see me safely home. “It seems that Bob and Lilli are both looking forward to their party. This is a very slick idea from a devious mind. You’ve got a devious mind Torchy.” He said as we walked out to our cars. (a nickname I inherited from an old movie series about a female newspaper reporter)

“Yes, since the party isn't really about them, they are not as hesitant to share the joy with others.” I said “What do you mean devious? Me? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet Deputy Persson” I smiled broadly.

After following me home, Axel checked the house to make sure Mr. Gillespie and I were safe. As a thank you I invited him to stay for coffee and a fresh bagel from Bob’s Best Bakery. Just then my cell phone rang. It was Lilli. “Hi Lilli what’s up?” I said.

“Hi Tracy. I arrived home safe and sound. No creepy messages or flowers left around my house or the bakery. Say thank you to Axel for his help today.” She said laughing.

“How the devil did you know…” I asked my voice trailing off

“Let’s just say I recognize the signs.” Lilli responded “Just don’t play Hyde and Seek for too long Tracy. Take it from someone who knows.”


TW: Writer’s block, and mild swearing (caused by the writer’s block). “This is going to suck,” I involuntarily announce. Immediately, I wince at the discreet (and not-so-discreet) glares I get from the quiet patrons around me.

Shit! The northwest side of the library is congested with people. This section of the branch seems to be the quietest, or it is the ambience offered by its floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing the sun to luminate the room and warm up the cushioned community chairs and study desks, that make it feel more peaceful than the rest of the building. The view out the windows is mundane, nothing special; it is a crossroads, a trio of stop signs directing traffic on some busy surface streets in a small neighborhood. There are people walking along, cyclists zooming by, eucalyptus and oak trees swaying and failing to hold onto their leaves.

Each moving piece with its own story , I lament, watching from a small study desk in the far corner.

Everyone has a story but me , I groan internally. Around me are chairs filled by seemingly concentrated people, and I can’t help but wonder what is plaguing their mind, wonder if it is at all the same for them as it is for me.

The person in front of me is taking a child development quiz for school. I’m surprised, mostly because of his age, I suppose, but I am also intrigued.

Me too, me too , I think, a part of me wanting to share my love for child development with him. Ask him what he’s taking, what school he’s studying at, or if he needs any help. By the looks of it, he got several of the answers wrong, and is reviewing the correct answers before utilizing his second attempt.

The man across from me hasn’t moved; his headphones secure him to his laptop, which I presume is still playing that Youtube video I saw him watching when I walked past him earlier. There’s a young woman behind him, spending more time on her phone than working on her open computer. I saw her outside earlier gossiping and giggling with a friend, and I wonder if that is who is distracting her from the blank open Word document. All of this is  my

massive distraction from the fact that I am

not

doing what I came here to do.

A thousand words feels like a bazillion. I have several Word documents open, four actually. Three of them are tarnished with about three hundred lazy words endeavoring to become a story, and the other is blank, waiting for me to type out another awful and horrific beginning to nothing. I am listening to autumn jazz, hoping the soothing instrumental will help stimulate my fingers across the keyboard, like it usually does, but today it is only making me yawn.

A quote I heard a while ago comes to mind, about how staring at a blank page for hours is the exact thing that makes you a writer. Then, a story about a young girl whose mother asked her if she wanted to be a writer when she grew up, to which the little girl said, “I want to do the thinking part, but not the writing part.” At that, I mentally raise my hand in agreement with the wise youngling.

Me too. Part of me thinks I cannot come up with a story because I don’t want to let go, that I am still holding onto the stories I wrote in the last few weeks. They had poured directly out of my heart and soul, and I am scared they will be forgotten, become old news, if I relinquish another. I am scared to leave them behind. Writing something new feels like I am doing just that. Another part of me knows what’s coming next is going to be absolute shit. It kind of happens that way when you’re a writer, an amateur one, anyway. A successful streak is called a streak for a reason.

I am tempted to refresh my web browser page again; it’s become a nervous tick. Whenever I am not being productive at the keyboard, I click, click, click, and hope an idea will reveal itself the way a refreshed page is born anew. This time I stop my cursor before the click. It’s been almost two hours of this, starting a story, hating it (but not enough to delete it because... Just in case),

clicking on my browser, then opening a new blank document.

They say you can convince your brain you’ve had a good night’s sleep, even if you didn’t, and it will improve overall brain function as if you actually did sleep well. I try it:

I have a great idea. I am full of ideas.

Crickets. Well, not exactly. But really stupid ideas sometimes sound like annoying crickets. I force myself to start with one of them.

Get the awful ideas out, and maybe something better will arise. The first story, which is pukingly awful, is about two teenage girls devising a plan to make some boy who wronged them fall in love with one of them so they could break his heart. In the end, the girl falls in love with the guy. It’s an overdone and cliché trope, but it is my life, and I’ve been listening to a lot of Louyah lately, which has made me feel quite romantic. I definitely stop it there at about three hundred and forty four words. I hate myself just a little bit more for even allowing the idea to live past one sentence. Next, I go for the funny. A husband and wife stuck in the back of their daughter’s trunk, somehow having locked themselves inside after spying on her and her new boy friend (emphasis on the space between “boy” and “friend”). The wife and husband banter plays out hilariously in my head. I even consider adding a piece to the puzzle where the two of them try to get a little stoned in the middle of their shenanigans. The whole idea feels like something out of

Modern Family , and it makes me giddy. But I spend almost an hour trying to make sense of the plot: how did they get in the back of her trunk without her noticing; how would they get out without keys; car alarms; the parents’ lie to their daughter about where they would be… I can’t make it work in my head. One hundred and seventy four words, and I’m already lost in my own story.

I consider writing about God.

Ugh.

Though not my favorite topic, it’s an easy one since everyone has their own idea about Him, It, whatever. There’s no right or wrong when it comes to God, no answers really need explaining. If God were stuck in the trunk of a car, God could literally do anything about it. I think about God’s followers, and how easy a devoted and brain-washy type character would be fun to write about, especially aside its starkest opponent, an atheist.

An LDS man and an atheist walk into a bar… An LDS man and an atheist are the only two who survived the war and now have to protect the architectural plans for God’s new temple…

I lose interest before I even compose a first line.

My time at the library is almost up and the deadline is tomorrow. I am annoyed with myself for not having a better grasp on this yet, but I try to not beat myself up. Negativity is the death of creativity. I tell myself, I got the wheels rolling, and a break will give my brain the leniency to be free flowing and loopy and silly. All of those things are constructive in writing.

I pack up my computer, and make my way to my car. I give my mind permission to think of anything else. Then, of course, as I am sitting in traffic, I manage to actually think about something else – texting my dad back about an upcoming holiday trip wherein which an estranged uncle of mine might attend – when the idea comes to me.

I’ll have to research how planes crash… (because obviously I’m going to kill the MC).

The beginning paragraph is writing itself in my head, flooding through the gates, and I am infuriated that this is happening

now, away from my computer.

I try repeating the lines in my head over and over so they aren’t lost in the trade winds of my brain and gone forever.

Holidays aren’t my favorite, but I know them. I know the drama, and all its moving parts.

That’s a story I could write,

I think.

It might be a shit idea, but at least now I’ve got a plan.


1. Despair The soldier's hands shook. He trembled. He wept. Conscious thought eluded him at that moment, eclipsed by the paralysis that seemed to have seized control of his functions. He stood there, amidst the bruised soil and the shattered, red-rimmed skies. Tears wept down his face - a muddied river of rust and salted loss. The grit and grime of the past few years still clung onto him, coating him in a visceral reminder of his own sins. His feet ached, chest burned, and the fist around his heart a tight choke-hold that drained what little strength he is still possessed at that moment.

The lands wept red alongside him. Like him, like all of them, it had been irreversibly changed - wrenched flesh and chunks of sanity ripped apart, marked irreversibly by the darkness that had suffocated the lands during the events of the war. Winning or losing, it didn't matter. It felt like choosing between a path of thorns and a path of needles. Both still tore him up. It felt as if victory mattered not, not when bought with this sort of sacrifice. What terrible loss, his heart grieved. Staring out at a ravished field, his fingers curled around a single seed of salvation - a token that he had found on one of the many beaches invaded during the course of the fighting. Amidst the sprays of blood in the air, among the cries and screams and thuds of bodies and dismembered chunks, huddled in a singular trench nearer to the main inland, by chance or by fate, his hands had closed upon a singular acorn. He had kept it, unsure of why. Now, he thinks he knows . He fell to his knees. The soil drank in his tears greedily. He crawled, flesh pressing against cracked mud and living layers of rust, all strength fled from his weary frame.

Making an indent in the ground gently, he pressed the acorn into the embrace of its arms.

“Take it.” He says aloud, rasping, and unsure as to why he was even speaking aloud. For, who was there to listen, but the lonely wind? Body bent, he stood, amidst the weight of the world crushing in his shoulders. The soldier wore a coat of blood, the flesh of the nameless and bones of despair. He was inconsequential, he knew, and as the haze began to descend once more onto the plateau, he breathed, and faded into the mist.

-**- 2. Grief Karen loved the stars. The old gardener remembered that much about his late wife. He missed her so much, that it felt like he had already lost the world. He breathed without air, and moved without life. He found himself lonely. It was much worse lately, with his own fading memories slipping away as his mind began to deteriorate with age and grief. He couldn’t remember her voice, or how she looked. He remembered her wrong, he knew, sometimes with the nose just the slightest bit crooked and the eyes always the wrong shade of green. It hurt, so much more than he could ever imagine. Photographs were useless - old and worn and too still and lifeless - and the physical reminder of it picked too hard away at the floorboards and walls of his guarded mind that he soon found himself locking everything away.

The house was empty, and his heart even emptier. He came to a rest in front of a familiar plot of land. Near his and Karen’s house, just at the outskirts of the town where they lived. Like a clutch, he used it to ground himself. Bitterness and melancholy swelled in his heart, swamped by the tenderness of being scraped raw, and he lingered there.

He knelt there, as if in front of an altar, and reverently pressed his fingers against the mound of soil ensconcing a lithe, green sapling. The ever-present buzz in his head receded, and he let training and experience take over in a rhythm of motion. He tended to that plant until the sun had fully set and his eyes stung from the encroaching darkness.

He came back to himself hours later, blissful from the task of nothingness.

He paused, before turning away.

“I miss you.” He said, voice barely audible. The wind stole his words away. Below, his wife’s ashes shivered in the soil, from where he had buried her.

-**- 3. Glee “And then the good guy’s plane swooped in,” The ten-year old babbled excitedly. Samuel sat atop the bulging stump of the roots, from where the wood panned out on its own as if to create a seat all for him. The thought excited him, and with renewed vigour, he smashed the two toy planes clutched in both hands together. A plastic thud rang out, and with added, dramaticized sound effects, Samuel fell backwards laughing, along with figurines. A gentle layer of twigs and fledglings leaves cradled his head from before it could smack against the ground.

Samuel felt safe here. It was a nice place, where nobody would ever bother him and he could do whatever he wanted. He wrinkled his nose, and then grinned - he didn’t have to do any chores or homework! “I love you!” He told the burgeoning tree happily, from his spot upside-down. “We’re going to be best friends forever!” The sunlight beamed back at him, and the leaves patted his hair. From the distance, his mother watched him play. A small smile lingered on her lips, tired and worn, but oh so bright . She thought about that kind old man that had sold them this house at such a low price, and saved her and her son from wandering too far from her family’s hometown. Lord knows that they had desperately needed to save that money. God bless that man’s heart. -**- 4. Greed The thief stole into the night, a duffel of his ill-gotten gains thrown over a shoulder haphazardly. Like a shadow, he crept along the darkness, among and through the many winding paths of the small village. He ran past the quaint little houses and shops, and further into the depths of the denser thicker. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, a rather jittery, skewed sense of excitement that kept him moving fast. Foliage slapped itself against the side of his legs, and dark grass lapped hungrily against his bare ankles. He kept to the side of the village, just at the outermost border of civilisation and wilderness.

An idea came across him at once, just as he came across a stroke of good fortune. He spied a small property nearby, cross-haired just at the edge of the woods. He headed for it, almost drunk on the mischievous gaze of the moonlight and the success of that night. What good fortune!

Almost immediately, he tripped.

There was a moment of stunned weightlessness, before the ground rushed up towards his face. His sight was filled with the vision of rather pointy rocks and sharp sticks, and a split second of sheer panic, before the actual impact took place. Curses slipped out of his mouth, harsh and bitingly guttural. Pain stitched itself across his skin in waves, throbbing like hell . “What the f -”

The small, stunted tree in front of his face twitched in annoyance at the crude language. It’s leaves dipped and swayed irritably. The ground beneath the rude, little thief yawned open and swallowed him whole. -**- 5. Friendship The scent of wet cat was strong in the dog’s nose. The animal shuddered in revulsion, lingering only slightly before bounding up beside its human-friend. Human-friend smiled nicely and patted the dog’s head, rubbing that spot that was just so in between his ears. Cat-grievances pushed immediately aside, the dog started panting in a grin, flopping bodily to his paws before nudging a pointed snout under its human-friend’s touch. It had only a moment to enjoy the contact, before the smell of disgustingly wet cat filled its nose. A low growl welled up in the dog’s throat. Giving his human-friend an apologetic grunt, the dog bounced back on its haunches, before launching itself after the source of the smelly cat. It followed the path, led by the stench itself, and found itself screeching to a halt in front of a large tree. The evil was strong here. The dog barely had a moment to properly scent its surroundings, before a thoroughly displeased cat yowled itself into existence. The little furry demon leapt straight at him, with the audacity to actually attack!

For a moment, the dog was stunned. He almost didn’t move, but the abrupt dig of claws scratching into his back - the demon was marking him! - pushed him to retaliate. Growling, he snapped at the little fiend, baring his large teeth and drool and wicked tongue.

The two animals snapped at each other, a flurry of furred bodies scrabbling at each other, as the air was filled with the grunts and battle-cries of the two very displeased animals. It seemed like hours, before the fight drew to a halt. Energy completely sapped, they sagged to their sides, on opposite directions, but still facing each other warily. The cat began to lick itself clean. The dog harrumphed, before doing the same.

Both were satisfied.

I won, the cat thought with a purr. I am the best winner! The dog thought with a happy rumble. In a good mood, the dog limped to his feet, before cautiously padding over to his defeated foe. The cat hissed at him, with one warning claw swiping over his wounded nose. Sticking out a wet, pink tongue, the dog licked the cat.

Deliberately, and slowly. A heartbeat later, the two animals were racing against, but side-by-side this time. Their first course of action? The cat rubbed its face against the bark of a tree. The dog twitched, before lifting one leg, and then smugly marked its territory over the cat’s against this nice-smelling tree.

Mine , they both thought loudly. A small crack. Two sticks dropped themselves warningly on each of their heads.

The animals yelped, and raced away. -**- 6. Faith “Oh, Lord,” The pastor hummed beneath a canopy of shaded leaves and warm, gentle light. ”You are my God, and I will ever praise you.” He knelt there for some time, bowing his head in prayer.

I thank you, Lord. Things have been hard lately, and there’s so many things that I’m struggling with, but I’m going to trust in you. Thank you for always being there with me. I need your help, Lord. Guide me in everything I do, and reveal your Word to me, so that I can go out and share your Message. Thank you. For everything. In Yeshua’s name, I pray. Amen. -**- 7. Passion The paper was white and glistening. Her hand moved on autopilot, dictated by the pulse and rhythm of the forest around her. Smears of contented blues and glistening yellows painted themselves amidst the parchment, and the artist inside of her felt more at peace than ever. Inks spread themselves out as the sunlight illuminated her face and work - the brilliant setting scene of a gentle cadence. A giddy shout from the edge drew her attention, and she turned at once. Her heart ached with joy and equal disbelief. Her sister and mother raced towards her, twin-suns of beaming adoration and love on their faces. Behind them, strolling at a steadier pace, but the calm, steady figure of her father. She hadn’t seen them for over a year. Her hands shook. Her eyes glistened. She had thought…

She had thought that they had been too busy to come, but the evidence presented to her said otherwise.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. The artist stood strong beneath the proud, arching oak tree, and waved back at her family. -**- 8. Epilogue There are things that yet remain hidden from the gaze of humanity.

This does not mean that humanity has not part to play in shaping them, however. Birthed from the blood and tears of a despairing soldier longing for home so long ago, amidst a sea of despair and suffocating anguish, was a small seed. In the ground, the acorn went, and the tree grew accordingly. Nurtured by the grieving gardener and the joyful child, hardened by the greedy nature of the thief that stole at midnight, further confused by the contradictory yet clear nature of animal companions, supplemented by the faith and unyielding belief of the preacher and softened by the beauty of the simple things in life, the love of the artist and her passion - from all of these things was brought forth a tree spirit. Born from the blood and tears, the greed and love, of humanity, they grew. Now, the wizened little creature sits atop the highest branch of its tree. Their legs sway and swing in the rhythm of the breeze, and their head of curls sweep across their face like leaves dancing in the suspended air. At peace at last, they smile. A bird curiously walks over, one day.

The creature beams, and mischievously nudges a small, glowing acorn across the span of the branch. The bird tilts its head, and understands - it picks the innocuous-looking thing up and with a mighty flap of wings, flies away into the purple-yellow sunset. The end.


I didn’t want a career as much as I wanted something to do with life that would serve to cure my low self-esteem. That’s the first and only thing you need to know. However, please note that I truly wanted to be cured more than anything else in the world. My flesh, blood, and bones body was nothing more than a covering for that inner lowness. A dull, low, ache.

(In English I don’t think that’s an official word - lowness - but it says what I’m all about. Sloshing through the days, slogging through the weeks, slipping through the months.) I thought standing alone, acting oh so autonomous and straight-backed, would help. The career was supposed to provide the place for that standing. The problem was, I hadn’t counted on standing alone against stinging slings and arrows. Those stings came from people I saw every day, my colleagues. Sometimes they were words I heard, but other times they were things said in halls and closets, by faceless voices and phantom minds. The speakers were so evil I thought they were mere figments of my imagination. It also seemed like the mean went with the territory. Smart people just acted that way. They spoke to kill. PHD? Yes, but for me it was more like PTSD. You really can catch it in high-fallutin’ places. A doctor informed me that was possible. Tears. It seems PTSD has no cure.

Still, I did it. Kept searching for the way to blast the inner lowness by showing I knew enough to work in that place. I pretended the twisted ones didn’t exist outside their offices. Inside, inside me, I had my personal fight song. Also, although it took me a while to notice, I had music by steel women to take hold of my shoulders, prop me up, slap my face even, all the while showing sad eyes at how much things hurt. How much I hurt from all the aloneness. Maybe you would like some examples of songs that salved the scrapes and fissures, but I can’t bring myself to mention any.

I thought publications would help. Conference papers, too. Prove it to myself, because I certainly didn't think much of what I did. Clearly everybody else was better, or at least ninety per cent of everybody else was better. At least I tried hard. (This low self-esteem thing is a messy bird. It squawks and flaps, makes you look awkward. You are.) The result was an annual report and a growing list of accomplishments. Words on paper or a computer.

I thought nights alone with a good book or a paper to write would help. They were nights that were very alone. Achingly alone. Aching. That means, of course, that the inner coils just stretched and twirled more tightly.

This is no lie. This is no exaggeration. I might have had a decent brain, but I was also a sick woman. Then, after a few years of not moving an inch toward the cure that was the reason for the career in the first place, I thought working eighty hours a week would be the be-all and the end-all for the esteem ‘glitch’ in my life. A career was necessary. That was what mattered. No sacrifice was too great. Quitting not allowed. Spend your life workin’ for the man. He doesn’t know or care who you are.

It’s important to explain that another effect of this feeling unworthy was that I always felt like a fake. Certainly I didn’t deserve the degrees that had been earned during years of study. Nor did I deserve those publications, those conference papers that had my name inscribed beneath their titles. True, I may have deserved the bullying. I was rough, scuffed-up on the outside, not a smooth colleague whose parents had both attended Ivy League schools. Mine never saw the high school graduation ceremony. Sixteen and out. Definitely I didn’t deserve the partner I had somehow acquired. Class difference, it turns out, can be even greater than race in some cases. Class similarity can mean solidarity. The other way around, upper vs. lower economic level, meant that working class me deserved the criticism I received for not being a good housekeeper, perfectly neat, even-tempered. I grew up damaged goods. A damaged girl. Admittedly, I was not easy to get along with. That was natural, because my brain never turned off, thinking about the next article that needed to be written, overwriting the esteem that wasn’t there. I didn’t really know how to talk about anything else besides what the career was about. I thought, imagined, supposed he was also passionate about the same thing. He was probably bored to tears, but was too polite to say anything. There is something else to consider: I had been an only child, used to amusing myself because there were no siblings to play with. Time had to be occupied somehow. My young girl’s technique was to go deep inside my imagination and find a meadow for dancing. I already knew that I only deserved myself, not company. Solitude was my destiny. He was nevertheless my passion, even though my passion for finding a cure for no self worth was much greater, apparently. I thought he was handsome, exotic, and excessively intelligent. Was he all that? Maybe, but you’ll need to ask somebody else about that now. I don’t have any recent data. I didn’t know all that much about him. I simply tried to be the right one, be good enough for him. The important thing is that I was able and willing to be alone, which gave him a lot of leeway as well. Of course that was all right and good. He deserved to have his solitude. I shouldn’t be getting in his way. I just thought it was a good combination, the two of us. We gave each other space. I had grown up with it while he had been one of four and had a right to his space now that he was an adult. It was essential to give him what he wanted and needed. The years went by. Now we have reached the conclusion: He didn’t need me much, so when we were apart, tending to our careers (more something I did than he did), my absence would do no harm. I thought this because I wasn’t worth being with, as has already been noted. It had been quite hard to settle into a pattern that fit, not too tight and not too loose. Our life together. A relationship so tenuous yet surviving. Weeks alone, weeks together. It was all I deserved.

Lots of space for me and the career meant, not to be rich or famous, but to console me for what I could never be: worthy. Long-distance commuting, from one continent to another: it was my protective mantle and my distracting mantra. I know some people thought otherwise, thought I was not working enough at fighting off the debilitating, tongue-tying low self esteem. Others simply thought I lived a very odd life. They didn’t know me. Nobody saw the working class kid in a ramshackle house on an unsophisticated street in town. Nobody knew I had a different sort of wealth. I didn’t know it myself for a long time. Did I say I was kind of the monastic sort? Hiding away means hiding from some/thing/body.

Why was I hiding? Some days brought clarity. Others just fogginess and no horizon. As for the mantle or mantra, there were other examples of people who paid high prices to make life work. Once somebody told me a story about a couple who were happily married but dirt poor. The husband emigrated for a number of years. They had one child, a boy. I don’t know if the man ever returned for visits during all the years he worked on the other side of the ocean. The sacrifice paid off, though, because he sent money home, they had a roof over their heads and food on the table. Soon after he returned, he had a heart attack and died. His wife went from being a widow of the living to a widow of the dead. Her husband had come back to her, though. He had come back. He didn’t survive the reunion very long, but at least he came back. So, yes, I do know that lots of people make sacrifices all the time, and often they are ones they never set out to make. Ones they would be incapable of making if they were asked to make them. The thing is, I worked really, really hard at making my sacrifice work. I knew it was necessary if I were to someday, somehow, be worthy of him. Be as smart as he was. He was destined to be the great scholar. I could work to be half as good, perhaps. And so I stood alone. Again and again. Over and over. Feeling at times like Saint Sebastian. Wasn’t he the one who had tons of arrows shot into his body but he didn’t falter? Sorry, I don’t know a whole lot about saints. It’s not my field of specialization. I slept alone. You can get a cat or a dog but it’s not the same. It’s nice when the other body in the bed is human sometimes. I ate alone. This was the really problematic part. You see, I love to cook and am not bad at it, but never bother if it’s only me. Just some cheese and crackers, some olives on the side, maybe a glass of white wine. Great supper for a loner. Add some grapes or clementines to round it out. You could even avoid dirtying a plate; just put a paper towel in front of you. I worked and wrote alone. Well, not completely, because when you have students you are with them during the class. But you don’t usually socialize with them. That’s even a bit risky. All the class planning and homework correcting, that happened with nobody else around. Writing has to be solitary as well. You might go to a café or a terraza , and there will be people around, but if you want to get anything written, you can’t be gabbing. By noting this, I am admitting that I chose this type of career. I am to blame. Yet probably I chose what I deserved. I would read poem after poem, novel after novel, review after review. My life, a book, an open book. Only in one sense, though. The rest, the part not made of words and pages, was permanently sealed. We will go no farther on this topic, thank you. Yes, I knew I had the gift (not talent, by ‘gift’ I mean good fortune) of being able to have my eyes walk onto a page and become disembodied. I think you could call it that. I was on the page, in the book, and I wasn’t me but instead was the reader of another’s words. I was a ghost flitting about the characters on the pages.this might help explain why a career that required constant reading and writing was the only one that would chase out the low. Words, the strongest drug on the market. A sad poem didn’t speak for me, no. Instead, it led me to the source of the words and that was when I could cry freely, knowing the sadness was for somebody else. I could not be sad because I had made the choice to have a career. That was my story and I was sticking to it. I am sticking to it, despite the fact that this is all very convoluted at this point. I sincerely apologize. During all the things I’m describing to you here, I always had my low self-esteem for company. It was the person I saw in the mirror (poor, homely low self-esteem). It was the passenger who told me how to improve my driving. It was company on the couch reading. We - low self-esteem and I - used to hold conversations sometimes. I never told it to go away, because the long-distance thing I had counterbalanced that. I felt wanted, loved, at least a little bit. That’s what I told myself. It was like clinging to a leaky raft, but who knew?  When there was nobody other than my faithful low self-esteem around, there was nobody to compare myself to. There was just a void. Void equals emptiness. In this case, it was a good thing. The fact was, when I had nobody around I just felt normal. A lonely normal, but still... After a few years, I began to think I was a rock, that the sacrifice was cool, that I was brave for managing career and couple roles so successfully. With lots of space. Then it was over. Gradually, things became raspier, splintier, chillier. Lots of subtle scowls. It was probably his plan so I wouldn’t notice. Or maybe low self-esteem (already identified as my company on lonely nights and weekends) blinded me. Perhaps I am on the spectrum, as they say. It wouldn’t surprise me.

Career, planned and achieved, had won. Score one point for the Lady. Score none for Self Esteem. Drowning in words, devouring words, words even in bed and in the shower. This was supposed to be divine. Except that obsession with it became an either/or. Cure it or give up, surrender. Relationship, rather like the emigration story mentioned earlier, had lost. Take that point away from the lady. She lost. He, on the other hand, had gained another partner. The Lady stuck, wait, I stuck, with the aloneness. Yes, the lady - I - lost him, but at least I had consistently kept the career light burning. Sounds corny, true, and it’s kind of like the Motel 6 ad. We’ll leave the light on for yuh . (Actually, I like that ad. It hasn’t aged well, but it gives you a warm feeling when you hear it.) Too bad the lady couldn’t lose the low self esteem. Too bad the lady was me. If she hadn’t been battling low self-esteem, she wouldn’t have focused all her passion on the career. She would still have another person in her life. A person with words to speak. I do love words.

This story ends with no resolution. The end had been determined before it began. The obsession won; love lost. There is still no explanation for the lack of self-esteem that caused my whole muck-up. Not even a tiny theory has been proven as to where it came from and why it coiled itself around my innards so tightly. It might be better not to know. After all, the low self-esteem has done irreparable damage already. Knowing its origin, which I don’t, could finish me off. Some things do not need speaking. In other words, and mark my words, I will take the reason for this disease I have (for it truly is a disease) to my grave. If the truth decides to come out then, more power to it. I’ve done my part by living the life of a clam (even when trying not to). I’m tired. Very tired. And so alone. Please, leave me alone or lie down beside me. Your choice.

I’ll give you all the space in the world.


TW: Swearing Angela ‘Sneezy the Cat Lady’ Rhymes met the eyes of a billboard advert model through the classroom window. Three teenagers slouched in chairs with their arms folded, facing her whiteboard. One was on her phone. Angela sighed. “None of us want to be here at magic summer school so let’s get done what needs done and go home, deal?” Anna-May ‘the Animator’ Ghibli nodded enthusiastically, as the only one who wasn’t there through misdemeanors. Jesus Hernandez raised his hand. “Miss, how many classes do we have to go to before we can graduate?” “You have to be able to pass a test, Jesus. It’s not a number.” Miss Rhymes rubbed her forehead where a frown was working its way into a tension headache. The teacher rubbed the plastic chip on a cord around her wrist. “You can control cats, right?” asked Peter ‘the Pervert’ Parka, without raising his hand. “We need to begin the class for any of you to pass the test,” Angela said, ignoring Peter. “But you can, right? I heard you set a pack of cats on a kid for spitting on you.” Jesus smiled as if it was the funniest thing since he’d last looked at his phone. “Yes,” Angela said, hoping she could address their interest and move on. “I can control cats.” “That’s a cool power.” “Not really,” Miss Rhymes sniffed, reaching for a tissue. “How is that not cool?” Peter asked, “all I can control is clothes.” “Yeah, you suck, creep.” Jesus frowned at the blonde boy in the plain white T-shirt. Hernandez then stood up, knocking over his desk as he held the waistband of his trousers. Fighting an invisible force, his fingers lost their grip on the fabric. “PETER. STOP IT.” Angela felt her tension headache settle in for the day as she yelled at the boy who was giving his classmate the middle finger. “Why? He was being a dick. Why not show everyone his?” “Because that’s sexual assault, Peter. You’ve been told that a hundred times.” “More like a thousand,” Parka said as Jesus pulled up his trousers. “Then learn,” Miss Rhymes said, not holding back the anger in her voice. Her eyes caught Dalia DeWinter slouching in her chair. The girl had turned herself into a full sized doll with blank staring glassy eyes. “You’re just prolonging this if you don’t pay attention, Miss DeWinter.” Angela walked to the transfigured student and clicked her fingers in front of the girl’s unresponsive face. “What would happen if we pulled her arms off like that?” Peter asked, smirking as he eyed the plastic joints of Dalia’s bare elbows. “Prison or the chair, Parka. Don’t even think about it.” “I heard you’re an alcoholic, Miss.” Anna-May said, smiling the wide smile of a gossip laden teen. “Incorrect.” Angela rubbed the one year chip on her bracelet. One year, one month, two days , she thought. “I don’t drink anymore. Now I would like to start by-” She didn’t manage to finish the sentence as Jesus grinned an evil grin, pointing to her water bottle. “Want me to turn that into wine for you, miss? No charge. Maybe you could just say we all passed the test and we could go. Except Peter. He can go fuck himself.” Hernandez turned his stubble covered head to grin at Parka. Jesus stopped grinning as his purple letter jacket collar began strangling him. “Peter, enough!” Angel said, holding up her hand as if it would do something. “I SAID ENOUGH.” Her shoes clapped on the discoloured laminate tiles as she strode to her desk with purpose. Throwing back a glug of water she downed another allergy pill. Pulling her wand from her pocket, she chose the biggest book on the shelf and aimed it at Parka. “Owch. What the hell?” Peter looked at her with wide eyes and a red mark on his forehead. “You can't do that!” “I just did and I’ll do it again.” “You’ll get fired.” “I have tenure. If they could fire me they would have done it already. SIT DOWN. SHUT UP. LISTEN. I’m not asking you again.” She looked at Dalia, still as death in her chair. Angela rubbed her throbbing head. She pulled a marker from her pocket and began writing a spell they had to master on the board. Peter rubbed his head as his eyes followed her pen. Shimmering sparkles in the corners of his blue eyes hinted at tears he was fighting back. Angela breathed deeply, counting to ten in her head. “Look at that,” Anna-May said, pointing her black painted nails to the window. Despite herself Miss Ryhmes looked at the billboard outside. The handsome with the glass of wine in his hand was beckoning to Angela. The teacher turned to the student with hellfire in her eyes. “That’s not funny, Anna-May. Do you know how hard I fought to get sober?” A cat leapt onto the window sill. “I heard you punched Miss Banks from art class,” said Jesus, grinning the bully’s grin. Feeling her eyes itch and water, Angela opened the window. The striped moggy casually leapt through the window. A tabby leapt up behind it. The itch spread to Miss Rhymes’ throat as she went back to the whiteboard. “Repeat after me, or the cats will scratch the spell into your skin.” Hernandez and Anna-May recited the spell as Angela pointed to it. Peter pulled off his socks with his powers and had them dance in front of the cats to distract them. Felines poured in through the window, two at a time. Parka was in no time surrounded by moggies who had no interest in his socks. “Are you going to pay attention, Peter?” Angela asked. “Yes, Miss Rhymes.” “You’re not going to cause trouble?” Her voice was ice. Cubed ice floating in single malt whiskey. Something from Islay. Dammit, stop thinking about alcohol . “No, Miss Rhymes.” Parka shrank down in his chair rubbing his forehead. “Good.” Cats continued to floor into the classroom. Though her eyelids and throat began to swell she kept the cats there, watching each of the students as they repeated the spell with her. She wanted them to pass the test. She wanted to go on a holiday. Barbados , she thought. Sitting in a deckchair on the sand. An umbrella as I look out over the sapphire blue sea. Sangria in a pitcher on the table next to me. Fuck . Anna-May gazed out of the window again as Miss Rhymes wrote up the next spell on the board. Outside the window, the printed photograph of the beautiful man and woman were kissing. Teenagers . “Looking at the board everyone.” Angela was pleased with the rest of the lesson despite the fact she was slowly suffocating. Her airways were closing as the time passed. The breeze from the window was blowing cat hair everywhere. Without interruption she managed to note down and have them repeat every required spell. A week of that would probably be enough for them to pass the test. “Time to go, kids. Get out of my classroom.” “Woo,” Peter whooped, throwing his hands up. A ginger paw pushed his chest. He fell silent and nodded. The feline sea parted for Anna-May, Jesus and Peter to leave. “Can you walk on water, Jesus?” Miss Ghibli asked. “I can ice skate, yeah.” Hernandez had clearly been asked a thousand times. His delivery was slick and delivered with practiced confidence. He wore his letter jacket like a king’s cloak, swaggering. He’s not the messiah , Angela thought. He’s a very naughty boy . Their voices retreated down the corridor. Jesus and Peter insulting each other again. “Enjoy your evening with the cats,” Miss Rhymes said to Darla ‘Doll Face’ DeWinter. Locking the door, the teacher thought about Barbados again. Sun soaked bodies glistening with the sweat of mild exercise. DeWinter turned back to human form, expecting the teacher to be at the desk and the lights on. She leapt out of her chair backwards into more cats. Her perception of anything but the clock on the wall had vanished in her other form. Felines seemed to have appeared from nowhere. “What the hell?” asked Dalia as the cats she’d crashed into scratched her. On the board were the words: ‘See you again tomorrow Miss DeWinter, and every day until you learn the set spells. You only wasted your time.’ Pulling her phone from her back pocket, Dalia saw multiple missed calls from her mother. “Hi, Mom. Yeah, I did it again. Just gonna wait here. No, I'll be fine. See you tomorrow.” I’m going to be dealing with that Dalia idiot all summer , Angela lamented as she walked to the bus stop. The billboard for Welcome Wine leered down at her from the photographic eyes of the handsome man and the beautiful woman. Bitch . The bus pulled up, Miss Rhymes saw cats disperse from the school as the bus doors hissed shut. Catching the eye of a muscular young man with tattoos protruding from his gym wear, she smiled. He grinned back. Trading addiction to alcohol for sex addiction wouldn’t be so bad would it? At least I’d get some exercise . He flashed his teeth again as the bus turned a corner, arms bulging. Am I too old for him? Fuck it, he’s smiling. Come on, Angela, let’s do this . Just don’t sneeze on him .


Hallotweenys’ Tale Spin Shelbi sat entranced at the Dragon Fly, as it flew near and far below Destinies ear. Shelbie's eyes were then drawn to the Manor House window. Evening was fast approaching and the sky was brooding; the chill in the air fighting for dominance against the hearth fire, the hearth wasn’t winning. Shelbie's thoughts once more were drawn to Destinies ear, why did the Dragon Fly stay there as if on a leash? There are just so many places to explore Shelbi reasoned? If only I can get her attention, over here Shelbi waved, over here, but DF just flew and returned where she once was, as if she was lured by a spell. Over here, oh n-o-o-o, oh no yikes… What is this? Shimmer dust? Shelbi tumbled and tumbled all at once falling in what? Legs over legs over legs she swirled. What is this? Acho-o, a-a-a-c-h-o- , Oh! What kind of shimmer dust is this? It’s making me sneeze, a-a-a-c-h-o-o as she tumbled into the…dustpan rolling and rolling end for end. This is just not right! Wait! Where am I going? Shelbis’ teeth chattered, and where did that brisk wind come from, b-r-r-r that b-r-e-e-z-z-e, I’m s-o-o-o chilly b-r-r-r. Shelbi was thrown into the cold October evening, oh the wind was brisk. All Hallows Eve would soon be upon us she knew, but why did she get thrown out into the cold, don’t big spiders come to the door Halloween… so why would they do this to me, this must have been a mistake. Destiny, she tried to scream, but the wind silenced her cries. She hadn’t done anything that she knew of that would warrant being thrown out into the cold so why? Why? Where will I go what will become of me, I’m going to freeze out here, as her teeth began to chatter. Gg-r-r-r- it’s freezing out here. How will I ever make it through the night, let alone winter b-r-r… wait a minute what’s that?

Snap! Followed by another snap, now what? What could possibly be wrong now? Wait a minute is that you Bartholomew you slumber hungry bear. What are you doing fumbling around here, aren’t you supposed to be sleeping? You just about stepped on me, please be careful, though it might have been the most humane thing she thought as her skinny legs shook.  Sorry Shelbi I didn’t even see you, I can hardly see…my eyelids feel so heavy he spoke within a huge yawn. Aren’t spiders supposed to be stashed away somewhere by now. What are you mumbling about now Shelbi? I thought you had a nice place to live with Destiny at the Manor House, what happened? He yawned again mixed with a low growl, followed by a fur faced smirk. I think I ate too much, burp. Shelbi fought back the tears that she knew would only end in teeny weeny icicles. Oh Bartholomew, wait, please, let me stay in your fur till spring, I’m so cold. Stop! Wait Bartholomew her words floated off into the descending twilight. Bartholomew simply shrugged, spotted his nearby cave and he was gone. Bears have a one track mind she thought, just wait till spring; he can find his own berries. Ok she thought, think positive thoughts. Un huh, yup, positive thoughts… Shelbi is that you, what are you doing outside? I was visiting with Bartholomew singing him a sleeping melody, and no he didn’t need it. He mumbled something about you out in the cold. Then off he went counting the days till he could gorge himself on blueberries. They’re his favorite berry you know. Tenley isn’t it way past your slumber, Shelbi said? Aren’t moths supposed to be in a cocoon by now, Shelbi chattered some more. I could ask you the same thing, said Tenley, I missed my cocoon time, and we’re both going to freeze. Shelbi we both have to find shelter quickly. Can you move your legs Shelbi? Barely, Shelbi chattered, what do you need me to do? Speaking of barely, look Bartholomew’s lost some fur on that twig he snapped over here. Can you see it Shelbi, can you make it over here? I think so; she spoke in nothing more than a whisper. Just snuggle into Bartholomew's’ fur Shelbi. I’ll try for you Tenley; you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. We’ll make it Shelbi; I’ll flap my wings to protect you from the wind. What will save you from the cold wind Tenley? Shelbi, I’m starting to feel a warm breeze I think.                                                                                How is that even possible, and thank you s-o-o much Tenley. You’re so welcome Shelbi, we need to stick together. Didn’t you see him Shelbi? See who Tenley? I’m shaking so hard everything is a blur. Coconut just ran past us in frenzied gallop, you know how warm that stag is. You are right about that Tenley? When you’re warmer Shelbi do you think you could spin a web? I’ll try Tenley! Wow this is awesome, I can actually move. As Shelbi busily worked on the web Tenley dusted her web with the scales from her wings. Tenley I couldn’t make my cocoon earlier but now no problem. It’s like it’s a sign, Shelbi. Shelbi just stared into twilight’s eve, just as a huge snow flake landed over their cocoon. We now have a roof Tenley spoke in utter amazement. This is amazing, oh! Look how it glitters Tenley, Shelbi spoke with hope in her words, the most hope she had in a while, and we just might make it. Hurry up Tenley before the cocoon freezes and you’re locked outside. I’m coming, don’t worry, I think we’re going to make it. If I must be completely honest I didn’t think this would work, but I’m really glad it did. We made it Tenley; it’s amazing what can happen when we work together. Everything pointed to us being mortal enemies. Yes it looked really dark before the light shone. Enemies just haven’t learned to love...Tenley just be careful of some other Spidey's, they aren’t as loving as we are, and that’s the truth! Don’t worry Shelbi I didn’t live this long to help you by trusting every one, trust is earned. Tenley, Shelbi yawned, it is so comfy in Bartholomew's fur in this cocoon, I guess Bartholomew was a help after all. Its funny how things work out for the good when all seems bad, I guess it just takes a little faith. I think we’ve been friends too long you’re starting to sound like me. Tenley did I ever tell you about DF? That’s a spell if I’ve ever seen one. DF will only fly to and fro from Destinies ear. It’s probably just an earring Shelbi? Or an evil witch put a spell on her, Shelbi taunted. Tell you what Shelbi, if we get a Chinook we’ll check it out before spring ok Shelbi? Ah Shelbi? Ok sleep my long legged friend we’ll talk in the spring. Miracles still happen right… she mused as she thought about what the future would hold… Shelbi and Tenley were off in search of new adventure, although only within their dreams. The magical realms, where adventure and creativity speak the same language! Out of the frosted snowflake they heard Tenley, Shelbi are you in there? As the echo became increasing clear snap…..the Tale Spin begins... Author Deborah Nielsen


My teeth chatter and bones rattle beneath my big wool coat. I didn't layer nearly enough to wait outside this Target for what feels like an hour. Really it has probably only been about thirty minutes. Time truly freezes when you're frozen. I am packed in against the entrance like a last minute toiletry stuffed inside a suitcase, bursting at the seams. At this point, I don't even remember what I came here for; do I even have a plan? The bundled-up ladies next to me equipped with Venti Starbucks lattes seem to have a whole itinerary. I envy their foresight, especially the latte part. "What do you get the man who has everything?" I hear one of the ladies ask rhetorically. "A bigger TV," the other shrugs. I laugh along with them as if I am somehow in on the joke. We have all been standing here so long together, bonded by the experience of torturing ourselves for the chance at a good deal. I glance down at my phone for the time. The doors should be opening any second. My mind flashes back to images of news broadcasts detailing the trampling deaths of Black Friday shoppers and store greeters. The fear of becoming the next casualty sets in. Suddenly there is a quiet amongst the crowd. Everyone is positioning themselves with the seriousness of runners at the starting line of a marathon. A thin teenage boy in red appears through the glass, jangling keys. He unlocks the door and the floodgates are officially open. Shoppers spill into the store like a plague of locusts. I am not trampled, but squeezed between other sweaty bodies until I am finally inside. Everyone is swarming frantically, but I stand there dazed and overwhelmed. What am I even here for again? A gift for Will. Taking the latte ladies' indirect advice, I head to Electronics. Will definitely already has not one, but two TVs, and they seem to be just fine. But maybe the one lady was right, maybe he could use a bigger TV. On the shelf in front of me is one TV, it seems to be the last one, unless they have more in the back. Afraid to hesitate much longer, I   pull it down from the shelf and nearly fall over from the weight. I didn't even bring a shopping cart with me to put this in. Poor planning yet again. I stand there with the TV next to me in the floor of the aisle, looking around for someone in a red shirt who could maybe help me move it. I turn back to see one of the latte ladies lifting the TV into her already brimming shopping cart. "Hey, I was going to buy that," I protest, with very little fight. "Me too, baby doll," she says in a sickeningly sweet "bless-your-heart" tone. She makes an aggressive u-turn with her shopping cart and speeds off, probably on a mission to take the last KitchenAid mixer from the appliance section. I am left standing there in Electronics, stunned like a kid who just dropped her ice cream, still without a gift for Will. I wander the rest of the store looking up and down each aisle for ideas. At this point a lot of the shelves are missing product, so there isn't much left to choose from. They are out of his size in the flannel shirt he would like, no more W's in the monogrammed coffee mugs, they don't even have his favorite candy in stock. Feeling the pressure to make this painfully disappointing experience worthwhile, I grab some on-sale kitty litter and cat food and checkout. On the way out I pass the latte ladies waiting in line at the in-store Starbucks for another round. I hope their husbands like their newer, bigger TVs. Back in my car as I wait for the heat to warm up, I feel the chill of not just the air, but the emptiness left behind from my attempt at participating in this whole Black Friday charade. As I mourn my time wasted, I realize that is really the only negative. Will doesn't want or need a TV, or any of these big ticket "doorbuster" items the ads manipulate us into thinking we need. Will isn't that kind of guy anyway. He isn't the guy who has everything, nor does he want to be. He has everything he needs, and doesn't want much more than a new record for his collection, or tickets to a soccer game. He loves whales, music, and traveling to new places. It doesn't cost much more than time to think outside the brick and mortar box. Sure, lots of people do want a new TV. But what is better than opening a gift to find something that really is in essence, you? It is human nature to want to feel "seen." What better gift can one give than that very feeling? We all deserve a little extra thought and effort from time to time, especially those we love. Especially Will.


ACT I FADE IN: EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - DAY ESTABLISHING SHOT SEAMUS (Captain) early 30s, steers the ship from the helm. The ships crew douses the sheets as they come up on the wind.

SEAMUS All hands on deck. SHIPS CREW Aye Sir! SEAMUS Oliver, pass the watch to Winston and meet me in my cabin. WINSTON early 20s, relieves OLIVER 26, of the watch. Oliver walks to the Captains Cabin. INT. CAPTAINS CABIN - DAY Oliver walks in and Seamus motions for him to sit.

SEAMUS We need to find a safe port to refit the ship and give our crew a days rest. OLIVER I agree, I was thinking of Charleston. It keeps a bit farther from the pirates we are hunting.

SEAMUS Tell the watch to make way for Charleston. EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - DAY Oliver walks to the helmsman. Winston salutes the senior officer. OLIVER Set a course North East towards the East Coast of the Americas. We are making way for Charleston. WINSTON Aye Sir. Helmsman come right and steer 040 degrees magnetic. HELMSMAN

Aye Sir. Now steering 040 degrees magnetic.

Oliver walks off the deck. Winston stares towards the horizon. INT. CAPTAINS CABIN - DAY CLOSE UP Seamus sits staring out the window. SEAMUS These men have worked so hard that we need a relief so we may return home. These men need their families. Seamus stands as he hears the sounds of CANNON BLASTS in the distance.

EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - DAY OTS MEDIUM CLOSE UP Winston spots two ships in the distance. Oliver and Seamus walk to the helm. WINSTON Captain, there have been two ships spotted about five miles in the distance. They appear to be firing at one another. SEAMUS Thank you Winston. Keep a weathered eye towards the horizon and steer clear. This is not our fray today.

OLIVER Does our mission remain the same Captain? SEAMUS It does. We need to make landfall and give everyone a much needed furlough.

OLIVER We are in concurrence with that. We should set the watches and let the crew rest unless needed for sail stations. SEAMUS Set an early taps and let the men sleep. I will take the first watch. Winston you are hereby relieved go rack out. Same goes for your Oliver. OLIVER AND WINSTON IN UNISON Aye Sir! FADE OUT. END OF ACT I ACT II FADE IN: EXT. CARIBBEAN SEA - SHIPS DECK - NIGHT MEDIUM WIDE SHOT Seamus stares at the horizon steering a course by the stars. SEAMUS (V.O.) I cannot help but wonder of home, but I must stay sharp and focussed as we are not there yet.

Oliver walks out and startles Seamus. SEAMUS You gave me a start.

OLIVER My apologies sir. It is my turn for watch so you can sleep.

SEAMUS We are headed Northeast. Tracking along the eastern coast of Florida. Maintain this heading and wake me before South Carolina. OLIVER Aye Sir. Winston has the next watch and I will pass this along when he relieves me. I offer my relief Sir. Oliver salutes Seamus.

SEAMUS I stand relieved. Wake me if you need anything. Seamus walks off the deck.

INT. CAPTAINS CABIN - NIGHT CLOSE UP Seamus lays in his hammock. Seamus dozes off as a loud CRACK AND RUMBLING echoes through the bowls of the ship. Seamus runs out. FADE OUT. END OF ACT II ACT III FADE IN: EXT. SHIPS DECK - NIGHT WIDE SHOT Seamus runs to the helm. Oliver and the helmsman are feverishly looking for what has been hit. Winston checks the charts to see what hazards are in the area. SEAMUS What the hell was that? OLIVER We are unsure sir. There is nothing charted in the area.

WINSTON This hazard is unknown. Not listed at all. UNKNOWN CREW MEMBER We are taking on water sir. We need to combat the damage. SEAMUS Wake the crew and get everyone to stations. Multiple sirens surface near the ship. MEDIUM CLOSE UP SIREN (Meekly) This is our home. It claims many ships. PAN INTO A CLOSE UP. SEAMUS Of course it is the Sirens. Always leading us to our doom. MEDIUM CLOSE UP SIREN There are no ships sank here. Despite our reputation we fix ships and send them on their way. SEAMUS Then what did we hit? Can you save the Celtic Rose so we may make it to land? SIREN The rocks are only near the surface this time of year. The moon draws them to the surface for us. Of course we can fix it for a price. SEAMUS There is always a price with your kind. What is it? SIREN That you spread positive reports of Sirens. That we help and not kill people. SEAMUS That is an easy price to pay. I gladly accept those terms. What do you need from us? SIREN We will need your men inside the ship to help place beams and repair the wood. We will salvage the wood from the ocean floor. Sirens swim off. Seamus gathers his men. SEAMUS We are going to help the sirens with repair inside the ship. They cannot get on board. WIDE SHOT SHIPS CREW

Aye Aye! Ships company mills about and gathers tools. INT. SHIPS HOLD - NIGHT CLOSE UP ON TOOLS Carpenters mates work on repairing holes and setting up the hull for repair. EXT. SHIPS DECK - NIGHT WIDE SHOT Sirens surface trailing timbers behind them. Seamus mills about watching. SIREN We have returned with the timber necessary to repair the ship. It will take until morning to make repairs and get you underway. SEAMUS We appreciate the help more than you know.

EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT Sirens begin work on the hull placing and sizing timbers. INT. SHIPS HOLD - NIGHT CLOSE UP Ships crew drive dowels into the timbers to secure them in place.

EXT. SHIPS DECK - MORNING EXTREME WIDE SHOT The sun rises as the work finishes. Seamus paces the deck observing.

EXT. OCEAN - MORNING Sirens approach the surface.

SIREN The work has been completed. EXT. SHIPS DECK - MORNING Seamus leans over the rail. SEAMUS Thank you beyond belief for the timely repairs.

SIREN It is our pleasure. We will use our magic to float the ship off the rocks.

SEAMUS We will set sail stations and make ready to be underway. SIREN Make sure you keep your promise. The sirens life the ship from the rocks and place it in the water.

SIREN Be safe on your journey. SEAMUS Thank you...All hands make sail. SHIPS CREW Aye Sir. EXTREME WIDE SHOT The Celtic Rose sails off towards the north east waiting for landfall. EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN - EVENING The Celtic Rose sails into Charleston. EXT. SHIPS DECK - EVENING Seamus stands near the helm. SEAMUS All hands make ready to enter port. EXT. PIER - EVENING Seamus crosses the brow. WIDE SHOT SEAMUS Gentleman let me tell you a tale. The stories of Sirens are not true. They are the reason we stand here before you. FADE TO BLACK. END OF ACT III


Where I come from Coke is a generic work for any carbonated drink. For instance—  I’ll take the fried chicken livers, green beans, and a Coke. What kinda Coke you want hon’? How ‘bout a Dr. Pepper? Where I come from

sweet  is the only way tea is served and potato salad has mayonnaise, mustard, and sweet pickles.

Like most young people, I suppose, I hated my hometown. I was young and impatient, and the place I came from was in no big hurry. Mostly though, I couldn’t wait to escape the claustrophobic gentility that was often a disguise for generational hate and racism.  Where I come from, black men still say

Yes suh, Mr. John

when white men speak to them and very old ladies don’t even blink when they let the

n word  slip.

Where I come from, if you look carefully on the exposed brick wall of the  Five and Dime— below the words suggesting you

See Rock City— you can still make out the words

white  and

colored  where the segregated water fountains hung.

Don’t get me wrong, not all my memories are bad. I grew up there. I learned to walk and talk. I had my first kiss and went to football games and dances. I graduated from high school and earned my first real grownup paycheck in that place that I came from.

When I go back to visit now, I can look at it with grace. I can sit and watch the sun set over the lake to the deafening soundtrack of the cicadas. I can drive down country lanes bounded on each side by unending cotton fields and glory in the vast magnolias that I know where old when I was born.

Much of my father’s family still live in the place I came from and like the cicadas and magnolias, I have learned to appreciate them. Growing up, I recall bickering and long-held grudges. I remember my grandmother playing my aunts and uncles against each other—whispering

this  in one’s ear and

that  in another’s.

But there are good memories as well. I particularly recall a picnic at the lake —a birthday party for my great grandmother. I might have been nine or ten. I can remember the burned sugar smell of barbecued pork ribs cooking over a hand dug fire pit and scoops of cold potato salad on thin paper plates.  I remember my grandfather, Paw Paw, turning a hand cranked ice cream churn while chain smoking from an aluminum folding chair. I remember exactly how that thin vanilla ice cream would melt and soak into the edges of the grocery store birthday cake. I remember cold sweet tea in red plastic cups. Now, for anyone who is not southern, the ratio is two full cups of Dixie Crystal White Sugar into a two quart pitcher of hot tea.  Looking back, it’s a wonder we are not all diabetic! While the adults cooked and gossiped, we children played. I can recall the feel of the mud squishing between my toes as we played waist deep in the edge of the lake. Our swimsuits were eternally stained dingy orange from the iron rich red clay in the water. My cousin, Regina, and I were the oldest and were expected to entertain and supervise the younger cousins. We accomplished this by taking turns pretending to baptize them. We would instruct each little one to cross his arms and lean back. Then we would hold them just above the water and ask,

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

We would pinch their little noses closed and dramatically lower them back into the smelly lake water. When they emerged, hair dripping behind them, we would all shout,

Hallelujah ! And then the next cousin would be waiting, impatiently crying,

Do me next! I’m next! In addition to my uncles and aunts, Granny and Paw Paw, my great grandmother, Margie, and her sister, Bonnie Jean were installed in folding chairs in the shade of the mimosa trees. (Great) Grandma Chandler wore a thin flowered house dress that zipped up the front and heavy black lace up shoes. On the front of her dress two large square pockets held a small package of tissues, her reading glasses, a pack of Beechnut gum, and a small Round red can of Garrett and Sons’ Sweet Snuff. Her thin gray hair was pinned to the back of her head with black bobby pins because she said it was just too hot to wear her wig. Bonnie Jean, who had left home, had a career and two husbands, wore a pair of polyester pants and a coordinating flowered top purchased from the ladies’ sportswear section of Sears and Roebuck. Both women fanned themselves with stiff square paper fans emblazoned with the name of the local funeral home on the front and quarter page ads for local mechanics, beauty parlors, and divorce attorneys on the back.

 Grandma Chandler worked as a winder at the local cotton mill for thirty-seven dollars a month. She retired after sixty- four and three-quarter years. When they asked why she didn’t make it an even sixty-five, she replied that she just didn’t want to. After she retired, she received a pension of thirty five dollars a month a Christmas box containing six oranges, a bag of hard ribbon candy, and a paper box of old fashioned peppermint sticks. On Saturday evenings, Grandma Chandler would prepare Sunday dinner. Where I came from

lunch  was

dinner  and

dinner  was

supper . She would fry chicken and cook turnip greens with a slab of fat back, and slice sun warmed red tomatoes from her garden. When the meals was complete, she would place it on the kitchen table and drape a clean flowered bedsheet over it until the next day, after church. She loved her family, Jesus, and Johnny Cash, but maybe not in that order.

I loved Grandma Chandler but I worshipped her sister, Bonnie Jean. Bonnie Jean was exotic. She had been to places outside of that place I came from.  She talked to me like an adult. Bonnie Jean liked to rock the boat a little and I hope I learned that from her.

Even as a small child, I took it to heart when someone would offer to wrap up a piece of cake for her to take home and she would declare, “I’m going to save myself from temptation later, I’ll just eat all my cake now!” There was, I thought, an important life lesson there and I embraced it fully.

I cannot escape the place I come from.  No matter how far I travel or how loudly I deny it.  The place—the people— I come from are part of me. You can hear it when I pronounce the word

bed

or  dead  with two entire syllables or declare that I am

fixin’ to go to the store.

You can see it in the way I dress, and walk, and talk.

You can feel it in who and how I love. And— You can taste it in my sweet tea.


Sticky notes littered his bedroom wall. Yellow, green, blue, and the hot pink that used to be yours. He kept a pen in his pocket, a black ball point, and a notepad in the other one.

He forgot a lot of things. Simple things, like what he ate for breakfast, and important things too, like doctor appointments. He remembered the day you two met though. One of the only long-term things he remembered. He didn’t remember what you were wearing or the place, but he remembered the feelings. The scramble of getting your number on his phone because he was afraid that if he wrote it in his notepad, he’d forget about it until next year. You had laughed at his haste, but complied, writing in Someone for the name. He texted you to make sure it was right, and you parted ways soon after.

He never changed your contact name.

He forgot to turn his alarm on that night, forgot to feed his tiny fish, forgot to take out the trash. But he remembered to text you good night. Your love was fast.

He didn’t forget you. Sometimes he’d forget why he was feeling so giddy, why his heartbeat was acting up. But then he’d look down and see he was talking with you. You were always patient with him. Always. Sometimes you’d ask him a question and he’d blank out and ask you to say it again. You knew the whole conversation was out of his head by then. He’d write down his favorite parts though. You moved from texting to calling in summer. He’d put you on speaker and sit low on his couch, writing down the important things, things you might bring up later. You moved to facetime in the fall. He sat in the seat in front of his window, the orange and red leaves serving as a beautiful background. He didn’t want you to see his sticky notes, and they were everywhere else.

In the winter, you started seeing more face to face. In coffee shops, bookstores, libraries, wherever you could meet. Before you’d part, he’d read you a poem he’d written every single time. You’d touch foreheads and then leave. It was a sweet little routine. His memory grew worse. He forgot to eat sometimes, set on the fact that he must’ve eaten earlier. Even when he remembered, his fridge was mostly empty, since he forgot to shop for groceries.

You moved in when sweater weather was over.

You didn’t have much. Two boxes filled with clothes, and one with your other things, like your lotion collection and stationary. You didn’t have to go out to meet each other anymore, you were in the same house. He often sat cross-legged on the couch, with a blank expression, and you’d join him, laying your head on his shoulder. About the sticky notes, you said nothing, only sometimes you added on. You added ‘I love you’ and ‘Smile’ amongst the ‘Brush your teeth’ and ‘Feed the fish’. When he ran out of poems, you’d tell him ideas of what you could do together.

You tried hiking together, but he tripped on a rock, earning a scar running along his arm.

You had blown on it, kissed it ever so softly, your eyes clouding with worry. He didn’t like blood, didn’t like the way it dripped bright red against his pale skin.

He only wore long-sleeved sweaters after that. Rarely let you drag him out. The only times he did was to see you smile. To watch your dimples come and go. You loved getting ready, wearing fancy clothes, and painting your makeup like a masterpiece.

You had only come with two boxes but by that summer you had over a closet-full of clothes.

He forgot to rinse his plate, forgot to brush his teeth, forgot to buy new glasses, but he remembered what you liked, remembered to get you something if he was ever out alone. You memorized his face, every freckle, every crease. He memorized your laugh and your soft touch. The scar stayed, a red line reminding him not to go out. One of the only things he didn’t really need reminding on. If he was feeling okay, then you would spend the day talking. About everything and nothing, and all the in betweens. About politics and animals and sometimes the sticky notes.

While you spoke, he didn’t keep the notepad near him. He started to be afraid to lose the authenticity of just hearing your voice. If he wrote it down, he would miss the light in your eyes and smirk in your smile. He bought the ring very suddenly. It was early morning, and you were still asleep, tangled in the covers. The night before had been a talking night. His hair was starting to grow long, and you told him to cut it. He had put it in a ponytail and said he liked it that way, though you probably still remember.

Deep down, he does too. The ring was simple, in case he would forget where he put it and lose it. You always loved christmas. Green and red were your favorite colors at the time. Weeks earlier, you had bought a tree and ornaments. An angel for the top. The first time he asked it was morning. The golden light was still barely peeking in through the white curtains, the birds were still stretching. He had grabbed your hand as you poured your bitter coffee and slipped the ring on your finger. He was short for words so you kissed him instead, the taste of mint evident because he finally remembered to brush his teeth.

You were going to go and see the big tree in the city. It was only out the 24th and 25th and you wanted to go both days. It was the one time you didn’t need to persuade him.

You took the ring off to shower.

After you were almost ready, you saw him with the ring in his hand, a blank expression that you knew so well plain on his face. He actually asked that time, his words tumbling out in a jumbled mess. Nothing like the poet he was.

The third time was the worst. He had stopped you as you were walking, getting ready to ice skate. He looked sad, and his pale skin was paler than usual. You had caressed his cheek and pressed foreheads like you used to and you continued to pick up your skates.

The fourth time was on the ice. You were the one who fell for once, and as he caught you, he whispered the question in your ear. It was the most romantic one in your eyes. You wished it wasn’t ruined by your brain yelling at you that he was sick. That he probably wouldn’t remember later, that he might just forget you later.

The fifth time was when you were back at home, untangling your hair from the unnecessary amount of bobby pins it had suffered through. You had cried softly into your pillow that night.

It was supposed to be perfect, but life disagreed. He had apologized in the morning, and when you tried to wave it off, he told you he heard you crying. Half of his sticky note wall came down that day.

He was so tired of forgetting. He wanted to love you with all his heart, mind, and soul, but he was busy trying to make sure to keep himself alive. And his fish. But it was both of your fish then, and you made sure to remind him it was okay, that you still loved him.

The bad days were still there.

But so were the good days. So were the good days.