Bright, bright, bright. It was always too bright, always bright, always grating, grating at the back of his eyes, in the back of his mind. Peter no longer squinted. The lights that lined the room bored into his brain, boring and drilling, but Peter no longer squinted. The window, the singular window, told him it wasn’t food-time yet, but he couldn’t help but wait, shivering, by the door slot. She would come soon—or maybe not. Time didn’t exist in his blinding cell, not until the sky outside the window slit turned dark. When he stood, he could reach it, peering outside at the endless sky. Peter shivered, sitting on the damn floor. The room had begun to stink again, but he didn’t mind. It meant she would be arriving soon, to clean. Peter loved it when she came. She didn’t look like him, with her stomping boots and her black-eyed mask—Peter often wondered if they were of the same kind—but when he could see her hair, he felt at peace. They had the same brown hair, hair that trickled over her shoulders and cascaded down his back. Sometimes she let him touch it, gently and softly. On very special days, she would stay longer, and run her careful hands down the ridge of his backbone. She would help him to his feet, ever gentle, ever soft, and stretch out his arms and legs so she can run a bit of cold metal down them, bumping into his skin every so slightly, ever so often. He no longer made a sound when she did—she didn’t seem to like his sounds much anyway. He liked hers, though. Peter loved to hear the sounds she made when she came to see him. There was one she made, that she said so gently, with so much devotion. He longed to hear it. He practiced making her noises, so maybe she would stay longer, but she never stayed. Peter bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, both excited and cold. A very special day would be coming soon. Most days, all he could hear was the buzzing of the lights, but sometimes, if Peter huddled by the edge of his cell, he could hear muddled sounds. He thought they might be from others like him, but he’d never seen anybody but her. Maybe there were others out there, others like him. Peter longed to see them. Their sounds surrounded his dreams. He practiced making her sounds a couple times more—she would be so surprised to hear her sounds. Maybe then she’d stay. Food plopped through the food slot, and Peter rushed over, grabbing it as soon as he could so it wouldn’t lay for long on the damn, cold floor. It wasn’t bad—it wasn’t sweet today, but it was food, and he had been so hungry. At this point, Peter knew the routine well. After food came the darkness outside the slit of a window, and sometimes, if it was a very special day, she would come. Surely a very special day was coming soon, Peter thought. He had been waiting for a while now. It was! It was a very special day! Peter leapt to his feet, walking up to the door. She pushed him back as he walked in, which was normal—Peter knew by now that he was not supposed to see whatever was behind his door. She had less brown hair now, and she let him run the tips of his fingers over the feathery ends. He watched her adoringly while she did her measurements. She used the special sound, the one that Peter knew, only once. Peter waited patiently while she tested his memory, his reflexes, using a small shock to let him know what he would done wrong and something small and sweet when he did something right. This was all typical; Peter barely needed to think about it anymore. He made sure not to relieve himself while she was there; she didn’t like it when he did that in front of her, and it always made her leave sooner. Finally, she turned to leave, and Peter made his move. “Peter,” he sounded, and she turned with a start. Peter bounced up and down. He surprised her! Maybe she’d stay. “Peter,” he sounded again, and to his delight, she started making sounds of her own. “Peter.” She made more noises, wiggling her finger back and forth on the little item she always brought with her. Then she said something else to him, but that sound he didn’t recognize. “Peter,” he tried again, but she didn’t seem as surprised this time. He was far taller than her now, but she could still put one hand on his head. He closed his eyes. Maybe this time she’d stay. But she didn’t. She left, leaving Peter in the cold, bright room alone. It was okay. That was okay. He would practice her sounds and maybe next time she’d stay longer. Peter settled on the floor and put his arms over his head, ready to sleep. Next time, he would be better at her sounds. A muffled thump against his window startled him out of his rest. Something must have smacked against it. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, but as he trotted over to the window, he found it was different now, for the first time in eighteen years. There was a crack, splicing down the middle. Peter pressed on the window gingerly, and the freezing glass shifted under his fingertips. A cold stream of air swirled in, and with it, a tiny speck of something wet that settled and melted on Peter’s skin. He pressed harder, and harder, and harder and suddenly it snapped, and the glass under his fingertips was suddenly gone and his arm was out, out in an environment that was much colder than his own. Peter pressed on the other side, and this one cracked too, but this crack stung his skin, as if she was still there, shocking him for being wrong. Peter pulled his hand back in shock—it was wet now, and vividly red with blood. It was colder in the room now, with the frigid air flurrying in. Part of Peter wanted to stay behind, to huddle in the corner. He doubted this is what she wanted him to do. But part of him felt exhilarated. Peter propped himself up on one elbow, standing on his tippy-toes and ignoring the biting sting in his arm when it pressed against the jagged edge of where the window had been, and what he saw amazed him; there was so much outside his room, so many more colors, so many more shapes. Entranced, he stuck his other arm through, ignoring the cold, ignoring the stinging of his arm. Suddenly, wildly, taken by this other world, Peter launched himself through it, bits of where the window used to be piercing and tearing at this stomach and the paper-thin skin of his thighs until he was falling, and then he landed in something cold, something wet, knocking this wind out of his lungs. And when Peter stood up again, he wept. The world outside his room was so much bigger than he’d known. Something alive, something he’d never seen, fluttered over his head, making a sound he’d never heard. The wind blew over his naked body, making the thin hairs that covered his body bristle, before the wind swept past him, rustling a huge, spindling something farther down the path. Peter took a few steps toward it, his feet sinking into the white wet something that covered the ground. He took a few more steps, more than he’d ever taken in his room before, and soon he was running, speeding, faster than he thought he would ever move, and out of his mouth came a sound he’d never heard, and it filled his heart. He reached the spindling something, touched the rough covering, felt pieces break off and crumble in his hands. The fluttering thing, the one that had flown over his head, lighted on the spindling something, looking down at him, and making a sound that was high and piercing and startling and Peter couldn’t help but shriek after it in delight. It flew away from him, and he followed it, running faster than anything Peter had ever seen. He followed it a ways, until the white wet powder that coated his bare skin began to make his feet numb until they wouldn’t move. Peter was surprised—his feet pierced, like the cuts on his arms and stomach, but when he sat to look at them, he couldn’t see any holes or any blood. His arms started to feel sluggish too, Peter noticed, and when he looked at them, he saw them change color from pink to blue to grey. They were hurting too, and Peter started to feel less sure of himself. He took to his feet again, plodding after the little fluttering thing, but it didn’t last. His feet, his legs were too tired. It was okay, though, Peter thought, falling to his knees. He didn’t mind. He was starting to feel quite warm, actually, which was nice. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made a mistake though; he knew she wouldn’t like him being out here, and he hated to let her down. His stomach and thighs were sticky with blood now, seeping and dying the fresh soft powdered ground. Peter lay down. The ground beneath him was soft, at least—he liked it more than lying on the cold tile of his room. And the sky—oh! —the sky was so much richer now that he was outside, and speckled with the little fluttering things, calling to each other as they traversed the sky. Peter loved it all, as much as he loved her, and he wished he could show her all of this wonder that had been outside his room the entire time. Most of all, he just wished she was there. Peter couldn’t move his arms or legs anymore, but it didn’t matter. It was okay, just to look up, look to the sky. He had hardly closed his eyes when he heard her voice. She sounded so far away from him—he tried to sit up, to see her, and he found he couldn’t. That was okay. “Peter,” she called, and he sounded back. Peter was happy, as the strength left his chest. She had gotten to see the outside world with him after all.


N.B: A general parody of Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes series. I'm not even close to his shoe's level but, just wanted to give it a try as a fan. In this parody, Jhonlock is equivalent to Sherlock, Sherlson is equivalent to Watson. Decided to keep Mycoft and Moriarty unchanged.

The case of the GrassYard Café :

  By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. It's Autumn alright, the season of letting go. But in my case, it brought an end to my long wait for a vacation I was so desperate for. Of course, there was a reason for my being so mad. I was wild to meet my dearest friend.

  Describing my friend's abilities with a pen and paper is an impossible task for me. I've always struggled to keep pace with his melodic methods and sheer intelligence but still, never let down any chance to witness his charishma. But my luck wasn't that good as I got transferred to another district soon after marriage. Of course, marriage wasn't enough to hold me back from the honey of wisdom my fellow pal always offered me.

  Since the day I was transferred, I had been looking for a chance to meet my dear friend Johnlock Wats. Yesterday, the chance had finally come.

  **********

  It was only a 20-minute walk from the station to reach his apartment in B122 hocker street.

  I could have enjoyed the crisp fall air and the fiery trees around me by taking a walk, but decided to take a cab being unable to check my intense ambition to meet him.

  "Too many passengers, sir. You have to share."

  "No problem, anyone would do as long as he wants to go somewhere near the hocker street."

  "Oh, then you are in luck. There's already one waiting inside that one." He pointed his index finger towards an old looking cab, scratches, and stains all over the steel cage.

  "That will do." I was desperate to see him. So, that kind of thing didn't even compete as a disturbance.

  I settled down myself beside my travel companion, an old man with a bushy white beard, bent forward as a result of age. Couldn't say for sure but it was obvious at least 3 layers of clothing were wrapped around him.

  I was looking outside from the window as soon as the cab started to move. As the temperature dropped to the tune of leaves falling, autumn was illustrating the beauty of letting go. But I wasn't interested in it. "Oh my dear, Sherlson." A familiar voice startled me to my limit. I looked at my companion, The old man beside me got back the fire in his eyes. His spine straightened, all the wrinkles are long gone from his tanned face.

  "Jhonlock, You!" It was the exact person I was so mad to visit.

  He chuckled, "It appears that you are stunned as always, yeah, Dr? Nevermind. Why did you choose 'Amanda express' over 'Rose express'?"

  "How in the world you know that?" It was true. I always preferred to travel on the trains of the Rose express. But in this particular case, I chose to go with Amanda express. I couldn't find a way how he could know that.

  My companion giggled." I didn't know, Sherlson. I deduced. The thing itself is, absurdly simple."

  I insisted, " Please tell me, the method, if a method there is, how you could guess that?"

  "Explanation is always tougher than realization. I know you always prefer to take a window seat. It wasn't altered in this case to-day. And more specifically, you took a window seat from the right row of that specific train."

  "Yes, It was just as you described, but I don't see any connection."

  "That's because you don't observe. It's only human nature to peek from the window of any transport they are in. You naturally placed your right hand on the window without even realizing it. There IS a connection, dear Sherlson. If you observe the right sleeve of your black cotton shirt closely, there are some stamens of 'Autumn Hawkbit' stuck in the right corner. It's only the slightest bit of it, but you know, I've done much research on stamens of flowers, so I'm not wrong."

  I looked at the sleeve and found his ever right observations to be correct once again. "But I still can't see any connection."

  "Ask yourself, why the stamens stuck in your sleeve?"

  "The train window?"

  "Exactly. And where did it come from? Certainly from an area rich with that particular flower species within the route of that particular train. There are only five railway transport agencies working on joining your district to mine. And if you've done your homework, you should know, the Rose express route doesn't cover any such area. According to the data I have, only Amanda express' route agrees with our conditions. So, Amanda expresses it is!" Childlike pride bloomed in his over-expressive face.

  "Wow. I didn't see any of that coming. By the way, what are you doing here with this kind of disguise?"

  "Waiting for the cabman to take me to the heart of all mysteries, one of my born enemies."

  "So you are in the middle of something."

  "Indeed. At times like this, I never regret a collaborator, especially you, Sherlson. If you have any energy and time to spare, you're welcome to join me in this bizarre adventure."

  "What's the case?" I was already agreed, in fact, I was born agreed to go on an adventure with this fellow 'candle of wisdom'.

  "This one is nothing but a tiny-simple puzzle. It seems to be ridiculously obvious but still, there is no string to pull. I, at once deduced 'how', but couldn't find any 'why' in this particular Riddle."

  "And what might that be?"

  He looked directly in my eyes," Mr. Garrison. An average unmarried government employee went to the GrassYard cafe to enjoy some Autumn drinks with his fiance. And guess what? She died. The police started the investigation only to find she was poisoned. Until then, it was pretty normal. But the next findings startled them to bits. The 'pumpkin spice iced coffee' was poisoned. But the problem was poison strain was found in both servings. But mysteriously, Mr. Garrison wasn't affected."

  "Certainly he didn't drink that."

  "No, you're at fault. He did drink the coffee."

  "How in the world that's possible! So, who was the culprit?"

  "The police have imprisoned the bar owner and staff. Though they don't have the slightest clue."

  "And, what about you? You can make something out from it?"

  "Just as I said. I know what happened. But don't know 'why'. And I'm in this peculiar form only to find that 'why'. You know where are we going now?"

  I moved my head, "No. Where?"

  "To the magistrate office."

  My eyes almost popped out of its sockets, "The magistrate office!"

  "Quite so. There, we'll receive the key information to pin the king piece."

  "And....." I couldn't finish my sentence as I looked up at my dear friend, already switched to his typical thinking posture; eyes vacant, looking upwards, mouth slightly opened, a mysterious shadow playing upon his passive face. I was his only friend but still didn't have the might to disturb him in this situation, as I had only one head on my shoulder. ( meaning if he blows one up, I wouldn't have any more head to spare.)

  Our cab continued and I continued to think over a question that arose in my mind but couldn't let it out. The office wasn't far. It didn't take more than 10 minutes.

  By the time we were standing outside the office, a content smile was lying upon my companion's lips. Of course, he was again the 'old shrunken man' as soon as he descended from the cab. We were standing just outside the office when I saw a pickpocket entered his hand into my pal's pocket. I was about to say something but reassuring me with a knowing gaze, he went inside the office followed by me shortly. There wasn't much crowd, maybe one or two clients waiting, and one ongoing. We didn't sit close to each other as I didn't have any idea what's going on there.

  Suddenly I saw the old man fall upon the floor with a terrible scream gathering crowd around him. Everyone in the room became busy with him instantly. "What happened! What happened!"

  "It's maybe a cardiac arrest!"

  "We must take him to the doctor."

  I didn't know what to do, but I thought it to be one of his tricks. Many of the inside men along with me handled him outside the room to put him in a cab standing outside. Who will accompany the patient? I instantly declared myself as the candidate. Everyone was quite helping, but, they had their own business, so, no one argued much leaving me the only one with Mr. Jhonlock in the swiftly moving cab. Soon the unconscious man sat down perfectly normally with a melodically smiling face.

  "So, it WAS one of your tricks."

  "Quite so."

  "When did you attained the information?"

  "Oh my dear, Sherlson. It wasn't me who secured the evidence. It was one of my faithful rats, one of the irregulars. I noticed you got quite startled by the pickpocket. He just provided me this." He dragged out a piece of paper from his pocket, holding the corner of it with his thin fingers.

  "And what may that be."

  "This the testimony of the authenticity of the hypothesis I was working on. Or, you can also say, this is the method of catching the 'smaller fish' of this mystery pond."

  "Oh, can you clarify the matter for me?"

  "No need for that. We're heading to the hotspot of mystery to solve the problem once and for all. Now my one last question. Did you recognize the cabman or not?"

  "Huh?"

  "Very well. It's Mycroft and he is the person who secured the key evidence from the 'irregular''." I could only offer him an amused stare.

  ********

  Now, the time has come for me to write about the method, the climax, the checkmate. My hands are shaking. How melodic! The method of his deduction was indeed extraordinary. I am getting the thrill only to think about it. It's unlikely for someone like me to ever be able to describe the method properly. But I'll try my best to underline.

  We got into the cafe, Johnlock already disposed of his disguise, revealing his real human-calculator form. My friend told me about this cafe's being shut, but he requested the police to bring the bartender, Mr. Garrison, and other staff back to the spot. It seemed like the police abided by my pal's suggestions. We took a seat across Mr. Garrison.

  "So, Mr. Wats, any progress?" Mr. Garrison asked, still grieving over his fiance's death.

  Johnlock giggled, "Progress? We already reached our conclusion."

  "So, who is the killer?"The officer standing by the table asked impatiently, scratching his reddish cheek harshly with his right hand.

  "Mr. Garrison himself!"

  "No, what?!" Garrison slammed his fist on the table rising from the chair.

  "Pray sit down, Mr." My friend still calm as usual.

  "Impossible! He drank juice too." The bartender pointed out trembling with shock

  "But he didn't die, did he?" My friend spoke in his ever assured voice.

  "No, but..."

  "You saw him drinking?" Jhonlock snapped before the bartender could finish his sentence.

  "Yes, he finished his glass even before Mrs. Carl getting the chance to take her first sip."

  He smirked, "That's why he is alive."

  All of us still remained in the dark, unable to form any connection. I pinched my friend with a questioning gaze.

  "What?"Oh, you still have no clue? The poison was in the ice! He drank the juice fast only because he knew it. Ice needs time to melt."

  As always, he made everything explainable. The matter, at once revealed itself to be crystal clear to me, along with everyone standing there with dropped jaws.

  "Mr. Wats. You can't just blame me like this. Do you have any proof?" It looked like Mr. Garrison was about to cry.

  "Quite so. I think you happened to lose a very important paper today. Can you recognize this?" He dragged out the land record certificate, the cabman, or should I say, his brother, Mycoft gave him earlier.

  "That's mine! What in the world!"

  "Indeed. You knew Mrs. Carl didn't have any relations whatsoever. You didn't love her, you loved her property. That's why you secretly married her a week ago and killed her off to get a hold on the property."

  "That doesn't make sense. You have nothing on me."

  "Maybe. But he does." A fragile-looking boy entered the scene from the open front door. I could see some of the regular 'irregulars' behind him laughing hysterically.

  "Sith!" The bar-owner exclaimed.

  "Correct. Sith, the boy who supplies ice cubes to this cafe. Hey, now, Mr. Sith, do you recognize this coyote?" He pointed his thumb towards the shocked person, sitting across from us.

  "Yes, he is the person who gave me the bucket of ice I delivered."

  Mr. Garrison hurriedly stood up realizing the defeat but failed to run away, as he saw a steal-made handcuff wrapped around his wrists.

  "Do you have anything to say?" My friend asked in a cold voice.

  "Wait. Why Sith delivered the ice, he gave him. Why he didn't deliver from the factory as usual?" The bar owner asked.

  In answer, my friend just smirked and fixed his gaze upon the questioner, "That's because he was bribed."

  Hence, the case was closed.

  At last, I got the chance to ask the question arose in my mind during our cab journey earlier.

  "Oh, Johnlock."

  "Yes, my dear, Sherlson."

  "Why you didn't...."

  "I understand. There is a reason for that." I don't know how, but somehow my dear fellow figured out what I intended to ask. I really wanted to know, why he needed Mycoft in a case like this? And why was he waiting in the cab in the first place? Is there still something in the dark?

  I asked with some scared confusion, "Could it be?" My guess was correct.

  His gaze became sharp, lips tightened, "Jim Moriarty."

  *****


“Ugh,” Hanna uttered under her breath. Her laptop charger had escaped the wall outlet yet again, as it had four times before that same day. Or was it night? She could not tell. As far as she was concerned, the library was her home now, its grayish-tan walls and dusty bookshelves emitting a strangely hospitable aura. Stretching like a contortionist, she maneuvered the plug back into the inconveniently-placed wall outlet. The charging light turned orange, and Hanna leaned back in her chair and sighed in relief.

She looked at her watch; 4:00 AM, The writing in geometric font blazed at her bloodshot eyes. She sat there and simply stared at the numbers until they read, “4:03,” then swiftly got up and began to throw things into her backpack. “HOW,” she questioned aloud, clearly the only living person left in the library at this time. How did she do this? Did she fall asleep? Where did the time go? Hanna reflected on other events similar to this. She was known to fall asleep just about anywhere, and to get so caught up in her work she would forget the time. No matter. She just needed to get home and finish her essay, her grading for grad school, and bake a cake for her friend’s birthday party. She would be able to finish all that and get to class at 8 AM. Perfect! she thought.

Hanna meandered through the rows of shelves, bumping into the occasional section of books. She was sure she knew how to get to the exit… Or was she? This was actually a different section of the library than she normally visited, and her three and a half hours of sleep from the night prior were finally catching up to her. But that was college! You were supposed to never sleep, survive on the pure sodium of ramen, and drink coffee instead of water. Right? “Hanna…” a faraway, raspy voice called. Hanna stopped in her tracks, a shiver running up and down her spine. Wow , she thought, I really need to get some sleep! She smiled and shook her head as she began to walk once again, trying to reschedule her night to include a one hour nap.. But as she continued her quest, sections of books that she swore were never there previously began to appear in her path. She tried to read what genres were on the signs, but she could not read them anymore. Each sign seemed to be written in Hieroglyphs, or Cuneiform, or some other ancient language unknown to her.

“Haaannaaa,” a different voice, lower and weaker, beckoned to her. What she had formerly believed to be an auditory hallucination was now becoming more real by the second. Glancing behind her, she continued to walk, quickening her pace until she was striding, then running, then sprinting. Her aching bones and tingling muscles worked as hard as they could to carry her along as she ran, dodging falling books that fell from disturbed shelves. After what felt like a lifetime of running, Hanna screeched to a halt. In front of her was a door. But it was not like any other door in the library that she had seen. It was made of a darker, older wood than the others, and did not have a rectangular window with chicken wire on it. “What the-” she said under her breath. “Hanna,” a third, higher-pitched voice whispered behind her, and she decided it was not time to admire the door any longer. Faster than lightning could strike, she had grasped the golden handle, swung open the door, and thrown herself through it, slamming it behind her. She breathed in relief for only a second, and then absolute horror coursed through her body. Before her was a dark, dripping room full of moldy old bookshelves that towered above her. In front of her stood three figures, each shrouded in darkness. Her vision spun as she gazed upon them, thinking about how this would be her last night alive. “Who are you!” she managed to sputter out. The figures looked at each other, looked back at Hanna, then moved into the only dim light in the room, the source of which Hanna could not discern. When she saw them, she felt as if a cold hand had clasped her windpipe shut. The three souls stood in a row, sad eyes bulging out of pale, translucent-skinned heads. The grayish-pink of their brains shone through their skulls and fading skin, and their gaping mouths quivered, dry and decomposing. Hanna’s eyes traveled down to their hands, which each figure had folded politely in front of them. Their hands all bore the same translucent skin as the rest of their bodies, and Hanna could see thin, bony fingers with long, yellow, cracked nails. Some of the skin on their fingers had come off, and Hanna could see bloody bones. She suppressed the immediate urge to vomit, and instead wordlessly stared at the three figures, inspecting them individually. The person on the left wore a long, blue skirt and a white button-up polo shirt with a yellow sweater wrapped around her neck. Much of her hair had fallen out, but what was left was stringy, the color of urine, and pulled up into a high ponytail. Her faded blue eyes bore into Hanna’s very being, and protruded slightly from their sagging sockets. Hanna’s attention moved to the middle figure, who was holding a beat-up book with a maroon cover that looked as if it were from biblical times. She gasped and jumped back slightly as she inspected their face more closely. Their skin was the color of rice paper, and was sunken in so much that it seemed it was glued closely to their skull. Some bits of their skin had sunken in and opened up, like great craters on the surface of the moon. Shaking like a bad washing machine, Hanna adjusted her eyes and fixated on the third figure. He reached for something in his pocket, slowly and with great effort. He pulled out a most likely decades-old cardboard box, slid it open, and picked out a cigarette. With another trembling hand, the figure searched his pocket for a lighter, and pulled one out. The other two figures slowly rotated their rotting heads towards him, and stared disdainfully. He brought the lighter up to the cigarette, flicked it a few times, and seemed very confused when it refused to spark. The other two figures seemingly exchanged a look, then went back to peering woefully at Hanna. “Hello, dear,” the person in the middle finally said, speaking in one of the voices she had heard before. Their voice sounded even more dry than before, and Hanna shuddered. “Hi,” Hanna replied, eyes jolting every which way. She searched for an exit, any door she could possibly see. But there was no escape in sight. “Are you studying, too?” said the man on the right in his wispy tone. He flicked the lighter absentmindedly with his left hand. “Yes, I was studying Sociology and writing my essay on Aristotle,” Hanna responded, starting to feel eerily calm. “Aristotle! He is quite interesting,” the girl on the left said, smiling from cheek to cheek with black gums and corroded teeth. “I prefer Gorgias, myself,” the man said, glancing over at the ponytailed woman. She glared at him with sunken eyes. “Where AM I?” Hanna managed to ask. “Why sweetie, you’re Awakened,” the middle figure replied, smirking. “What does that mean?” asked Hanna, “And why me?” “Because,” the woman on the left chimed, “You’re dedicated.” “Dedicated?” Hanna responded. “Yes,” the man on the right added, “And that’s why you should stay here. We have all the knowledge we need, right here. We never sleep, we never eat, we never bathe. We have all we could ever ask for. Nothing else is needed but to KNOW. To be AWAKE.” Hanna was completely still now. What information lay in these tomes? What could she acquire from learning all these things? Would she discover something new in the name of Sociology? Would this finally get her the A+ she had been striving for since day 1? Since she knew how to think, speak, and write? “All you have to do is open a book,” said the middle figure, grinning with their disturbingly jagged teeth. Their black gums glinted at her. “How did you all get here?” Hanna asked. She felt off. Something was suppressing her normal inhibitions, and she couldn’t figure out what it was. Her brain felt strained, like she was thinking about imaginary numbers in Calculus. “Just open a book, honey. It will all be okay,” the man on the right added. The three began to walk slowly towards her. As the three loathsome learners closed in, her brain seemed to click back into place. “I think I’ll be going now,” Hanna stammered, backing up. The figures pressed in even more, their eyes glowing menacingly in the now inky darkness. Hanna did not care what was behind her. She kept backpedaling, and backpedaling, until she fell back, breath catching in her throat as she tried to scream. As she fell, she could see the faces of the three half-dead library enthusiasts gazing down at her. They all wore frowns on their moist, indented faces, and their brow bones drew together as they glared down at Hanna. She fell away, and only hit solid ground after a few feet. She blinked, and was back in the library. Sitting up, she looked at her surroundings rapidly. She found herself in the place where the door had been. It was no longer there. This did not surprise Hanna, but her body and mind were in shock from the entire experience. She pushed off of the rough, carpeted floor and took off running in the opposite direction. Instead of strange, unfamiliar bookshelves and sections seemingly materializing in front of her, this time she knew exactly where she was. Following her knowledge of the library’s interior, she took the exact directions she knew would get her out. She sent out a prayer to whatever forces would answer that she would make it to the front of the library and out the door. She went down a flight of stairs, and finally saw the large, glass doors of the library. However, she would not let herself be relieved yet. She had no clue how she was going to get out if the doors were locked. On her first try, the giant library door opened up, releasing her into the cold nighttime air. Hanna exhaled a huge sigh, and her breath vaporized. Never before had she walked home that quickly. The next day, Hanna emailed all of her teachers and supervisors that she would not be coming to classes. She texted her friends quick messages canceling her plans for the day. That day, she decided, would be completely for rest. From now on, her health and happiness was her top priority. Not school, not other people. Herself. And never, EVER, again would she find herself in the library at 4 in the morning, speaking to half dead students who had never made their way out of the trap of academia.


Every Sunday morning I take a light jog around a park near my home. There’s a lake located in one corner of the park. Each time I jog by this lake, I see the same elderly woman sitting at the water’s edge with a small metal cage sitting beside her. This past Sunday my curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped jogging and walked over to her. As I got closer, I realized that the metal cage was in fact a small trap. There were three turtles, unharmed, slowly walking around the base of the trap. She had a fourth turtle in her lap that she was carefully scrubbing with a spongy brush. “Hello,” I said. “I see you here every Sunday morning. If you don’t mind my nosiness, I’d love to know what you’re doing with these turtles.” She smiled. “I’m cleaning off their shells,” she replied. “Anything on a turtle’s shell, like algae or scum, reduces the turtle’s ability to absorb heat and impedes its ability to swim. It can also corrode and weaken the shell over time.” “Wow! That’s really nice of you!” I exclaimed. She went on: “I spend a couple of hours each Sunday morning, relaxing by this lake and helping these little guys out. It’s my own strange way of making a difference.” “But don’t most freshwater turtles live their whole lives with algae and scum hanging from their shells?” I asked. “Yep, sadly, they do,” she replied. I scratched my head. “Well then, don’t you think your time could be better spent? I mean, I think your efforts are kind and all, but there are fresh water turtles living in lakes all around the world. And 99% of these turtles don’t have kind people like you to help them clean off their shells. So, no offense… but how exactly are your localized efforts here truly making a difference?” The woman giggled aloud. She then looked down at the turtle in her lap, scrubbed off the last piece of algae from its shell, and said, “Sweetie, if this little guy could talk, he’d tell you I just made all the difference in the world.” Once upon a time a psychology professor walked around on a stage while teaching stress management principles to an auditorium filled with students. As she raised a glass of water, everyone expected they’d be asked the typical “glass half empty or glass half full” question. Instead, with a smile on her face, the professor asked, “How heavy is this glass of water I’m holding?” Students shouted out answers ranging from eight ounces to a couple pounds. She replied, “From my perspective, the absolute weight of this glass doesn’t matter. It all depends on how long I hold it. If I hold it for a minute or two, it’s fairly light. If I hold it for an hour straight, its weight might make my arm ache a little. If I hold it for a day straight, my arm will likely cramp up and feel completely numb and paralyzed, forcing me to drop the glass to the floor. In each case, the weight of the glass doesn’t change, but the longer I hold it, the heavier it feels to me.” As the class shook their heads in agreement, she continued, “Your stresses and worries in life are very much like this glass of water. Think about them for a while and nothing happens. Think about them a bit longer and you begin to ache a little. Think about them all day long, and you will feel completely numb and paralyzed – incapable of doing anything else until you drop them.” The moral: It’s important to remember to let go of your stresses and worries. No matter what happens during the day, as early in the evening as you can, put all your burdens down. Don’t carry them through the night and into the next day with you. If you still feel the weight of yesterday’s stress, it’s a strong sign that it’s time to put the glass down.

During a research experiment a marine biologist placed a shark into a large holding tank and then released several small bait fish into the tank. As you would expect, the shark quickly swam around the tank, attacked and ate the smaller fish. The marine biologist then inserted a strong piece of clear fiberglass into the tank, creating two separate partitions. She then put the shark on one side of the fiberglass and a new set of bait fish on the other. Again, the shark quickly attacked. This time, however, the shark slammed into the fiberglass divider and bounced off. Undeterred, the shark kept repeating this behavior every few minutes to no avail. Meanwhile, the bait fish swam around unharmed in the second partition. Eventually, about an hour into the experiment, the shark gave up. This experiment was repeated several dozen times over the next few weeks. Each time, the shark got less aggressive and made fewer attempts to attack the bait fish, until eventually the shark got tired of hitting the fiberglass divider and simply stopped attacking altogether. The marine biologist then removed the fiberglass divider, but the shark didn’t attack. The shark was trained to believe a barrier existed between it and the bait fish, so the bait fish swam wherever they wished, free from harm. The moral: Many of us, after experiencing setbacks and failures, emotionally give up and stop trying. Like the shark in the story, we believe that because we were unsuccessful in the past, we will always be unsuccessful. In other words, we continue to see a barrier in our heads, even when no ‘real’ barrier exists between where we are and where we want to go.

After spending nearly every waking minute with Angel for eight straight days, I knew that I had to tell her just one thing. So late at night, just before she fell asleep, I whispered it in her ear. She smiled – the kind of smile that makes me smile back –and she said, “When I’m seventy-five and I think about my life and what it was like to be young, I hope that I can remember this very moment.” A few seconds later she closed her eyes and fell asleep. The room was peaceful – almost silent. All I could hear was the soft purr of her breathing. I stayed awake thinking about the time we’d spent together and all the choices in our lives that made this moment possible. And at some point, I realized that it didn’t matter what we’d done or where we’d gone. Nor did the future hold any significance. All that mattered was the serenity of the moment. Just being with her and breathing with her.


The day I realized I was nothing was the same day I destroyed the one thing I worked my whole life to find. My mind was still foggy, as it had always been. I was still mindlessly working, searching for fire stones, as if nothing was wrong.

Nothing had changed, and only then did I realize that nothing ever would. I walked obediently in a single-file line, standing in the very back because I was the smallest, the one least likely to be successful. There weren't many children in our village. In fact, there were three. None were younger than thirteen. The entire village, from the elderly, down to me, were in the same line. The strong young men stood at the lead, the fathers and mothers behind them. Finally, there were the two young boys and then me, the only daughter in the group.

We all carried heavy mining tools, enchanted to be able to break through any stone. Everyone ahead of me was looking around like hawks for the one thing that they were trying to find: the cave of fire stones. I didn’t fully understand what the fire stones were, and come to think of it, I don’t even have the slightest idea why we are searching for them. For some reason though, that didn’t matter. My scrawny arms never got tired under the weight of the tools. No one ever needed to sleep, or eat, or drink, but none of this ever crossed our minds or stood out as strange to any of us. “Stop!” The head of the line announced to us. Everyone stopped at once at his command. “Mine here.” The same young man yelled back to the group, pointing at a small mound. As if right on cue, everyone started forming a circle around the hill, making it so everyone had an area to hit. I raised my pickaxe above my head in time with everyone else. I closed my eyes, mustering all my energy, and struck the sharp edge down into the cold, hard earth. The impact caused the pickaxe to fall out of my grasp, a mistake that never happened before. Before I could even grab the tool again, a hand grasped my shoulder and pulled me back, out of the circle of mining villagers. I screamed and yelled in shock, trying to get myself out of my captor’s grasp. I looked to my fellow villagers, seeing if anyone noticed or heard my screaming, but they simply spread out a bit to close the empty gap. “What…? No!” I strained in the grasp of my captor, but their grip was too strong. Once my village wasn’t able to be seen through the dense trees, whoever was grabbing me finally let go. I scrambled to my feet and whipped around to finally have a look at who dragged me over here, “What do think you’re-” I froze. I was expecting to look up at a huge, scary man, but instead a young boy, my age, stood in front of me. I screamed in shock at seeing another person as young as I was, but I was soon silenced by the boy putting a hand over my mouth. “Stop! I’ll explain, but you need to stay quiet. There are things in this forest that you don’t want tracking you.” he said. My mouth snapped shut. “Where do I start?” the boy mumbled to himself, then looked back up at me. “How would you react if I told you that everything you ever knew was wrong and you actually don’t exist because someone is controlling all you do and think?” I took two steps back, worried the boy was mental. “That's what I thought.” Before I could run, the boy grabbed my arm. “Hear me out.” He said seriously, “If I’m so wrong, then what's your name… actually, what’s this world even called anyway?” I raised an eyebrow, “Well, duh, it’s…” I froze, then held my head as if I was having a bad headache. Of course I knew what the very world I live in is called! Except… I didn’t. I stopped trying to run, curious to hear the boy’s explanation. “Exactly. It’s called nothing. Everyone here is nothing. You're under a spell; the reason it was so easy to snap you out of it was that you're a kid, so the curse is less potent.” He motioned to the darkness of the forest. Before I could ask what he was doing, kids my age, and younger started coming out of the darkness one by one, shocking me with each young face. “Each one of us,” the boy continued, gesturing to the children, “came from your village. I’ve been working hard to free the children from the curse before it was too late. We-” It was too much for me. “Hold it! Back up! What on earth are you talking about?! What curse?” “The curse was cast so that the very universe has complete control over you; you were hardly human, just their minion ready to do their bidding.” The boy paused, “The fire stones, what you and the rest of our village were looking for, are the source of the curse. If your… if our village finds it, then the curse will take complete hold and we will no longer be existent at all, not even under another’s control.” “No. No, this can’t be true! That means… that means that this whole time, I've been searching endlessly for something that will be the end of this world as we know it?!” I was stunned. “Precisely, we need your help to block the fire stone cave before they find it. I already tried multiple times to free the other two children in our village, but it seems they’re already knee-deep in the curse.” the boy said sadly. “So will you help us?” I was still confused, my mind was overflowing with the new information, but I nodded. “But… How will we even find the cave? Our village has been searching for ages… and they’re adults! We’re just a bunch of kids!” The boy looked worried, as if just realizing they don’t have much time, “We already found it.” “Wait what?!” “The problem is, it’s in the exact location that our villagers are mining as we speak!” “Why didn’t you lead with that?!” I shouted at him as the whole group started running back through the trees. By the time we got back, the villagers had already made their way very far into the mound that I just recently left. Glints of red were already glowing through the dirt and stone. One of the villagers, a huge man, was mining very quickly, at his rate it wouldn’t be long before he hit the fire stones. “What can we-” I started but was cut off when I saw the boy pull a sword out of my abandoned tool belt and jumped in front of the large miner, crossing his weapon with the man’s pickaxe and causing his fast progress to stop. The man was stunned for only a moment, then raised his pickaxe and started dueling with the young boy, trying to get back to his job.

“Don’t just stand there!” the boy yelled at me, throwing my old pickaxe in my direction. “Do something!” I shakily reached down and grabbed my tool as a miner started charging towards me. I realized I was standing in between him and the fire stone mine. I dodged his attack and let my mining instincts take over, helping me fend for myself. The attacking villager recovered from his miss and struck at me again, this time I met the blow with my own pickaxe, pushing him back. Suddenly my eye caught on something, a small trickle of water was spilling out from between two rocks and running down the hill to where a group of fire stones were gathered. Each fire stone that was splashed with the water turned black and lost its red glow. That gave me an idea. I pressed my pickaxe hard against my attacker’s own weapon, forcing him to back up. When he had backed up close enough to the source of the water, I released the pressure on his pickaxe and used the moment of his confusion to strike my pickaxe down onto the rocks that were blocking a stream of water to spill out. Immediately, the rocks broke and water poured out of the hole, drenching me and many others. The water splashed ferociously down to the fire stone mine. I watched as it hit the uncovered fire stones, turning them black one by one and taking a bit of the curse away with them. The blackness spread until the entire hill was covered in it. All around me, villagers dropped to their knees, dropping their pickaxes and causing the children fighting them to look up in confusion. When they saw the mine, their faces turned into smiles. “What… happened?” The villager who was attacking me earlier asked, “Who are you? Who… who am I?” “You're free!” I said happily, “They’re free; we're all free!” “What are you saying? Where am I?” I thought for a moment, “You're in Zumari, land of the curse-breakers.”

It sounded right the moment I said it.


I remember the day i met them like it was yesterday. It was a hot summer day, i was 15 and visiting my grandmother in the countryside. I was mowing my grandmother's lawn when i saw a tall, blue tree in the distance. Trees are not usually blue and neither were they that large. The tree seemed like it was growing as i got farther from it while i was mowing the far west side of my grandmother's lawn. Curious, i made a note to myself to go explore that area with the tree after i finish mowing the lawn. When i finally finished, it was 3pm in the afternoon. Perfect for exploring. I asked my grandmother if i could go explore the east part of town and she let me. Off i went with a backpack filled with snack bars and water bottles. The east side of the town was a thin forest, barely thick. enough to be called a forest. Weirdly enough, with each step i took towards the tree the smaller it looked, i barely managed to find my way to the tree as it got smaller than the trees around me. I arrived at 4:30pm, the view was honestly breathtaking. There was a small pond, around 2 meters wide and filled with fish that i've never seen before. The blue tree i saw earlier in the day was at the center of the pond, reduced to the size of a toddler. I took off my backpack and stepped inside the pond to take a closer look at the tree. As soon as i was close enough to touch the tree i suddenly found myself back at the pond side next to my backpack. "The tree likes you, interesting." I looked around but couldn't see anyone. "Hello?" I called count. There was no answer, i didnt know what i was expecting i was going to call it a day and leave until an apple was thrown onto my head. "Up here, genius." I looked up at the trees and saw a person sitting on one of the branches "uhm, who are you" i asked. They didnt answer me and instead slid down the side of the tree and faced me eye to eye. They pointed at the tree and said "If you wernt luck you would've drowned." surprised, i asked TheM "what do you mean?" They shook their head and said "come on, lets get out of here." I reluctantly followed them back out of the forest. "Take this" They said and handed me a worn out jacket. "Bring it to the house right next door to you grandma's" "What?" The pushed me away from them and the next thing i knew, they were gone. With nothing else to do, i went back to my grandma's but before i went in i remembered i still had the jacket so i knocked on the neighbors door. "Hi, its the neighbor from next door." They opened the door and i was surprised to see that he wasn't the person that gave me the jacket. "How can i help ya" he asked. I gave him the jacket and his eyes went wide. "Where did you get this?" 'a person gave it to me" "wwho?" "i dunno, they were gone before i could ask" He invited me in for a cup of tea and we hit it off well. "And that kids, is how i met your father" "Whatt, motherr it cant end like that, who's the person that gave you the jacket, why did they give you a jacket, why was there a blue tree that got smaller as you went towards it and bigger as you went further from it, how did you return back to the pond side and-" "Whoa one question at a time sweetie, i have answers for them all" "okay.. so wwho gave you that jacket?" "I found out a few years later that the person who gave me the jacket was a teen that drowned in the pond before i arrived there." "How did they give you the jacket then?" "I actually dont know, maybe my mind tricked me into thinking they gave me the jacket but in reality i found it and it was too much for my brain to handle" "ok.. why was there a blue tree that changed size?" "There were actually 2 trees, the bigger tree was at the far back of the forest and it didnt actually change size, the trees were blue Spruce trees, i can get us one if you want." "no thanks. ok but why did you get the jacket?" "I honestly dont know, maybe it was the least traumatic thing i could've carried back with me" "How did you return back to the pond side then?" "I think i have a theory that i never really went into the pond as i was dry when i returned to the pond side, it probably was just my imagination that merged with my memories. It also could have something to do with the fact that i might have seen a drowned person and my brain couldnt handle the stress" " why did you knock on father's door, if there wasn't a person that told you to, why did you decide to knock on his door?" "I like to think that it was fate." "ok, last question, why did father not freak out when you handed him a soaked jacket of a missing girl?" "Because father was the one who drowned them." "What?!" "Nothing, now eat your breakfast and go off to school hun. The bus is outside already" "ok-" She picked up her packed lunch box and put on her backpack. Off she went and into the school bus. I waved goodbye to my daughter, i was about to go inside when i saw them on the bus, looking right into my eyes and making a terrifying grin. They had a knife and pointed it at my daughter. Goodbye they mouthed and the bus drove away.


March 15, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, Red enveloped me today as I set foot in a land I have never known before. Though its contents are a mystery, I feel an excitement and eagerness to explore what gives this place life and interest! Perhaps, after all these years of searching, it will be the place I can call home. The ground beneath my feet is red. A fine-grained texture runs through it. Many thin streams rush by and the liquid that they hold is thick and red as well. Some streams run up a slope while others run down. As I take in my surroundings, I know there is much to learn here, but I cannot dig deeper alone. This journey requires that I have a companion, and the only person who has explored this land is Bridgett Gwynet. Today, I followed Bridgett for just half a mile before we sat down and rested. I was hoping to go further but she claims this place is best explored one small piece at a time. She told me about her family and friends, and I felt quite shy as I tried to politely keep eye contact during our conversation. She has striking blue eyes that are outlined by thick black lashes and whenever her irises catch the sunlight my cheeks flush with color. I enjoyed the stories she told me about her family. I can tell that she misses them. She’s been far away from them for so long, but she has been on a journey to discover new things, and I am honored that she has opened an invitation for me to explore the things she has discovered. March 19, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, This morning, as we were walking along, we came across what appeared to be a smooth red canal. The thick, red liquid that runs through most of this land was rushing through it. As I took notes in my mind of the things I believed made this place so special, I listened to Bridgett share more of her experiences. In an instant, I found a moment to drop a humorous comment in our conversation. Bridgett laughed and looked at me. Her bright blue eyes sparkled. All at once, the liquid that was running through the canal immensely quickened in pace and the ground below my feet started to pulse fiercely. I nearly lost my balance! It was then that I realized there had always been subtle pulses in the ground, I just had not yet noticed them. March 21, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, Each day as I’ve studied these new surroundings I have found myself falling in love – with Bridgett Gwynet that is. She has such a calm aura about her, and she is so sure of her decisions! She is always determined to learn more and excel in what she is learning. I’ve adored her company and hope that our traveling will continue for a longer time. There is a lot more territory to cover! April 16, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, I can no longer hold my tongue. I must tell Bridgett how I feel! Our time together has been short, but she has been so open and willing to guide me along as she explains the intricate details of the atmosphere that surrounds us. She is so skilled in the knowledge of this land. I can tell she has studied it thoroughly and has given her studies much thought. I want to build a home here, and I hope that Bridgett will have an interest in pursuing the dream I’ve contrived.

I will tell her all tomorrow. Truthfully, I am frightened to know her answer. I want her to feel the same feelings I have, but I don't know her mind completely. I do have reason to believe that she has at least some interest in me. After all, yesterday she smiled widely at me as I trekked down a slope, stepping over small streams as I went. Once I reached her, she stretched out a hand and grabbed my own, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go. “You made it, Steven! I thought you were going to stumble head first for a second,” she said with a chuckle. I smiled, but said nothing, still dumbfounded by the imprinted sensation her touch had left on my hand. April 17, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, I am numb. Bridgett does not feel the same way I do. I asked her why, but she stumbled in her words and would not give me a clear answer. She told me she thought I was wonderful, though, but I suppose that isn’t enough. A strange awkwardness arose rapidly between us and Bridgett politely concluded that she would not be my guide any longer. She kindly advised me to go no further into this unknown land because I had never explored it on my own before, and without her, it would be nearly impossible to discover the secrets that lay within. I walked away feeling sheepish and stupid. I wish I would’ve never said anything about my affections. But most of all, I wish Bridgett would give me a clearer understanding of her response to them. My curiosity has stirred in me for hours, and I have concluded that I will spend one more day exploring this land before I quit. Though I will not be able to know what direction to go, and I won’t be able to find the hidden places, I will perhaps at least settle my mind by feeling like I have fully finished my exploration. April 18, 1963 Dear Depths of My Heart, I have had a grim conclusion to my expedition. While walking along a section of land, I came across a large formation made up of a soft but firm substance. Three, what appeared to be tunnels, set atop it. I found an opening near the bottom of the odd configuration. My inquisitive nature took over, and I entered. The walls that surrounded me were pulsing in time with the ground. Streaming up them was the peculiar red fluid that I had become so familiar with. I looked at it in awe, wondering how the rushing liquid could defy gravity and run upwards. The sudden sound of someone clearing their throat made me jump. I turned around and saw a man. He was tall, had dark hair, brown eyes, and a chiseled jaw. “Who are you?” I questioned in a surprised tone. “Joey Allbrook. Who are you?” Who am I? The realization sunk into me, making me stumble back. I fell against the rushing liquid. Its current was fierce, and in a moment, I was lifted up from the ground and pulled towards the opening of the tube above me. I looked below and watched Joey Allbrook grow smaller and smaller. Who am I? Well, I can tell you who I’m not. I’m not the keeper of Bridgett Gwynet’s heart. I looked up as I was pushed through the end of the tube. The red liquid engulfed me. My mind whirled. I had to get out or I would drown in the overwhelming torturous turmoil. I collected my thoughts and realized the only way to survive was to accept the truth and make peace with it. “I am not the keeper of Bridgett’s heart. I am not the keeper of Bridgett’s heart.” I repeated this to myself over and over until I believed it and realized I had to live with that factuality. In the moment of what felt like my last breath, I closed my eyes and when I opened them the liquid was gone. I gasped in the air and frantically looked at my surroundings. I was sitting on the bench at the park where I had last seen Bridgett walking with a man named Joey Allbrook.

I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest. It was true, even after all my exploration and deep desire to learn all I could about that beautiful blue eyed woman, I could not succeed in making her heart my home. In fact, it was impossible to succeed. Joey already resided in the place I had hoped for. And so, dear depths of my heart, I am back to searching for a place to rest you.


Everyday he opens me, digging through my insides, searching for something to appease him. I’ve seen nobody else with the privilege to do it. Just him. I feel like that creates a bond between us. When only he is in the house, I don’t see him as often as when there’s company here. I look forward to company, I’ve come to love those days. That’s when his hands are inside me the most. Digging, pushing, re-arranging my interior goods like he’s tickling me. I must admit, we’ve been together a long time and I care about him as much as he cares about me. That’s why I get so concerned about him when he’s alone. He doesn’t like to be alone. When he has no one to cook for. No reason for his hand to embrace my handle and pull my door open, peeking at my insides once again. He doesn’t care to cook for himself, though I think he should. Oh! Where are my manners? I should take this opportunity to introduce myself. I’m Electric General and my owner is Ralph. Ralph’s a great guy. He has a happy heart and a smile that could move mountains. He’s more than ready to do anything for anybody. And to feed others? He would do at the drop of a hat. I’ve seen him give away his last meal just so someone doesn’t go hungry. Since he lost his job though, he has a fog of melancholy seeping around him that weighs down that heart and smile. It’s been getting worse as the days go on. And truthfully, it started before he lost his job. He worked hard everyday but lacked a partner to spend his free time with. That was upsetting to him. Then losing his job made the fog grow thicker. I’d see him sitting at the kitchen table, on the phone, or computer looking for work. He’d stick reminders on me with those magnets I like. But he had no luck so far. Then, to make matters worse, our house got broken into and his wallet, keys, including the car was stolen. The cat crawling silent ninjas even managed to find his shoebox of rainy day money. Ralph cursed those pills he recently started taking for depression. They made him sleep so soundly he never even stirred while his house got cleaned out. Those criminals even had the audacity to handle my doors and open me up like they owned me! They rummaged through food on shelves and violating me even further, opening drawers as well. It had my Freon boiling. Those no good robbers even took some food right out of my body! I was upset, but my buddy Ralph, he took it real hard. He was talking to himself and saying how not only is he broke now but he’s still alone. Just to make the hard knocks worse. I think about him going through the days so lonely without a girlfriend or even a friend for that matter. I worried about him to the point where I blew my bulb! His deep depression was wearing off on me and I was dark for days. While I was wondering in dark despair if my bulb would ever get changed again, he was wondering if he’d ever meet someone who he could cook for. He reached the end and Ralph seemed broken now. He needed food and his means of buying some was gone. He was all alone, hungry, sick and just wishing he had food in me. I was tired of being empty too. When he had people over on the rare occasion, he would open and close me so much, my hinges loved the workout. These were days when he’d smile and laugh like he hadn’t a care in the world. When he’s creating some culinary temptation for others at the job side of the stove, it brings him such uplifting happiness. Whomever enters this home will get an amazing dish to eat, that’s for sure. But he was alone and so tired of his life he wanted to end it all. I’ve even heard him crying and that really shook my shelves! I wished I could make him happy. I couldn’t take watching him go on like this. I did the only thing I could think of to help. One of the papers he had under a magnet on my beautiful face was for a support group. I hadn’t seen him use it yet so I did what I could to shake it loose and have that paper fall on the floor in front of me. Imagine my relief when it worked. He picked up that paper and made the phone call. He went to his first support meeting that night. It turned out great. He met a few people who were going through what he was going through, and it really helped him see a light at the end of the tunnel. To top it off, the group was having its big annual members meeting next week and needed a caterer. Of course, Ralph jumped at the opportunity. I was feeling great, Ralph finally changed my bulb and with the commission for the catering, filled me full of food he would process into culinary delights. As far as how Ralph felt, well, things were finally looking up. This was the perfect opportunity for him to feel useful again and needed. He was going to cook! And for so many people. He would make this feast a memorable one. At the meeting, everyone was going wild over Ralph’s cooking. He had taken the time to ensure all members palettes were covered. Carefully making notes about allergies and general likes and dislikes had paid off. Everyone was so pleased. Especially Ralph! It just so happened that a girl at the meeting pointed out a chef in the crowd to Ralph. Her name was Susan and she said he would be a good person to get to know. Holding a plate, he repeats the question he’s been asking everybody all night, “Would you like something to eat?” He gave a plate to a man named Norman Rose, who worked for an exclusive restaurant downtown. This man had been attending the group for years and wondered if he could help Ralph in any way. He thought the food was so delicious, he asked if Ralph would come on an interview with him. Norman owned a few restaurants downtown and one had an opening for a chef. The man wanted to do what he could to give Ralph a chance. He just hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. For the second time that month Ralph got to cook for someone! And this time it could land him a job that he so desperately needed. I loved the way my hinges were getting a workout from being used so often again. Ralph practiced some of his most challenging dishes to find just the right one for his interview. I was in bliss with all the poking and prodding he was doing with my insides. With no surprise from me, he got the job! The last thing he packed were my insides to sufficiently keep everything temperature locked. There were so many bags and boxes to take with us to our new place in the city. This would be an adventure, I thought. Ralph had to move himself closer to the city for his new job as Head Chef at Chez Louie’s. Right in the middle of the thumping downtown core. He was so happy now. He couldn’t believe he ever wanted to kill himself. Things were so good now. Especially since Ralph met Susan. Finally, he wasn’t alone. Time could do some amazing things. Ralph and Susan decided to move in together. She already had a spacious apartment in the city close to his job, so he would move right in with her. But he wasn’t going anywhere without me. I’m a state-of-the-art machine.  A well-oiled machine. I was expensive and besides, I was his first. That’s right, I was the first appliance Ralph had purchased as his grown up self had needed one. I had the best heating and cooling system this side of the state line. The chef that lived alive and beating in Ralph would never let me go. Besides, we had a bond. I did such a good job for him. Making sure the food was cold and fresh so he could cook such good food to serve his friends, his company. He slid the dolly under me with an awkward squeak and Ralph’s hands slid on the blue arms of the dolly I was being snugly and squarely affixed to. Gravity was thick with an object like myself when it came to falling off a dolly. We certainly didn’t want that to happen. So there I was, snug, square, and secure on the carrier seat of this dolly where the corner edges had sharpened to a paper cut of an edge. The blue paint had worn off the bottom of the dolly so that it showcased the stainless steel housed underneath. It shone and flickered in the midday sun. Ralph set about moving me to my new home. To my surprise, the new apartment already had a fridge. I wonder what Susan’s fridge is like. Is it a lady fridge and if so, what’s her make and model? As he was pivot spinning me into my new space in the new kitchen we touched handles, and I almost blew my door gasket. I asked her what she had inside her. She giggled again and said “Maybe you, if you play your cards right, cutie.” “Oh really? What’s your name sweetie?” “I’m Jenmore. What about you?” “I’m Electric General.” “Well, that name suits a handsome stocky fridge, such as yourself. I salute you Sir!” I couldn’t help but brag about what was in my own belly. I started in on a real nice story about the food inside me and how we escaped a dire situation of depression and loneliness. I bragged about Ralph and how he defeated all the odds stacked against him. “He’s a genius with food and he just got a new job as a chef in a fancy restaurant. He’s got such a huge heart and he shows how much he cares through his cooking. Now I always have leftovers of the most expensive foods. Oysters are always present on my shelves.” I HAD to boast about that. “Not to mention truffles!” Jenmore chimed in, “Ok, enough now you braggart or I’ll take back my handsome remark. I just met you; you don’t want to make my evaporator coils freeze already, do you?” “No ma’am, my heat radiator fans are hot for you!” “Well in that case, its my turn to brag to you. I’m a Smart Fridge so I know some of that fancy food your owner loves to feed people will end up over here relaxing inside me. After all, my control panel can detect best before use AND store data of items inside me like his delicious meals. Believe me, I will keep those oysters in temperature regulated luxury.” “Oh, so you’re a fancy fridge, are you? No wonder you’ve got my compressor turning up my heat.” Jenmore giggled again. “I’m fancy enough to store your fancy food, Sir Electric General.” One more giggle. “Well Madame Jenmore, I think our makes and models will get along just fine. Living with you shall be a pleasure. And that it was. Ralph was happy all the time feeding others and spending time with Susan. As for Jenmore and Electric General, once the lights were out, they would coil up together for the night. 😉


Experienced mountaineers are extremely cautious and always avoid taking unnecessary risks. Jake was not an experienced mountaineer. He had been to a few classes, of course; he wasn’t that stupid. He knew to check the harness every time, double check the knots, how to haul himself out of an icy crevasse with altitude sickness and a broken arm…that sort of thing. In fact, altitude sickness was the one thing that they’d covered on the course that had spooked him a little. High-altitude cerebral edema , they said, is what happens when fluid collects in your brain. Along with severe headache and nausea, it can also cause drowsiness, uncharacteristic behavior, and loss of consciousness. After a presentation of case studies of people suffering from altitude sickness and the traumatic events that followed, Jake had left feeling thoroughly sick himself. But that didn’t stop him making plans for his first ascent to the summit of Mount Washington. It couldn’t be that hard…could it? It certainly wasn’t an easy mountain to climb. Especially not this time of year. The most popular route to the summit was via the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, but in winter it was closed due to the risk of avalanches. Instead, he would have to take a much steeper route. Aside from the obvious hazards, there would be no facilities on the summit- which meant no public areas to rest or take shelter in a snowstorm. He didn’t expect to see anyone else up here in such freezing conditions, either. But he was prepared, with fifty pounds of the best gear he could afford, a laminated map of the route and an ton of trail mix. And anyway, he preferred these conditions. The cold heightened his senses, gave him more of a thrill. And the view would be breath-taking, of course. He set off before sunrise. The mountain loomed overhead in the semi-darkness like a schoolmaster, the morning sun a naughty toddler peeping over the horizon. He had been looking forward to and preparing for this trip for months. His friends had gone on a long trip hiking the Appalachian trail last year. They were all big on extreme sports and idolized the mountaineers in the 60s who had done it without a lot of modern age comforts. They hadn’t invited him along for reasons they wouldn’t disclose, but he suspected it was because they thought he wasn’t up to much. ‘Everyone has to start somewhere, Jakey.’ They had said, with an air one might use when talking to a child. ‘You’ll get there. You just have to keep trying. They’d said that when he’d got his first girlfriend too. He began his walk, first heading east along Tuckerman Ravine, before he turned and began to climb north. The ascent passed without incident, unless you counted several stops for sustenance, and by lunchtime he had relaxed into his own natural rhythm. He was feeling confident he would reach the summit in a few hours’ time. He stopped to catch his breath half-way up, and to take a look at the view slowly spreading out below him. The sun was finally warming his toes now and the mountain was less intimidating in the daylight. At this altitude, the snow was still fairly soft, and the gradient was relatively gentle and easy to navigate, having been explored by many other mountaineers over the years. Feeling proud of his achievement thus far, he removed some layers and even took a couple of selfies- to send to his friends, and to his mum, of course. She liked to see what he was getting up to these days. Further on, however, the route became steeper, and harder to discern from the endless wasteland of snow around him. There were invisible patches of ice, and the snow was densely packed and slippery. An experienced mountaineer would have been using crampons, or at the very least been holding their ice axe in their hand, in order to save themselves in the event of a fall. But Jake was having the time of his life, dizzy with his success, and absolutely oblivious to any danger. He’d show them! Suddenly and without warning he slipped and plunged onto his stomach. He glanced over his shoulder and was confronted by the harrowing sight of five thousand feet of snowy mountain below him, shining in the midday sun like the glorious gates of heaven. Idiot! What was he thinking?! That could’ve been it, then! He took a moment to calm himself, breathing deeply in and out a few times. Much as he hated to admit it, the sudden feeling that he might be about to slide to an icy doom had shaken his confidence a little. He was going too fast. C’mon, Jake. Just take it slow. It was time to bring out the big guns. He grappled with his rucksack for a moment to pull on his crampons- sharp, spiky casings that attached onto his boots, to give him more grip. That ought to do the trick. Tentatively, he tested one out. Immediately, his boots made firmer contact with the snow, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Reassured, he took a confident step forward, lost his balance and immediately plummeted feet first down the mountain. His mind went blank, wild with terror as the ground below rose up to meet him. He scrambled to try and roll onto his back to see where he was going and immediately regretted it. His hands grabbed desperately at the ground, fingers spread wide apart, but he was travelling too fast, he couldn’t stop…a sudden flash of memory came to him and he recalled something the alpine instructor had showed them at the ski slope…something called a self-arrest? He wasn’t carrying his ice axe! Jake, you fucking moron! Terrified now, he scrambled for a footing, attempting to dig his crampons into the snow and using his hands to try to slow his descent, frantically trying to pull the axe out of its loop, but he only succeeded in ripping open his rucksack; the contents spilled out miserably after him, like a regrettable contrail of woe. Mournfully, he covered his face and screamed. Unexpectedly, his crampons dug into something solid, and quickly slowed his fall. He had landed in a large snowdrift, up against the side of a small building. Gasping with shock, he lay on the ground, dizzy from the adrenaline. Relief and joy welled up inside him. He was saved! He would live to climb another day! He laughed in between gasps, checking himself over for injuries. Definitely a few bruises, and his hands felt raw from trying to stop himself sliding, but nothing a hot bath and a few ibuprofen wouldn’t solve- he was alive! At least his humiliating descent had been a private one. He got shakily to his feet, and gingerly checked over his pack. The axe was still lodged stubbornly in its casing (of course), but most of the contents of his pack appeared to have been strewn around the mountain, including the several pounds of trail mix he had lovingly packaged into individual sealed bags for easier consumption. His torch and compass were missing, along with the- extremely expensive -GPS altimeter watch. It took quite a lot of willpower for him not to sit back down and burst into tears right there. He’d spent all of last months’ paycheck on getting the best gear he could afford, and that watch had been the biggest purchase. Moreover, if he couldn’t find his stuff, he couldn’t continue on up the mountain, and he wouldn’t be able to get to the summit. Cold, tired, and overwhelmed, he reasoned that he wasn’t going to get any of it back this way. He would have to wait a while, and rest. He wasn’t going to risk something like that happening again. Served him right for being so foolish. He retrieved the ice axe from his rucksack and held it cautiously at his side- resisting the urge to throw it on the ground in frustration -and decided to check out whatever this building that had broken his fall was. Maybe there might be someone in there who would lend him a map, or…at the very least, it was a sheltered area to sit, warm up and calm down. As he edged carefully around the perimeter, he was surprised to find a grand wooden chalet, with a large overhanging roof sat snugly into the mountainside. It was surrounded by a small veranda, held up by twisting wooden beams that looked as though they had been hand-crafted. Colored lights twinkled in the windows, and a friendly plume of smoke rose from the chimney. Outside, a rusty old snowmobile and a cluster of tools decorated the yard, next to a small information board. ‘That was some fall you took there, dearie.’ Said a voice, startling him. An old woman was standing on the veranda, watching him with some amusement. Ah. Not so private after all. ‘Yeah.’ He stuck his chin out, trying to seem nonchalant. ‘I…er…fell.’ ‘Is this your first time on Mount Washington?’ She asked. She had a quaint little voice that sounded like butterflies. Even in his current state, he warmed to her. Jake hesitated. ‘Yeah…’ He admitted guiltily. ‘Oh dearie.’ Her face softened with sympathy. ‘I’m Audrey. Want to come inside and warm up? We’re supposed to be closed for the winter, but I couldn’t leave you out here all on your own. I’m sure Frank won’t mind. We’ve got rooms left upstairs.’ ‘Uh…sure.’ Jake tried to hide his joy. He was mightily embarrassed that she’d paid witness to his epic tumble, but he wasn’t above swallowing his pride for a mug of cocoa and the chance to warm his toes. Inside the chalet was cozy and well lit, with a roaring fire crackling merrily in the hearth. A winding staircase led to an upper landing, which presumably housed the rooms for rental use. There were plenty of places to sit, each adorned with an assortment of patchwork quilts and cushions, all of which looked to have been made by hand because they were misshapen and wonky. There was a small area by the door with spare belaying and skiing equipment, and a massive fur draped over the banister that looked like a black bear’s pelt. An ancient and somewhat rusty looking pickaxe hung over the door. A man was sitting in a rocking chair beside the fire, apparently fast asleep. As they came inside, he jolted awake, saw Jake, and his eyes went wide. ‘I found this young man outside on the mountain, Frank.’ Audrey said. ‘He was pulling off some impressive stunts.’ She tittered a little, and Jake looked at his feet. C’mon man, think of the cocoa. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ He grinned apologetically, putting on his best performance of someone who knows what they’re doing. ‘I lost my footing up there on the mountain and dropped some of my gear-’ ‘A mountaineer!’ The man interrupted gleefully. ‘I used to be a mountaineer, you know! Back when I could still get around!’ ‘Oh! Um, that’s nice.’ Said Jake uncertainly. He hadn’t been expecting that response. ‘Yes!’ Cried the man. ‘I used to get up and down that mountain in less than an hour!’ ‘Yes dear.’ Said Audrey, smiling fondly at him. ‘Would you like some hot cocoa dearie?’ She asked Jake. Oh, mother of God, there it was. ‘Yes please.’ He responded, trying not to look too eager. As she busied herself in the kitchen, the old man fell silent again, his eyes glazed over, and he stared into the fire. Jake sat awkwardly on one of the many patchwork chairs arranged around the fire, and took off his boots. It seemed like a pleasant place to stay for the night. Maybe he could continue his journey to the summit tomorrow morning. ‘Would you like some cocoa too, Frank?’ Audrey called to him from the kitchen. ‘I remember!’ The old man suddenly spoke again, with the same gleeful enthusiasm. His eyes fell on Jake’s ice axe, lying at his feet, soaking a wet patch into the mismatched soft pile rug. ‘It was the coldest part of Winter, 1966. I was the leader- there was 6 of us, you know. We scrambled the first thousand feet and belayed the rest. It was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life.’ Jake raised his eyebrows. Clearly this man knew a thing or two about mountaineering. ‘How did it go?’ He asked him. ‘Ahh.’ The man heaved a deep sigh, closing his eyes. ‘Things started off well, but the weather turned the day after we set off, and we got caught in a bad storm. We had to dig a hole in the snow to keep warm. And then- I fell into a crevasse!’ ‘Here you are, dearie.’ Audrey returned to give Jake the cocoa. Gratefully he bent his head to take a sip and the hot liquid scalded his tongue. He resisted the urge to take another sip.

‘It was early in the morning, and I was boiling snow for drinking water.’ Frank continued. ‘That’s what you had to do, back in those days! We didn’t have these fancy tablets or whatever you have nowadays.’ He eyed Jake suspiciously. ‘Anyway, I had gone to find a suitable patch of snow to set up my stove, and that was when I saw it- The Sasquatch!’ Jake breathed in the smell of the cocoa, enjoying the warm comfort of the mug in his hands. If this was the price of a good mug of cocoa on his raw and aching hands, he was happy to play along. ‘No way!’ He said incredulously. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes, I did!’ The old man said, nodding triumphantly. ‘I saw him! And so, naturally, I wanted to get a closer look, but as I was heading over to him, I fell into the crevasse. The rest of the team had to pull me out. And by the time they’d done it, he’d gone!’ ‘Yes dear.’ Audrey was engrossed in her knitting. Jake got the distinct impression that she wasn’t really listening. Frank lowered his voice, speaking directly to Jake now. ‘They all think I’m batty round here, you know.’ He said seriously. ‘But I get it. You youngsters think you know what’s what, think you’ve got it all figured out. But I was young once. It’s all very well throwing yourself down a mountain once in a while- but you’ve got to learn how to do it properly.’ Jake stared down into his cocoa. The memory of his missing belongings returned to his mind. He screwed up his face, imagining his friends off on their hiking trip. He had just wanted to try and do something right for once. ‘Hey, listen. Everyone messes up sometimes. Don’t worry about it.’ Frank said, rocking absent mindedly in his chair. ‘If I learnt one thing in 70 years of mountaineering, it’s that it’s better to fail and live and be able to try again.’ ‘Yeah…’ Jake mumbled miserably. The old man seemed to soften. He watched Jake carefully for a few minutes, studying his face. Then he got to his feet, knelt before the fire, and reached behind his chair, before pulling out an antique wooden chest. ‘Take a look in there.’ He said to Jake. ‘Go on.’ Curious, Jake lifted the lid. Inside was a series of artefacts, newspaper clippings, treasures he’d acquired during his time mountaineering. Jake looked at the items in wonder. It was like a time capsule of days gone by. ‘That’s me.’ Frank pointed to one of the newspaper clippings, where a young man with pimples and a goatee was grinning triumphantly back at the camera. ‘I was so arrogant back then. Not like you. I never accepted help from anyone. It wasn’t healthy.’ He reached further into the chest and scooped something out, hesitated for a moment, then quickly gave it to him. ‘I want you to have these.’ Two gleaming carabiners, engraved with the initials F.M. ‘I can’t take these.’ Jake said incredulously. ‘Please take them.’ Frank begged him. ‘I can’t go out on the slopes anymore. I want them to get used. And anyway…’ His eyes closed once more. ‘I can’t remember what day it is most of the time here anyway. I probably won’t even notice they’re missing.’ Jake smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll make sure they get used.’ Only a few weeks later, Jake was back in his mountaineering gear. His friends had invited him to ‘get some experience’, on a smaller series of slopes closer to home. He hadn’t mentioned the incident on Mount Washington to them yet. ‘We thought we’d go somewhere that’s more your skill level Jakey.’ One of them said playfully. He had smiled and laughed along with their jokes, too busy looking forward to climbing again to feel too hurt or annoyed by their comments. They all swarmed round him, making sure that his equipment was on properly and his knots were tight enough and he had everything in the right place. Jake, smiling slightly, let them check him over, feeling that he was going to be safer than everyone else put together today. ‘What’s that?’ One of them asked, pointing at his carabiner. ‘Your initials aren’t F.M.’ Jake took a deep breath, and very matter of factly told them about meeting the kind couple at the chalet on the mountain- tactfully leaving out the part where he slid several hundred feet on his butt -and the old man who had given them to him. ‘Wait.’ One of them said with a face like thunder. ‘Wait. You said his name was Frank Miller. You mean THE Frank Miller? The mountaineer from the 60s with the goatee? That one?’ ‘That’s the one.’ Jake said, trying not to feel too smug. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy this trip.


They think I did it. That we did it. Did IT. I was seven when I met Steve for the first time. He was picking up my mom for a date and I answered the door when the bell rang. He had flowers in his hand, yellow daisies mixed with the regular white ones tied with a blue ribbon. His other hand was behind his back. He said hello and “surprise, this is for you!” and held his hand out in front of me. He opened his fingers and inside there was a bracelet made with pink beads. I just stood there and whispered thank you. With a slow smile, he asked if he could come in and, turning red, I opened the door, partly hiding behind it. Mom was still upstairs, probably trying on her 20th outfit with the ones she discarded in a pile on her bed. Her lips would be bright red from the lipstick she saves for special occasions. I wished I’d brushed my hair. He came inside and went straight to the kitchen like he’d been here before. I watched him from the hall as he opened the cupboard, took out a tall glass, filled it with water and put the bouquet inside. He placed it on the small table where mom and I eat breakfast and sometimes supper. Without turning around, he said ‘now come in here and let me put this bracelet on your pretty little wrist”. Mom came down and with her fake smile and a high pitched voice and asked “what’s going on in here? Steve, I see you’ve met Lizzie”. I showed her my wrist with the new bracelet and she said “why Steve, you are just the sweetest! Lizzie, we are going out to dinner. I left you some chicken in the fridge. You can go next door to Mrs. Pratt’s if you need anything. Don’t open the door for anyone”. Before long, Steve was living with us. He would smile at me between bites of cereal at breakfast, walk past me from the bathroom as I was heading in to get ready for school. He’d be wet from the shower and only have a towel on, pat the top of my head as he walked by. He worked days and my mom worked the lunch shift, and sometimes dinner, at a restaurant in town. Steve would be there when I got home from school. He would help me with my homework and then sometime we would do things around the house for mom or go grocery shopping. Usually though, we would go outside and walk around the neighborhood. As I got older, he would teach me how to play basketball, standing behind me guiding my arm for a layup or standing close to me with his arms circled around me, guarding me. So close I could feel his breath on my face. By the time I was in middle school, I was taller than all the other girls and even some of the boys. I made the basketball team and Steve would come to all my games. Mom would come when she could. I could hear Steve cheering me on. Mom didn’t like sports very much and didn’t really understand them. I don’t think she even watched me that much or knew if we won or lost. Walking to the car, he would say “way to go Kiddo!”. Steve and I would talk about the game all the way home, He would talk about missed three point opportunities or what I could do to improve foul shots. Mom would stare out the window. I knew she felt left out but I didn’t care. Steve was my biggest supporter. I could talk to him about anything. Sometimes, when he worked overtime and had extra money, he would buy me a pair of jeans or some nail polish. Mom would say he bought me more gifts than he bought her but he would just laugh and say “come on Maggie, you know you are my special girl”. Now when I got home from school Steve would be there with a snack and a plan. We would take long drives to neighborhoods with big houses, green lawns and swing sets in the back for the kids, Some even had pools. He would say “Lizzie, work hard and you can live here someday. You can be anything you want”. He’d look at me and smile. He had a sweet smile, one that really made me feel loved, secure. If the weather was bad, we would sit on the couch and watch TV. I’d get sleepy sometimes and lay my head on his shoulder or in his lap and wake up to the door slamming loudly shut when mom came home, angry that dinner wasn’t ready. By the time I was in high school, I was still one of the tallest and still playing basketball. I was pretty confident on the court, but awkward everywhere else. My mom was an expert with her makeup and when I tried it on, I looked like a clown, One time, she caught me trying on her red lipstick and said it wasn’t my color. Actually, what she said was “ that color looks awful on you. who are you trying to impress anyway, Steve?”’. I only wear pink lip gloss now and only in school. All my friends talked about was boys. Who they thought was cute, who they liked, who they wished would ask them to the dance. I didn’t want anyone to ask me to the dance. The boys at school were so immature. They could learn a few things from Steve. He knew how to listen and didn’t try to snap my bra when I walked by. He could wipe away a tear and make you smile so quickly, you couldn’t remember why you were upset in the first place. I went to the dance with my friends. The dances were in the gym with just a few decorations and tired teachers as chaperones. It was easy to sneak in alcohol and this time, most of the boys basketball team had small bottles in their pockets. They had some respect for me because of my skills on the court so they invited my friends and I to go out to the parking lot to drink. I didn’t want to go but my friends were excited and Laurie was begging to go because she had a crush on one of the players. While they were all flirting easily, I was by myself, drinking vodka and mountain dew. No one noticed when I left to walk home. A block before I got to my house, I puked in the bushes. Steve was waiting up and could tell right away what happened. He put the stray hair that was hanging in my face gently behind my ear, grabbed my hand and led me upstairs. He gave me a glass of water and some aspirin, told me to take a quick shower and get some rest. Mom was working late he said so we could keep this between us. I woke up late the next morning with a headache like I have never had before, I went downstairs ready to thank Steve with a silent smile but he wasn’t there. Mom was at the table with a cup of coffee. She barely looked at me as I walked in. As I walked by her to get some juice out of the fridge, she grabbed my robe so hard I almost fell. She groaned “how could you? How could you take the one good thing in my life?’. I had no idea what she was talking about. She threw pictures at me and they spread across the floor. I bent to get them and as I was picking them up, I recognized the bathroom. Me as a little girl in the bathtub. Who took these? Then there were pictures of me in my bed. 8 years old, cuddling with a stuffed rabbit Steve had given me. 11 years old in one of my mothers fancy negligees I tried on and fell asleep in. Me, last night, passed out on top of the covers, naked with the towel down by my feet. Suddenly I heard my mom screaming that I disgusted her. That I had been trying to steal Steve from her since I was in middle school. She said she couldn’t blame him, the way I always tried to look older, giggle at his jokes. The sexy looks I was always giving him. “GET OUT” she screamed. “NOW”. I ran upstairs to put clothes on and as quickly as I could, stuffed a few things in my book bag and left, wondering where Steve was.