There was fighting from the other side of the door about what kind of funeral the family would have. I listened for a few minutes as a woman's voice swung from raging fury to a sort of logical masochism. She moved from chaos to militant order, from weeping to the casket to the flowers and food for mourners. Then I heard a man's voice say, “He's not going to be dead. We don't need a funeral.” The woman on the other side started crying again. They cannot choose. The choice is impossible. The room I had been summoned to was at the far end of the ICU, where a different kind of quiet madness took over. All the life saving equipment and machines were a long way in the distance. It was winter, and the hospital was frigid at the dead end of the unit, with tile walls endlessly wiped clean yet still yellow with age. Normal rooms in the ICU had sliding doors of clear glass. It was early in the plague, maybe ten thousand gone by that point. Schools were beginning to close, but there was still plenty of food. Most people still felt we could eventually get back to normal in six months, maybe a year. How little we knew of our own limits. Near the end of life, some patients were moved to private rooms like this, with wooden opaque doors, when the vital signs didn't change and the breathing tubes refused to be removed. Some families would still choose a natural death. But sometimes I was called. I could not hear the rioters outside, though I could see them from a large hallway window. The barricades and flags were being kept back by an army of police. A TV monitor in a lounge was broadcasting the protests, but it was on mute, a series of wordless angry faces. The mob lurched toward the hospital like a tide, pushed back by black clad police, again and again. The outside world was on the edge of a razor. Cryopreservation was an extension of an old idea. We had used ice for stroke and trauma victims for years. Why not stop the virus until there was a cure? So we froze the terminally sick, holding out hope for the future. Everyone thought a cure was coming. But there were those who felt we were playing God. Julia, one of my favorite nurses, is watching the scene outside through the window, her eyes darting back and forth to the silent TV, trying to put it all in context, while I gather my thoughts before entering. She's my assistant in the cryo unit. “What do they mean by that awful name?” she asks, shaking her head in reference to one of the giant signs. “The original Free Soilers opposed slavery in the 19th century,” I say. “They think we're for slavery?” she says, shaking her head. “They think cryonics distorts the will of God,” I say. I know that's unhelpful for her. She's clearly upset. “I hear they have people everywhere,” Julia says. “Hiding, like spies. Like anybody could be one of them. Here we are trying to help people. And they just want to kill us.” One sign shows a picture of our hospital, where I am now, with a skull and crossbones marking it out. Blood is dripping from the skull which is also covered in blue ice crystals. The bottom half of the sign on the TV says, “CRYO IS AGAINST GOD'S WILL”. All the members of the Free Soil Army have a tattoo. It's a teardrop, representing the lives they feel have been taken. A giant bearded man is screaming on screen and brandishing his tattoo to the camera. “Don’t these people have families?” Julia says. I see the doubts in her eyes. I wonder what she believes. My own family is a mystery to me. I know I was born in rural India. My family died of typhoid fever shortly after I was born. I was adopted by a New York Jewish family and brought to the United States as an infant. The records show I had a brother, mother and father, but I've no memory of them. I have a prosthetic left arm, the only remnant of the infection I apparently faced long ago. Sometimes I dream of them. I've aged and grown, raised American, raised Jewish, but they remain fixed in time. Frozen, like the bodies I care for. My prosthetic arm opens the door. Quickly I realize there is a room full of people here, not just a mother and father, but they were letting the man and woman argue and so none of them were speaking. There is an older gentleman with a plaid button-down shirt who seems to have claimed the one recliner. His cane is propped next to it, and his eyes are closed. I’m not sure how aware he is. Grandmother is beside him, hands folded. But unlike him she’s savagely aware. Her eyes are fixed on me from the moment I walk in. She is wearing a perfume like that of my adopted mother. Unmistakably strong. I married young. My first husband had pancreatic cancer, but refused to die. He was on a ventilator for months. The doctors kept insisting that he had options, that there was hope. I watched him choke to death on his own mucous for months. My heart was so naive. After he died, I applied to medical school. I decided I would never let that happen to anyone, ever again. There are two small children in the corner shepherded by a large woman who I presume is their mother. An exhausted looking man and woman who I assume are the parents of the dying child, the ones whose voices I heard, are there. At the center of all of this is a crib surrounded by wires and tubes, and an infant with a still beating heart, eyes closed, but pale and ghostly. A tiny ventilator tube emerges from its mouth. The child is surrounded by plastic paneling, marking off his inaccessible universe from ours. No access to the mother. They are protected from each other. The monitors and the labs and the tests and the x rays are clear. This baby is clearly halfway between this world and whatever's to come. The yellow vesicles that mean plague are all over the tiny body, crusting the mouth, eroding the genitalia. It's my job to help this family decide how they want to navigate the pending disappearance of their child. No matter what, this baby will not remain in this room for long. “I’m here because you expressed interest in the cryopreservation program,” I say. It was another way of acknowledging separation, death, in a different word. I give them time, in silence. Dad finally spoke up. He had the look of numb agony. “Yes - we’ve decided -“ he said. He reminded me of my late husband. He's ruddy, fit, but defeated by this, trying to muscle his way through something he barely comprehends. No young person ever thinks this is where having a family will take them. “Let me explain the process,” I said. “It isn't that different from traditional embalming. But the goal is permanent preservation of the body. And someday the possibility of a life.” I can tell the mother hates the word “embalming”. It's too soon. She looks nauseous. “What are the odds,” the father said, “that he can be unfrozen if there's a cure?” “We think that rethawing carries a 1% risk of permament disability,” I say. “There's risk of cracking the structure of the brain. There's a risk of paralysis, even death in the process. And we won't know what risks are associated with a cure for plague until we have one.” “There's no way we are -” the mother says under red, thick eyes full of tears. Grandmother reaches out, steadies her on the shoulder, and I don't get to find out how that thought ends. They ask, as all families do, if I would have my husband, my child preserved in this way. I tell them that I would. I tell them my husband died of cancer before this was a possibility. I tell them the story of my unknown family and how I wish I could have saved them all. We talk about support groups. As I leave, Grandmother speaks. “How many,” she says. “I'm sorry?” I say back to her. “How many? How many times have you done this, to people?” I look her over. I don't get to leave without answering. No one in this room will take me seriously. “One thousand, two hundred twenty,” I say. “How many children?” she says. “Two hundred twenty eight,” I say. She doesn't reply. Her eyes search me. She's looking for something. Later that afternoon I get word that the family has agreed to the preservation. A counselor is dispatched to the room for a few hours as well as a priest. There is no time for goodbyes. The faster the child is frozen, the less damage that is done. Two hours later the tiny body arrives in my operating theater where wires and tubes are tunneled into the brain, spinal column and cardiac system. I watch the temperature of the body drop to below freezing. I wear a giant red suit of plastic and mylar to shield myself against the infant. We transfer the body to a new womb of jelly. A private, industrial elevator that long ago was used for the bodies of tuberculosis victims is the only access to the hospital basement. It slowly creaks to the facility deep below. The room is stark and enormous, dimly lit, several football fields wide. It has a deep moisture to it, a humidity, like a swamp. In another context it might resemble a facility storing anything else, an endless floor filled with tall chemical drums. Endless liquids cycle through each tank. The floor below is metal grating, and as I walk my feet clang against the iron. The tanks are white, hard plastic, one the same as another. With the nurse, I wheel the unit to its resting place. The unit is tagged, tracked and the identifying data logged. A hatch is locked into place, protected by a ceiling of steel and concrete against fire, flooding, and the chaos that is slowly ravaging the outside world. Everyone is equal, temporarily, in the purgatory of our creation. You can walk for hours, among our tanks. There is no sound except the noise of footsteps and the soft humming of the generators keeping each unit alive. There are no faces, nothing to know who or what is within each. I am the gatekeeper, the only one who knows. The Jews believe in a land called Sheol, after death, which is different than the afterlife of Christians. It is a place of darkness, weakness, fatigue. It is a place of ruins. They say the dead await resurrection there. But what if no resurrection comes? In the mornings I go to the tanks alone. It's the first thing I do each day. Before the day begins it is my silent garden, my quiet space of peace. Today my garden has a new resident. Everyone expected a cure, but they were naive. There is no cure. We have climbed over the mountain to a different country. I am the gatekeeper. I am the gardener. The garden needs care today. The tanks obscure death. The infant who had no chance to make a decision for himself will be granted peace, now, by me. The cancer patient whose doctor cannot bring himself to admit defeat has hope, through me. It's a simple matter to power down the tank, the heating unit, and allow the body to decompose internally. The families cannot make the choice. But I can. I have now taken one thousand, two hundred, and one bodies out of their private Sheol and given them peace. They say nothing as they unfreeze, no sounds. But I feel their peace, their spirits, rising up from the basement of the hospital. They thank me, each time, for not letting them linger in this world. But this morning Julia is there. She has made a costly mistake. And she's in the control room, where she ought not be. I've removed my prosthesis for comfort. She sees the Free Soil tattoo on my stump, where my prosthetic arm usually serves as a cover, and a look of terror crosses her eyes. She recognizes the teardrop from the news. The connection is instantaneous. “You can't-” she says. “You can't.” And she sees my hand on the power controls that will reheat the frozen bodies. She lunges for me viciously. It's a shame, what has to happen. I cared for Julia. But there's no choice. She can't be allowed to continue on knowing this. My work is too important. I'm able to reach behind her and catch her by the hair. Her head slams against the control panel as she dives for me. Her skull hits the panel, hard. She's bleeding, but alive as she crumples to the floor. I carry Julia's body over my shoulders to the freezer tank with the baby. Her limp, moaning frame is easy for me to seal inside. She has a difficult past history with an abusive husband. No one at the hospital questions her disappearance. It's a shame. She was coming over to our side. With time she could have been an ally. I know she didn't accept the lies. But she will die of the plague soon, as we all will. I am sparing her suffering, false hope, a life in a world of weakness. Word comes to me two weeks later that the grandmother of the little boy has comitted suicide. It's a tragedy that everyone discusses at the hospital. Soon after I receive a letter in the mail. There's no return address. But I know who's written it to me. The script is elaborate and the scent of the perfume is unmistakable. I know what you did, it says. Her letter has the seal of the Free Soil, the same as the one on my arm. She knew. Is it a letter of thanks, or of condemnation? She hated cryotherapy, as I do, but she was a mother. And she let her daughter do something she hated. Did she know I would send her grandson to a natural death? Or did she realize, like me, that the world we knew was coming to an end? I think on these things and continue my work, waiting for the right moment. But I don't have to wait long. It is less than a month until the hospital is attacked.


“Now.” He would not disobey his father. Even if he was no longer a child, even if it clearly not his fault, he was willing to accept that he was going to have take responsibility. “Yes, dad.” * The best thing about this time of the day was that the house was usually empty and quiet. His younger sister was with her friends at someone’s house (always late for dinner most days; she got permission for this when their mother saw how quickly the tears came); his mother was still at work (pick-up was around 4 pm; another hour to go and then she would fill the house with her cooking and favourite soap opera of the day). The house was free to him. * His father had done this before, but this time was different. It had nothing to do with teasing his sister, being out late, bad grades (not really a problem with his report cards), or not listening to someone older who pretended to be wiser. No this was different. * His hands were on the edge of the wooden kitchen table. He noticed how dirty his father’s fingernails were, even as he noted the thick gloves on the chair that he needed for work. He also noticed a stain on the table that was not covered by a placemat. It was something from a breakfast that he had not eaten. But he had washed all of the dishes and cleared that table when he got home. Why hadn’t he noticed…? * It was a simple issue with his parents. He was now nineteen and everyone was calling him a man. He had done well in school and his grades would guarantee that he would get into the university that he knew would make them proud (Sterling was a day’s trip away by car, and his mother promised to see him when he enrolled and lived on campus). They had let him borrow the other car for school and to see his friends on weekends. He had some part-time work that did not affect his grades (just tutoring others in math and science). He was an adult, they said. A very simple matter. * It was all about desire. * It was his father’s magazine. There was nothing special about the hiding place. It was not even that private (the hallway closet was where he found it, under some towels that he had put away for his mother; real smart move, dad). How silly did his father have to be to do that? Maybe it was an accident… * She was not that beautiful, not by any standard that a teenage boy with limited dating options could see. He had seen girls at the mall and the nearby running lanes who were much more attractive. But she was smiling. She was confident enough to have that photo taken outdoors on a sunny day in an open plain. And she was only a few years older than he (if the biography she supplied was correct). Where did girls like that come from, he thought. They were not in his neighbourhood, or school. Even the attractive ones did not seem to be that confident. What was it that she…? * “Are you even listening? Do you know what you’ve done now?” * What year was that one? 1981? 1982? 83? No, maybe earlier. He remembered how dog-eared some of the pages were and the dress of the girl on the front. He thought about it all now with his father yells and the hand coming down. * She liked gentlemen who hold the door open for strangers, strawberries, science-fiction movies and books (Asimov and Bradbury), and suntans. She disliked rude people, B.O., and junk food. * His father did not stop at the moment he expected it to end. All he had done this time was look at the pictures, nothing else. He had known that his father would be home soon and if he had heard the car in the driveway; if he had heard the front door open… * No, this was different. He was almost done being a teenager. He had saved enough money to move to an apartment with a friend (that would cover at least two months, right?) He kept being told that he was an adult now (hard to see it at times). No girlfriend that mattered; just friends and his education… * Education…this was an education. His father was an education. This was pain and you could learn from this. * He was a man now. He remembered old tears and his whimpering at these kinds of moments. And now…there was nothing there. No, he was no longer feeling it; no tears or whimpers or moans. No, he could no longer feel this. A real discovery. * If he remembered correctly, the next one would be the last one. The last blow. Then a speech and some time apart to think about what he did. He was already thinking about things as his father slammed the front door and started the car. There was something else that needed to be done. * Was this unusual? * He had not really heard the last words. His father’s face had been close and he had smelled the cologne dying on his beard. There was a warning and threat of more pain and his weekend was now gone (again, not really a problem)… “Yes, dad.” * His father had left the room with the rolled up pages, straight down to the kitchen. He made another calculation. * He left the magazine in the kitchen. He did not bring it with him in the car. Now that made sense. He would not want to have it in the car and he would expect his son to return it where he found it. * “Clean up in here, too.” “Yes, dad.” * He heard the car leave. Kevin needed pen and paper for his plan. As he went through his dad’s side of the bedroom, he thought about it. His mother had a routine when she came home and this would work. * This would work. But, he would have to do this carefully. * His mother would be home and she would go right to the kitchen to get dinner ready. There were the pots and pans right under the counter. Yes, that was right. And his father, after checking up to see that his son had put things away, would be stuck in front of the TV waiting to eat. * This would work.

It would be better with the letter. * “Mom, Dad tried to hide this from me by putting it in the one place neither of us would look. I found it when he told me to clean up the house before you came home. I could not leave it in its hiding place without making sure that you knew about this, so I decided to leave it in the place where you would have to handle it.

My apologies, but you needed to know. And I think that you both have a lot to talk about.

I am done talking.” * In his room, Kevin locked the door and began to put things together in his suitcase. He knew that they would be home soon, but his noise-cancelling headphones would block out most of the noise, but he really wondered if he wanted to be around for this. He wanted to acknowledge this and take whatever came his way. Something was finished, and he was ready for it.


A writer is cleaning out her basement and is sorting through some of her old boxes. She comes across a few boxes labeled “College Items” and opens one of the boxes. Underneath a few folders, she comes across an item in a plastic cover. She does not recognize it at first, but once she removes the cover, she sees it is the typewriter she used in college. She is not sure what to do with it. It is too old to sell, but she also knows that it has some value, and should not be thrown away. Underneath the typewriter, is a package of typing paper and typing supplies. She decides to check and see whether or not the typewriter still works. She places it on a small table located in the basement and plugs the cord into a nearby outlet. She pulls up a chair, takes a piece of typing paper out of the package and carefully winds it around the roller in the typewriter, straightens and adjusts it before placing the thin metal cartridge on top to secure the paper in place. She turns on the typewriter and types a few sentences. She can’t believe that it still works. She is suddenly reminded of what it is like to type at a typewriter, and its unique benefits. She likes that you have to push the “Return” key at the end of the line to move to the line below. She likes hearing the noise of the keys as they stamp letters onto the page and the sound the typewriter makes as it moves to the next line.

She also remembers that it is best not to type too quickly in case you make a mistake. It is easier to make corrections using the white correction tape ribbon by hitting the backspace key rather than using corrector fluid or an eraser.

The drawbacks do not seem like much of an obstacle and she decides to write her next assignment using the typewriter. It makes her feel more like a writer and she looks forward to writing her next story. She makes a mental note that she will not be able to hit the “Send” key to send it in, and will need to make sure she allows enough time to mail it or fax it to the recipient. For the story, she first writes it out on a pad of paper. She then types up the story using the typewriter. She makes sure to type slowing and avoid making a lot of mistakes. After she finishes it, she realizes that she did not take leave any space to allow for visual images. She knows they will not accept the article without them. She takes out a couple of pieces of typing paper and draws a box where they should be located on each piece of paper using a ruler. She retypes the story, leaving space around the boxes so she can attach the pictures. She finishes typing the story, adds the pictures, and mails it in. After a few days, the editor calls to let her know that they received the story, and asks her if she can send an electronic copy so they can make a few edits. The writer explains that she typed the story using her old typewriter. The editor says that they can have someone retype the short story, but asks her to send any images she wants included as an electronic copy. For the next assignment, she once again uses the typewriter to write the story, affixes the pictures to it, mails it in, and sends a copy of the images to include via e-mail.  The typewriter becomes a lucky charm. By now, she has become accustomed to using the typewriter, but it has some drawbacks compared to using a computer when it comes to editing and sending documents. For longer assignments, she finds it is better to type them on a computer because they tend to require a few drafts before they are finalized.

She has also moved the typewriter up from the basement and keeps it on her desk. One day a friend visits and brings along her children. They notice the typewriter and ask her about it. She shows them how to use it and they are immediately drawn to it.

They like how you have to roll a piece of paper onto it, straighten and align it, before replacing the thin metal cartridge on top to hold it in place. They take turns hitting the “X” key until it reaches the end of the line, wait to hear the sound of the “ping”, before they hit the “Return” key to advance the typewriter to the next line. They caution each other not to type too fast so the keys don’t jam and experiment with the white correction tape. A few weeks later, her friend drops the children off for a few hours. They are going to stay with the writer for the day while the friend goes to a few appointments she has scheduled. The children once again ask if they can play with the typewriter. They spend the day playing, “News Reporter”. They create three roles and rotate them. There is a writer, editor, and newscaster.

The writer writes the story, the editor then reads the story and suggests some edits. The writer then re-types the story, and the editor hands the story to the newscaster. The newscaster reads the story holding a spatula they use for a microphone.

While the writer and editor are working on the story, the newscaster dresses up using some old dresses and accessories the writer has stored in the basement. It becomes one of their favorite games. Meanwhile, the writer continues to use the typewriter to write some of her stories, and is using it to write a book. She likes that it forces her to think about what she is going to write in advance. She has learned it is better to write things out first on a piece of paper. She has also learned to appreciate all the little things and efficiency that a computer provides.

The typewriter continues to become her lucky charm as she figures it is because it forces her to spend more time writing the story and makes her a better editor to avoid typos, grammar mistakes, and re-types.

A couple of months later, when her friend has a birthday party for one of her children, the writer gives her a typewriter as a birthday present and they all play “News Reporter”. They add a few more roles so everyone can play including another writer and newscaster, cameraman, and reviewer.

The typewriter that was at first unrecognizable has found a new beginning, and seems to have a place as a both a work tool and fun activity for both adults and children.

The writer's latest discovery as she is cleaning out the basement is finding a play cash register and makes a note that she should bring it to her friend’s children the next time she visits. She knows they will most likely find a good use for it.


Age 23 He walked out of the clinic and looked up at the blue sky, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. Lowering his gaze, he swiveled his head slowly, searching for a place he could go to, for a coffee. He really needed one. He caught sight of an unpretentious and quiet little café, parked at the corner of the street across. He liked the way its wooden structure glowed warmly in the sun. Walking over, he picked out a table at the back of the café, obscured from the view of most of the café by a dividing wall made of long wooden slabs. When his coffee was served, he took a deep whiff of the hot mocha, and felt his body relax a little. He stirred the cocoa powder topping in, his attention caught by the swirls and ripples of the comforting liquid. He took his time to savour the nutty and chocolate overtones, before he finally allowed himself to process what had just been shared with him. He felt strangely numb and detached. Perhaps he was still in shock. After all, he hadn’t expected a simple trip to the doctor’s, to check up on his recent issues with night blindness, to render him results that would change his life forever. He had expected the doctor to tell him that he had been fatigued, overworked, stressed. That he had been overly focused on his art, that he should give his eyes a break at regular periods. He had been sure that he would be told to rest well, and things would be fine and dandy. He should be crushed, he knew. But it didn’t seem real, not yet. Perhaps later, after sharing the news with his family, reality would set in and he would begin to grieve. The broken pieces in his soul began to gather, forming a stony lump in his chest. Art school, and a progressive loss of vision. His dreams seemed shattered in their infancy. Age 35 Seated in his comfy chair at home, he sipped the warm mocha appreciatively. Annie would be home soon, and they could begin dinner. He took another sip, then brought the mug upstairs with him, to his studio. He carefully placed the mocha down on the table, turned the music up, before picking up his brush and resuming painting. He hoped to finish the painting of her soon, in time for her birthday. Carefully, he dabbed in the shadows under her nose. He moved on to fill in the shadows beneath her upper lip, curving into her mouth. He switched his brush, and gently stroked on the highlights of her full lips. Frowning, he carefully inspected the painting, and reached forward to brush on a stronger highlight on the bridge of her nose. Focused, engrossed in every stroke, he didn’t notice when the half hour stretched to an hour. Music blasting, he didn’t notice when Annie announced her arrival back home. He didn’t hear her as she walked up the steps. And he didn’t see her, when she stood at the door way, in the periphery of his vision. She watched as he painted, her heart swelling with joy. She felt the tingling of the first touch of a tear in her eyes. She was surprised, and deeply moved. At the same time, she was also deeply saddened. He seemed to have completely lost his peripheral vision. His vision seemed to be tunneling, faster than it had over the past years. He didn’t like to talk about his shriveling sight, and he tended to insist that things were fine. But now and again, she would notice some signs of it, though she would tactfully keep silent. Quietly, she walked backwards through the door way, and crept back down the stairs. Going to the front door, she loudly slammed it this time, declaring at the top of her voice, “Honey, I’m home!” She put her bag down heavily on the steel shelf, and proceeded to the kitchen. She heard the clatter and bumps from above as he hurried about hiding her painting and the art supplies. She turned to greet him when he came into the kitchen, and gave him a long deep kiss. Age 42 He spent nearly every day in his studio now, painting feverishly. He had yet to creating his masterpiece, anything he could consider the crowning glory of his life’s work. But he was almost out of time. Brows furrowed, he tilted his head to angle the one small spot of vision he had left, so that it could light on her eyes on the canvas. He tried to capture the lights and flecks of her hazel eyes, how they seemed to catch the sunshine and hold the sparkle within. As his attention narrowed wholly onto the little circle of sight he had, her hazel eyes watched on from the doorway, sad, but understanding. Quietly, his daughter tiptoed away, to spend the day by herself in the room, reading. Annie brought in his dinner as usual, imploring him to take a break, to spend some time with the family. He looked away, resolutely ignoring her pleas. She had to understand. He didn’t have much time left, and he needed to complete this. Needed to leave this art piece for his daughter, for her. His beautiful family, his pair of muses. He needed to have created something worthwhile, for them to remember him as he wanted them to. Before he became nothing more than a burden to them. The next weeks passed. Each day, the narrow spot of his vision shrank just a little, barely noticeable, but relentless. And still he painted desperately. It was an ambitious piece, with all of them featured within the home he had built for them over the years. Each one of them were imbued with an expression of peace, warmth and bliss. The three of them spending time together as a family, a capture of the simple daily bliss he felt for his family. He looked up from painting, her sobs finally piercing through his intense concentration. He turned, swiveling his head about before he managed to locate his little Chloe, sat in a corner. Through the dimming pinprick of vision, he saw that she was watching him, with tears dribbling down her cheeks. “My love!” He was shocked. “What’s wrong?” He went over to her and carefully scooped her up, adjusting himself to the severe lack of depth of vision. “I want to spend the day with you, daddy. Please. Before you can’t see, I want to go places with you. I want to see things with you.” Her words hit him like a tonne of bricks. Shock, shame and intense sadness filled his heart. What was he doing? What had he been doing with those last few precious weeks of his sight? He hugged her tightly, feeling the tears running down his own face. He had been so intent on completing the art piece, on completed a masterpiece, something worth holding on to long after his sight had faded. To accomplish something his family could be proud of. Something he could be remembered for, other than being an old, blind burden. But here she was, the biggest achievement of his lifetime, here Annie was, both of them the loves of his life. And yet he had not given them a second glance. Annie rushed in, hearing the sobs of her husband and child. She took in the sight, and couldn’t help but weep as well. “We are going out, my love. We are going places. I’ll spend every single moment of every day with you, with mommy. We are going to make so many beautiful memories.” Little Chloe clung tightly to him, weeping in joy and disbelief. Age 20 Chloe stirred the steaming cup of mocha, and tasted it. It was perfect, just how he liked it. She picked it up and walked to the porch. He sat in the lounge chair, listening to the chirping of the crickets, the ringing of the cicadas. Smelling the mocha and hearing her steps, he smiled and reached out, accurately placing a hand on hers. He took hold of the cup she had brought him and took a deep whiff. She settled down by his side, and they sat in silence for a while. At home in the darkness, he felt blessed, safe, and warm. He listened as Chloe stood up and walked over to the easel. She had chosen to be an artist too, and he knew she was an amazing one, even without having ever seen her paint. He knew it, from the sounds of her strokes, and from the detailed descriptions Annie gave him. Age 35 She stared at the old, unfinished painting. Parts of the paint had cracked on the canvas. With a sad smile, she recalled the days her father spent, feverishly painting in the studio, desperately trying to complete the painting. She remembered the deep jealousy she had felt toward the canvas and his paints and her intense wish for him to pay her the same attention. How she had ached to have him spend time with her, for them to have fun as a family. She thought back to how things had changed that night, when she had broken down sobbing. She held on to the beautiful memories of the following weeks they had spent together, their travels to different parts of the country, the different sights they saw, all as a loving family. She smiled as she remembered the nights they spent sitting around a campfire, laughing and basking in stories of magic and beauty. She stared at the painting, and her heart overflowed with love, longing and an intense sadness. She missed him fiercely. She knew her mother did too. With a trembling hand, she picked up the paintbrush, once his faithful companion, and started painting. Filling in the gaps left on the canvas, finishing that long ago portrait, she felt a deep sense of peace. As she painted in the empty spaces of the canvas with rich, viscous colours, she felt her soul begin to heal. Annie stood quietly in the corner, smiling, while tears brimmed in her eyes. She watched quietly as her beloved daughter imbued the once forlorn canvas with joy and love. Watched as the love of her life, of his life, gradually brought his cherished masterpiece to fruition. Him, her, Chloe, gazing happily at one another, in front of the big old house that was once new.

Late at night, with the world dark outside, Chloe painted on, immersed in the flow of it, and felt him near.


I I cannot recall how I ended up in a small foreign town on Easter night. I do not even remember where this town was, what it was like, or what kind of people lived there. I only recall the Easter evening and the ritual with which the folks there celebrated Easter, or so I assumed. No one told me, nor did I ask anyone, if they believed in the same God as we did in my home country or if they had heard about the resurrection. I discovered everything later. I cannot recall how I ended up at the seaside. People were gathering there slowly. I joined them as well. I remember their hazy figures but not their faces. There were not many of them. I did not think there was any cruel ritual of execution or sacrifice left in the world, but that is what I witnessed that evening, for the first and probably last time. The death-sentenced person was a young, thin, black-haired woman. She was wearing a white gown. Her hair was down in front, and I could not see her face. All I could notice was her unusually pale skin. The young woman was walking toward the sea. I knew that once she embraced the waves, she would never return. It was impossible to read her emotions, but I got the impression that she was waiting for death indifferently, or maybe I was wrong and her hair was thrown down over her face so that we could not see fear or sadness in her eyes. The young woman entered the sea silently and began to carry out the punishment. It was bizarre. All of this seemed more like complicit suicide than execution or sacrifice. While she was suffering, people were just watching. Her agony lasted too long. From time to time, her thirst for life would overcome her. She would try to leave the water, only to continue battling with her hunger for life. At some point, I started observing the audience, and I noticed that everyone was crying quietly to themselves. Some of them were watching the young woman, who was on the verge of death, while others were looking down. But no one, none of us, attempted to save her. I used to think of such rites entirely differently. I assumed that everyone there was either there to watch the show or to execute the sentence. Here, it was different. They appeared to be offering the victim their support as they accompanied her on the final journey while sobbing in silence. When would the tortured soul, longing for life, depart the body? It was so distressing to watch the struggle between death and life. After some time, the woman vanished into the water. That is how it all came to an end. People stood with their heads bent for a while and then silently started moving toward the city. I remained there all alone for a while. It was getting dark, so I decided to go home. Suddenly, I realized that I did not know how to get there. Fear gripped my entire being. I was all alone on the outskirts of a completely foreign town. All of a sudden, something completely unexpected happened. The body was propelled out of the water and began to move in the air. I was so terrified looking at this scene. I wish I were in the world of dreams, but all of this was happening, and I never woke up. Slowly, the woman's body fell to the ground. Her entire body and face were purple. Suddenly, she opened her eyes and turned her face toward me. II Despite wanting to run away, I stayed for some reason. For me, she looked horrific. Now that I look back, she was not scary at all. She was stunningly beautiful, but I did not notice it as I saw a purple face for the first time in my life. I stood frozen, staring at the strange creature. Fear slowly vanished, but my curiosity did not. I could not wait to see what would happen. For a brief moment, the alien gave me a blank stare. It seemed like she was trying to recall who she was, where she was, and what had happened. Slowly, delight began to fill her large eyes, and all of a sudden, she smiled broadly at me. I was hesitant to respond with a smile. All I did was shake my head. A weird creature unexpectedly turned to me and said, 'We're going to your house'. Her voice was both commanding and extremely kind. I intended to reply that I would not bring her to my home. I loved living alone and did not want some ugly creature as my roommate. But then I remembered that I did not know how to get home. Meanwhile, the creature was confidently moving along the path. She would undoubtedly know how to get me home. There was no other option; I had to follow her. In the end, I decided to stay quiet for now and create an excuse to make her leave once we got home. We walked silently for a while. It was already getting dark when we left the town. One star at a time, then another, and eventually the entire sky was covered with stars. It was such a magnificent sight! The creature looked up when I pointed to the sky. She started staring at the stars with such amazement that I realized that she had never seen a starry sky before. Our brief nonverbal exchange gave me some confidence, and I finally found the courage to speak up. "How did you discover where I live?" I finally asked. "I do not know where you live. But the moment I saw you, I felt your longing for home. And now I am trying to reach the place where that feeling is coming from". I was not expecting such a response, but perhaps nothing would surprise me anymore. "Why don't you return to your town? Can you recall what happened? Or why do you keep following me?'' "I remember everything. This is why I am unable to return to my house. Let us agree. I will take you to your place, but you promise that you will shelter me". "I have a request too. You must tell me your story, but without hiding anything from me. If you tell me everything honestly and explain what I witnessed at the seaside, I will let you live with me". "Let's head over to your place and have coffee. And I swear I'll tell you everything afterward". "Deal! Do you have a name?" "I used to have one, but I think you should give me a new one''. "I will give it a thought''. Following that, we engaged in a lot of small conversations, and we learned that we were both huge fans of coffee. I promised to make her my favorite breakfast this morning. On our way, we passed numerous stunning lilacs. That was the creature's first encounter with flowers, and she was amazed. In her town, there were no flowers or yellow dots in the sky (she referred to stars as yellow dots). I decided to call her Aaina. III We walked until dawn. When I felt that I was too exhausted to move, Aaina turned to me and said, 'We have arrived.' I looked around and became confused. This was not my home. Or rather, it had once been, but it had been years since anyone lived here. "Why are we here? It's been a while since I've lived here''. “I've been honest with you about the fact that I have no idea where you live, but the feeling that I was following brought me here. Shall we enter or not?"  I nodded in agreement, and we walked inside. There was a silence, the kind of silence that exists in abandoned houses and has not been disturbed by the human voice in years. Everything was covered in dust. I decided to look around the house. I was even more confused when I entered the kitchen. The entire kitchen was covered in huge black stains as if they had been purposefully applied. Later, I discovered a dead bird in my bedroom that had already turned into a skeleton. It must have flown in through the hole and been unable to leave. So that is where the stains in the kitchen came from. We cleaned the whole house. After that, I bought some food and coffee at the market. While drinking coffee, we had a lot of small talks, and I could not wait for Aaina to start telling me her story. She kept her word and spoke up. "This ritual has been existing in our town for centuries. So much time has passed that even my people have forgotten where and how it all began. Every year, any of us can give ourselves up and transform into another form of being. However, this happens much more rarely, as only a few people dare to give up their own present lives on purpose. It is neither punishment nor sacrifice. You chose this path yourself. People do not have the authority to name a "Chosen One'', and even if they did, I am sure they would not sacrifice anyone. My people love each other far too much. Usually, almost no one manages to transform. Everyone who chooses this path probably believes that he is an exception and has the power to do so. You may have noticed that only a few people attended today's ritual. Most people are unable to watch such a sight with their own eyes and prefer not to attend. When the inhabitants are certain that the soul of The Chosen One has left the body, they return to the town and come back to the seaside at dawn. If the body was not carried to the shore by the waves, it means that he was able to transform. But much more often, once every few years or perhaps once every century, one sunrise is incredibly tragic for us. When we see a lifeless body brought by the waves to the shore, it is as if we lose faith in the miraculous and think we are all responsible for what happened. The thought that this sunrise will not be like that for my people gives me immense joy. I would like to ask you something. Do not forget that I will gradually fade and weaken so that I can become part of eternity. Be prepared for it and try not to get too used to me''. IV That is how Aaina and I met and started living together. So far, I had no idea how long I would stay in my hometown and had not gotten in touch with anyone yet. I knew that Aaina's stay was temporary and that her body would eventually fade away and merge with eternity. I was not sure what was going on with her or what the transformation meant. What I knew was that my human mind would never be able to comprehend this. We used to walk around and talk a lot. She would tell me about her town, and I would show her mine. There were no flowers or stars in her town, but many things were going on that I had never heard of, and she would ask me not to tell anyone anything. I remember the moment we became aware that Aaina's body had begun to vanish. I went shopping on my own and bought her a stunning floral dress. She loved the dress and immediately changed into it. While watching herself in the mirror, she became confused all of a sudden and looked at her hands. I also looked and saw that her purple body was paler than usual. For a moment, sadness seemed to settle in her eyes, but it quickly turned into joy. Two weeks after our meeting, Aaina was already feeling very weak, and I could see her slowly fading away. She was no longer able to take walks with me in the sunshine, but as soon as the sun rose, I would open the windows, and the entire house would be brightened. She enjoyed sitting by the window. She would stare at the sunset without looking away, but as soon as the sun went down, I could see the sadness in her eyes. Every night she would go to bed with the hope that the sun would rise again the next morning. I was not sure how many more sunsets I would see with Aaina, but I slowly realized that I did not want her to fade away. She was so weak after one month of our first encounter that one morning she was unable to get out of bed. However, she soon discovered other small pleasures. As soon as the sun rose, I would raise the curtains in her room and bring her hot coffee. Once, on my way home, I passed a flower shop and saw numerous flower pots for sale. I chose lilac since I recalled Aaina's very first reaction to it. When I got home that evening, I found Aaina extremely sad. When she heard my footsteps, she looked at me, and I saw that her eyes were full of tears. She burst into tears as soon as she saw me. I got concerned and sat next to her, waiting for her to calm down. "Today I realized how much I miss my town'', she said at the end, after she had finally calmed down. " More precisely, I have already been missing it a lot, but today I had the strongest desire to go home. And it makes me extremely sad to know that I can't go back there. More importantly, that was my choice; nobody pushed it. I was aware of the price, but I naively believed that I would not look back. You know, these days I am thinking that even if I am really weak, such a longing would certainly give me the strength to return home, but I am afraid of what would happen there. The Chosen One is never seen again by our folks. This is the rule, and nobody has ever broken it. Our people have no right to take back The Chosen One. But does the fact that something has never happened before truly mean that it will never happen in the future? Perhaps I will be the first among the transformed ones to head back home. Maybe my people, like me, will break the rule and accept me joyfully. Furthermore, I have a feeling that these are my final days and I will soon be gone, which makes me desire to return home even more. Is it, however, a true transformation? The transformed ones have no desire to go back home. They do not fantasize about transforming back into their original form of existence. Still, from time to time, this longing vanishes, and I am once again overcome with delight that I have been enlightened". One day, Aaina attempted to leave the house, but she could not cross the yard. She felt embarrassed when I found her lying in the yard. She assured me and herself that she did not want to return home sufficiently; otherwise, she would be able to. V On the fortieth morning, as soon as I woke up, I sprang up to make coffee for Aaina and raise the curtains in her room. I was hoping to find her in a nice mood. I entered her room, and she was not there anymore. I got so nervous. I had no idea what to do. I opened the closet, checked under the bed, and went out to the balcony, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then I quickly put on my robe and rushed outdoors, hoping to find her. I looked for her for a long time but could not find her. I went back home in the hopes of finding her letter. I looked around the entire house but did not find anything. I never found out what happened to Aaina. Did she succeed in entering eternity, or did her homesickness grow stronger and give her the strength to return home? Did her society welcome her or reject her? I would never know. Maybe someday I will come up with the final chapter of her story, but not yet.


“Yes thank you, you have a great day as well.”

I hung up the phone and ran my fingers through my hair. Feeling the scabs left behind by the chemicals and my own incessant scrubbing, I was so damn grateful that the lice had finally vacated my head.

When you’re a parent, you become used to the dirty little things that get passed around classrooms. Chicken pox, the flu, the common cold, pink eye. But Maria had never brought home lice until her 3rd grade year, and I would pay one MILLION dollars if it meant never having to deal with the disgusting little blood suckers again.

Did you know that lice actually prefer a clean head to a dirty one? I didn’t.

In fact, I had spent the last 3 months learning exactly what lice are, what they like, and how the hell to get rid of them. Over the counter treatments hadn’t worked. Old wives tales like coconut oil hadn’t worked. What did finally work? Mayonnaise.

Yep, I slathered mine and my daughter’s thick, dark Turkish hair with a chunky layer of mayonnaise. The online instructions said to leave it on for 8 hours, and by the end all of the lice and their eggs had been suffocated.

It had been over 2 weeks since the last spotting, thank GOD. Sure, we winced every time we got the slightest smell of mayonnaise, but a small price to pay. If I had to get down on my hands and knees one more time to clean our small 2 bedroom 1 bathroom house from top to bottom, I was going to lose my mind.

My phone rang, pulling me out of my grossed out haze, and Travis’ sweet face popped up on the screen. I smiled. Tonight was our big date.

“Hey you.” “Hey sexy.”

“What’s going on?” “Oh, I just wanted to call and triple check that you have seen NO lice in your hair today and we are clear to keep our reservation for tonight.”

I laughed. Yes, we had been waiting a while for this very rare date night. But Travis had been more exasperated at the thought of missing our date due to the lice than I was. I just wanted the damn bugs gone. Romance was the furthest thing from my mind when I was pulling little fat creatures from my hair. He had it easy, as soon as he saw the first bug, he shaved his head, and had kept it short ever since.

“Yes Travis, no lice I promise. I’m very much looking forward to our date.” “Me too, me too. I can’t wait for the food, it’s gonna be DELICIOUS.”

“Yeah, I can think of other delicious things too… if you know what I mean.” Rare date nights also meant other forms of intimacy were… rare. I took every chance I got.

“Yeah yeah, I know what you mean. Don’t get me too excited.” Can you hear someone blush? I felt like I could. “More than anything, i’m looking forward to quality time with you. No parenting, no responsibilities.” “You could say that again!” My office phone rang and I rolled my eyes. “Speaking of responsibilities... that’s my line, so very sadly, I have to let you go.”

“Hey, absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’ll see you tonight.”

“It’s a date!” I thought I was so clever.

We giggled and got off the phone, and I promptly picked up the landline.

“Thank you for calling Sky High Balloon Adventures, this is Ariana, how can I help?”

Most days I loved my job. How many people can say they get to work for a hot air balloon company for a living? I knew how lucky I was and I cherished every moment.

Except for that day. That day I was watching the minutes on the analog clock slowly tick by. My night out couldn't come soon enough. Hours crawled by, and I answered phone call after phone call. Some were people who had 100 questions about hot air balloons.

“How high does it go?” “How many people are in the basket?” “Do I get to choose where I land?” “Are there parachutes?”

Some were people who just wanted someone to fight with.

“I have called 5 times and you never answer the phone. I shouldn’t have to leave a message, a successful business should be available!” Or

“What do you mean the weather isn’t safe to fly? How much do I have to pay you to fly? I don’t mind a little rain.” And then there were just the people who were so happy to be checking a cool adventure off of their bucket list. Those, of course, were my favorite calls.

It was decently busy, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the clock finally struck 5pm and it was time for me to hit the road. I had meant to leave a little early so I could take my time doing my makeup, but time had gotten away from me. That’s all right I’ll just put on a little mascara and blush, I thought to myself.

Travis was not one of the guys who needed me to be all done up to see me as beautiful. He had a way of making me feel confident even when I was sitting on the couch in the same dumpy t-shirt from the day before with my hair in matted tangles.

“You’re so hot,” he’d say with widened eyes. One of the many reasons I knew I had a good one.

By 6:30pm I had made it home, gotten ready, and we were heading out the door. Plenty of time to make our 7pm reservation, the restaurant was only 15 minutes away.

“Damn… rainclouds. I guess we won’t be sitting on the patio.” Travis winced and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“It’s the middle of February,” I chuckled. “I have to say I wouldn’t want to sit outside anyways.”

He looked at me and smiled, slightly relieved, and he grabbed my hand in his. I sighed, something so simple could feel so loving.

We parked in the overflowing lot and made our way inside.

A young blonde hostess in a black, v-neck cocktail dress greeted us.

“Welcome! How can I help you?” Travis stepped forward. “I have a reservation for 2 at 7.” “The Fraser party?”

“Yes ma’am.” She looked down at her screen, then looked at Travis pensively.

“I apologize but we overbooked ourselves on reservations and have had to add a 30 minute wait to all reservation times. You’re welcome to go wait at our bar and we’ll call you over as soon as your table is ready.” Travis huffed. “Seriously? You couldn’t have called us ahead of time and told us that?” The hostess closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Sir, I know this is a special occasion for you, I promise we’ll do everything we can to make it right.” “You better,” he muttered under his breath as we made our way over to the busy bar area. “Travis, it’s fine. We’re out without Maria! So rare.” He flagged down the bartender. “2 shots of Jack please, with 2 glasses of water. Thanks.” A burly man with tattoos poking out from underneath his pressed suit's sleeves nodded. I put my hand on his arm. "At least we’re together.”

He looked at me and smiled sheepishly. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I just want tonight to be perfect.” He paused. “Like you said, this time is so rare.”

Reaching up on tip toes, I kissed his cheek. The bearded man returned with our drinks, and we took our shots of Jack like pros. We spent the next 30 minutes talking about our day, sipping our water, sharing funny anecdotes from our experiences in customer service. We were swapping stories and laughing when the hostess timidly approached us. “Mr. Fraser? Your table is ready.”

His whole disposition had changed. Maybe it was the Jack. “Fantastic! Lead the way.”

She lead us to a small circular table set in the middle of the dining room, red and black booths lining the taupe walls.

“Is this okay?” Travis looked at me expectantly.

Damn he is so thoughtful . After years of living with me and my social anxiety disorder, most of the time he knew how to meet what I needed in the moment. This was one of those times. I was so grateful.

“It’s perfect.” Something I would have said even if it wasn’t.

“Just like you,” he quickly came around to pull my seat out for me.

I hung my purse on the back of the chair and took in all the surroundings. Tables were full of couples, young and old, mixmatched and twinning, kissing and flirting and laughing amongst themselves, tabletop candles flickering gently in front of them. Romance was certainly in the air, and the vibe alone made me swoon.

I was lost in my own love cloud when the waiter came to the table. "Good evening! My name is Seth and I’ll be taking care of you. Our specials tonight are….” He went on to describe the Surf and Turf, the Valentine’s Day special: a lobster tail paired with filet mignon and their signature sauce. My stomach growled and I was thankful no one but me noticed. We gave our drink orders and in a moment he was gone.

“I’m so glad we could make this work,” Travis seemed relaxed, finally. “Me too, I’m SO glad those lice boogers didn’t ruin our once in a blue moon date.” “EW. Don’t bring those little shits up. I could go the rest of the year without hearing that word and I would be just fine.” “No kidding… me too. I’ve never cleaned so much in my life.” “Well, if there’s one thing for sure, our home would be in shambles without you.” I blushed as Seth returned with our drinks. He placed a Bloody Mary in front of me and I winced. Just from the smell I knew that it was full of Vodka. “Come on man, she said virgin. She’s sober!” Seth looked at me in horror. “Oh I am so sorry ma’am. Let me get you a new one. It'll be on the house. I’m so sorry!” He quickly took the drink off the table.

“It’s okay, really. He gets protective. Mistakes happen, no rush.” I gave my most reassuring smile. He nodded gratefully and hurried off with the incorrect drink.

Travis looked into his lap and clenched his hands together. Why was he so tense? “Did something happen at work today?”

“No, why do you ask?” “Just asking…you seem off.” “No, I’m fine! Actually I’m great.”

A longer than comfortable moment of silence stretched between us. I had to switch it up.

“Can you believe this is our 10th Valentine’s Day together?” “Man.. it has been that long.” He smiled to himself. “Time flies with you.” “Do you remember the one where we left Maria with my dad and snuck out for a midnight showing of Deadpool?” “Ah yes, the perfect romance movie.”

“For real, what more could you want? Action, comedy, hot steamy romance. Endless buttered popcorn.” “What about when I surprised you with a Broncos Super Bowl jersey a few weeks before so you could have it for the game?” “Ugh, I LOVED that jersey. Now the Broncos starting the Super Bowl with a safety… that I didn’t love so much.” “God, I remember how inconsolable you were in the bathroom afterwards. I couldn’t get you to stop crying!" “What can I say, I love my team.” “Maybe a little too much.” “Maybe.” We both laughed and Seth returned with the virgin Bloody Mary I ordered.

“Here you are miss. Again I express my deepest apologies.” “It’s really no problem, we’re having a great time, aren’t we Travis?” “Yes we are, thanks for making it right man.” Seth quickly took our order, but he didn’t write anything down. I ordered the special and he just nodded, he asked me how I wanted my potatoes prepared and he just nodded at my response. I have always been amazed at wait staff that can remember everything like that. Meanwhile I can’t even remember if I turned the straightener off at home. He hurried off with our orders, without writing a single thing down.

“You know, I have to say my favorite Valentine’s with you are the ones at home on our couch with a bowl of chips watching episodes of Survivor.”

I brought my hand to my mouth, blushing again. “Me too babe. It really is the simple things I love the most.”

“I agree. Dating apps and profiles and all that other riff raff, life can be as simple as meeting your person in high school gym class.”

“I still can’t understand what you saw in me. I was angry to be there, angry my mom made me change schools. My black hood pulled over my head, scowl on my face, I was definitely giving off a ‘leave me alone’ vibe. ” “But that was the last thing I wanted to do. ‘Leave you alone’. You know what vibe I thought you were giving off? Moody, complex, and downright beautiful. I had to talk to you.”

“Who knew that would lead here?” “I had a hunch,” he giggled. “To us,” he held up his drink for a toast.

Our glasses clinked and as we made eyes, taking sips from our respective beverages, I couldn’t help but to think how lucky I was.

I certainly didn’t know from that day in gym class that we would end up here, living in a different state and parents to our beautiful daughter. Celebrating 10 years of Valentine’s together. What we have is one in a million.

My thoughts were interrupted when the most beautiful lobster tail was placed in front of me. We didn’t speak as we eagerly ate our delicious meal, occasionally looking up and smiling at each other, or offering our fork for the other to try.

The night ended too quickly, and in a flash we were walking out the front door. Time with Travis felt so special, and as parents it was not often that we got to feel like humans outside of our roles as ‘mom’ and ‘dad’.

It was my turn to grab his hand this time, and I looked at him and smiled. He didn’t meet my gaze, and began messing with the tie around his neck. The rain gently sprinkled above our heads, leaving dark marks on my long, lavender dress, but I didn’t mind. We reached the middle of the parking lot when he stopped. He dropped my hand and took a deep breath. He pulled a navy blue  jewelry box from his pocket. My stomach sank. Is he about to do what I think he’s going to do?

No, he knew how much this scared me.

He knew that the only relationships I’d seen growing up were my mother’s 4 divorces and my absent dad I saw twice a year.

Why does anything have to change? Things are good the way they are!

I could feel my hands shaking.

Put down the walls Ariana , my therapist’s voice rang in my head.

He got down on one knee, black slacks dipping in the water streaking the parking lot, looking up at me. He popped open the box, revealing a glistening silver diamond ring.

“I know this scares you. I know the only example you’ve ever had of marriage is destruction. But I was raised by 2 people who love each other deeply. Who were dating for a month and knew they wanted to be together forever. And are now celebrating over 30 years as husband and wife! I’ve seen how beautiful marriage can be when it’s right.” He paused to emphasize his words. “And I know we’re right. I so wanted tonight to be perfect to prove it to you. But you made me see that we don’t need perfect. We never have. In fact, it’s simple. I know you’re my person. There is no one else, there will never be anyone else. Ariana, will you marry me?”

All the fear that had been making my heart race melted out of my fingertips. I could feel tears in the corners of my eyes. No one had ever loved me like this. This man was kneeling in a rain puddle and dealing with all my baggage and insecurities and he STILL wanted to marry me?

It seemed pretty silly now that I’d ever been afraid at all. That I’d ever thought we were anything like my parents.

The answer was obvious.

“Yes, yes, a thousand times YES.” He picked me up and spun me around as he let out a triumphant ‘YES!’.

The rain was coming down harder, crawling its way down our cheeks as we kissed. Thunder boomed and we laughed. I looked into his eyes.

He began to babble. "Wow, so we don't have to get married right away, we can take as long as you want. It can be whatever you want! Hell, we can go to city hall. We can have the longest engagement ever! I'm just so happy you said yes and..." I put my finger to his lips and smiled. “Perfect is so overrated. We'll figure it out. All I know was this night was everything I could’ve asked for.”


The room was still dark when he awoke. He did not open his eyes for a while; he just kept quiet in the bed, breathing in the stale but familiar air. He turned to the other side of the bed, not wanting to get up yet. It was still warm. He sniffed the pillow, hoping it would smell of her, and opened his eyes. It was the morning of Halloween. The curtains were drawn, and the room had a greyish hue. It had been like that for a while now. Grey. Sort of colorless. He wondered whether that was just how it was now. He got up and put on his favorite fluffy bunny slippers. The ones she had got him. If he did not have a costume, at least he could dress his feet up a bit. He wiggled his toes, making it look like the bunnies were wiggling their noses. He chuckled a bit, but the sound was just as stale as the air in the room. Just as grey as the colors. He went into the kitchen. There she sat. At the kitchen table, her computer in front of her, sipping coffee from a cup. She looked beautiful. Her dark blonde hair was still messy from the sleep, and she had dark circles under her eyes, but she was her. She was just as she had always been. Simple, beautiful. He sat down at the table opposite her. She did not look up; she just took another sip from the coffee. He poured himself a cup and took a sip. The taste was colorless. It did not even taste grey; it just felt like nothing. He thought of water, but water still has a taste of minerals and nature. This was just nothing. He quickly put the cup back down on the table. She got up and went into the bedroom while he looked after her, noticing her slumped shoulders and her red eyes. He wanted to go after her. He desired to make her feel better. He wanted to show her the love he felt, but he did not know how. "I'll be going out," he said. More to himself than to her, but she did not answer anyway. It was Halloween, the end of October, so it was cold. It did not bother him. The air was fresher, and the light was whiter. Still grey, but whiter. That is at least something he thought. He took some long, confident strides. Maybe this day it would be better. Perhaps this day, something would be different. He walked down the street, looking at all the different people. He always loved to do that, and it kept him occupied. He wondered about their routines and what brought them here on this particular day. He made up stories about the people he passed all the time. Maybe that guy with the round glasses and the tweed jacket is a professor. Perhaps he has a giant library at home and loves philosophy but also a good splatter movie. Maybe that girl with the jacket is an artist. The color of the jacket could be purple. She loves colors in her paintings as well as her clothes. She has a studio with giant windows and brick walls and plants everywhere. Or maybe real life is not as perfect. Perhaps the guy with the glasses is a high school teacher with a tired wife and a screaming baby. Maybe the girl with the purple jacket could not find anything else on sale. Or perhaps it was just his imagination, and the jacket was not purple but dark grey. No, he thought, she is an artist. He came across a flower shop. He always contemplated going in there. Every time he came across it, he thought about it, even though he knew it would not matter. But this day felt different, so he went in there. The shop was decorated for Halloween with carved pumpkins around the flower arrangements and tiny, decorative skulls in the bouquets. He looked around for a long time. Looked for anything that resembled purple. It was hard in the grey light and the Halloween themed items, but at last, he found a bouquet he felt could be purple. It was always her favorite color. He looked up at the cashier counter, but the lady behind it was talking eagerly with another customer. He felt in his pocket for change. There was nothing. But this was supposed to be the day. He was supposed to give these flowers to her today; he could feel it. He looked at the cashier again. She was still talking to the other customer. Surely, she would not notice one bouquet missing. He slowly turned his back to her and walked out of the shop. Now he was one big smile. He smelled the bouquet. It did not really have a smell, but still, this was the right thing to do. This would make everything okay again. The colors did not seem as colorless anymore. That woman's hat was definitely blue. And that tree was definitely green. And the bouquet he had picked was definitely purple. He thought of her and the warmness of her skin, the beauty of her laugh. He thought of her sadness as she went into the bedroom this morning. He just wanted to show her he still loved her. He looked down. Purple. Now his step was even more confident. He smiled at everyone on his way, but no one smiled back. Still, he kept a grin on his face all the way back to their apartment. He almost jumped up the stairs and opened the door so fast it banged against the wall. But he did not care. He was home, and he brought flowers, and everything would be as it was. But she was not there. His smile turned into a strained grin. Not as romantic as he had hoped, but he sat on one of the kitchen chairs, bouquet in hand, staring at the door. He still smiled a little. He sat there for a long time. One hour went by, then two. The bouquet in his hands was beginning to hang a bit. Maybe he should have put it in water, but it was too late now. And he wanted to give it to her as it was. Simple, but beautiful, like her. So, he sat still, eyes eagerly watching the door, ears intently listening for a sound, a footstep, or a breath. But everything was quiet. The night was beginning to show itself, and the whiter colors slowly faded to grey again. Finally, he heard something. Her laugh. Her beautiful, trilling laughter. Her known footsteps on the stairs. But he also heard something else; a man's voice. He heard the key in the lock, and the door swung open. There she was, in another man's embrace. He got up quickly. Their two bodies were writhing against each other as they stumbled through the apartment towards the bedroom. She was dressed as a witch, and he was a mad scientist. They did not even notice his presence. He dropped the bouquet on the floor without noticing it. As he stepped on it to run across the kitchen to the bedroom, time seemed as if it had slowed down. He heard her giggle, listened to his moan, but felt as if he would never reach the bedroom door. When he finally got there, she was on her knees, and he was looking pleased. "How could you?" He screamed at her. "How could you do this?" She did not react. "I'm right here! I'm right here beside you!" He screamed as loud as he could, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm right here, and I always will be." This time his voice was a whisper. "Please…" But they did not notice him. Maybe that is just how it is when you are dead. He could not be in the room anymore, so he slowly walked to the kitchen, and there on the floor, he noticed the bouquet. It was not purple. He wished so hard it was purple, but it was grey. As the moaning in the bedroom got louder, he fell to the floor. He was right here beside her as he always would be. Him stuck here forever in this grey purgatory. Her moving on and forgetting about him. He just wished she could see him. Just hear him. Know he was there. Or maybe what he really wanted was that he could not see her. Could not hear her. But he could. Her moans got louder as he fell further onto the kitchen floor, surrounded by the fragments of the grey bouquet. That is how he fell asleep, to the sound of her, on that first Halloween night since his death.


It’s a couple of minutes after eight when I turn off the high road and drive onto the open ground behind The Lazy Duck. My tyres crunch over granite chippings in the darkness and I draw up alongside a dozen other vehicles. I’m surprised there aren’t more cars out here this evening; the bar is quiet for a Friday night. Often at the weekend, a roar of chattering voices and shrill laughter greets me as I approach. In its heyday, the bar was a popular venue for parties because of its flexible licencing hours. The landlord, Jimmy McGuigan, used to close the wooden window shutters around eleven o’clock and his wife would circulate with trays of tasty snacks. Regulars chilled out until way after midnight, safe in the knowledge the local police would turn a blind eye to the extended business. In fact, it wasn’t unusual to witness off-duty policemen joking with Jimmy or clinging on to a karaoke microphone at one in the morning. # A young waitress approaches as I remove my winter coat. She offers me a menu, invites me into the seated area. There was no need to reserve a table for two in advance and no pressure to meet, eat, and leave. I’m relieved the venue is subdued tonight; its booth seating and table arrangement is perfect for extended conversation. I wouldn’t want to spend the entire night shouting at Trent; we’d both end up with sore throats and a headache. # My old buddy left the country with his girlfriend, Aleca, ten years ago and disappeared on a personal mission to find life and happiness in Spain. They met at my thirtieth birthday party at The Lazy Duck. To be honest, it was a setup. Both Trent and Aleca were single and my wife suggested we invite them. Jenny has a smart nose for match making and enjoys social engineering. She steered Aleca in Trent’s direction, made a casual introduction, and retreated. It was amazing to watch their body language. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other. They fizzed like a fistful of sparklers. Their conversation was effortless and in the style well rehearsed dance routine; they anticipated each other’s moves in advance. It was as if we’d nudged an infinite line of dominoes that cascaded ever onwards, describing intricate patterns in its wake.

I didn’t see Trent for a fortnight after that night; he and Aleca went off-grid. When they emerged again, they were an item and had broad grins like a double-slung suspension bridge. They’d bought a barn to renovate in the desert area outside Murcia, in the southeast of the Iberian Peninsula. Its climate offered hot summers and mild winters and was perfect for their new life together. Trent was always a handy chap; good with vehicles and great with repairing property. Aleca was going to teach English as a foreign language. At least, that was their plan. # We kept in touch for a year, exchanging the odd phone call or a text at Christmas, however soon lost touch. The local Spanish authorities have a loose grasp of contract law by all accounts and they went way over budget on their conversion costs. Reading between the lines it was tough, but they were determined to see it through. # To Jenny’s surprise, they hadn’t given up and returned to steady work and a normal life. She didn’t know Trent all that well. He would never settle for the ordinary. There was nothing he despised more than ordinary. My relationship with Trent influenced much of my life. We’d laughed together through our teenage years, dissected life through our twenties, and thought we knew it all by my thirtieth birthday. Both of us had a healthy dose of cynicism. As someone once said, “Life is too important to be taken seriously.” # With one thing and another, I’d almost forgotten about those carefree years until I got a text message last weekend. “I’m in town. How about the Lazy Duck at 8pm on Friday? Trent” It was from a number I failed to recognise. I hadn’t heard from my old buddy for over ten years. Both of us have a lot of catching up to do, and tonight’s as good a night as any.

# I order a couple of pints of beer and a bowl of the bar’s trademark chilli and bacon French fries. Trent’s nowhere in sight when I take a first sip of my pint, recalling all those times I’d waited for him to show up. I don’t remember him ever being on time. Trent was an hour late for his wedding to Aleca. To be fair, Aleca wasn’t punctual either and her arrival often stole the show. Their special day was no exception. He was tucking in his shirt and smoothing down his unruly hair when she appeared at the church doors. The congregation gave an almighty gasp when she appeared in the church doorway. Aleca was wearing a stunning white satin dress that flattered her hourglass figure. However, it was her face that drew the attention. Trent leaned over and whispered in my ear, She’s just got back from accident and emergency. What’s with the black eyes? I asked. It’s a long story, said Trent. It seems she had a dodgy cocktail at her hen-night and was sick in the ladies’ room. I didn’t understand. The toilet seat fell down and broke her nose. Jenny told me later, Aleca was most worried about the wedding pictures. Thank goodness for Photoshop. # It’s nine o’clock when I finish my second bowl of chilli and bacon French fries and I’m considering another bowl. No sign of Trent; no text message and no call. All I get is his voicemail. I should have known I’d be sitting here half the night waiting for him. I could always depend on Trent in the sense that he was always unreliable, but then when he showed up, he gave one hundred and ten per cent. On one occasion, we’d agreed to do some painting and decorating for a client. I turned up on time, but he showed up forty-eight hours late. The client was furious, despite starting the work by myself. It looked like we might lose the business. However, Trent calmed the situation with his smooth-talking charm and we demonstrated our competence with professional aplomb. The client was more than satisfied on completion and we landed more work than we could handle on their recommendation. We thanked the client for their help and she laughed, saying we were more like The Likely lads than Laurel and Hardy, however, she’d mistaken us for Bodgit and Leggett.

# I take a sip of Trent’s full glass and look at my watch. There’s no message from Trent and it’s half-past nine. I’m getting strange looks from cheerful groups of party-goers enjoying a relaxing night. Do I look that sad? I hope not. Maybe I look as if I got stood up. You know what? Sitting here all night isn’t much fun anymore. It never was. I’ve grown out of all that. I look at the second pint and take a deep breath. Forget it. I’m out of here. I haul on my jacket and step down from the booth. Jimmy waves at me from the bar as I head towards the exit. I acknowledge him and he summons me over. How is it going? He asks.

Yeah, I’m fine, I say. It’s been a while, Jimmy.

Where’s your partner in crime? Jimmy asks.

If Trent pops in, tell him I was here.

He was here earlier. You’re joking, Jimmy? I guess he got fed up and left. How things have changed. Jimmy says Trent told him he had to go to work the next day and didn’t want a hangover. Now he has a wife and two children to support, and a dog to look after.

# It was the unreliability that ended our business ventures and tested our friendship. I’d made too many excuses for Trent over the years. That last big deal we lost because he forgot to set his alarm clock killed it off. He missed the plane. We lost the job of a lifetime. There was no coming back from that mistake. How life moves on. # Before Trent and Aleca departed for Spain, he remarked how odd it was that he and Aleca were the only single guests at my birthday party.

What are the chances of that? I said, raising an eyebrow. I’m just born lucky, he said, shaking his head.

I smiled and kept my counsel.

The End


 The sun fought to enter the room. The windows were shut but the curtains were drawn aside. Sunlight flooded the room, and I stared out of the window, still wrapped in bed. It was early morning after a sleepless night. It had been impossible for me to stop myself from recalling the night exactly ten years ago: I ran and ran, as fast as my little legs could take me. My bag swayed on my back, my ponytail dangled on my head and my eyes were fixed on the road that lay ahead. My heart was thumping in my chest, clearly audible in the silence of the moonlight. The easy wind was blowing, making the weather pleasant. I was about to reach the forest when I stopped. I turned and looked at the road I had left behind, the people I had run away from, the life I had cast off. “I shall never see them again,” I told myself. I didn’t let out a sigh, I wasn't frustrated nor was I gloomy but the thought still fed on my soul. No tears came out of my eyes. I just turned back to the road I was to take and headed forward. I hurried deep inside the forest which was sure to be more caring than the foster home from where I had run away. I was alone. I had always been alone, but for some reason in the dark, wild forest, I didn't feel afraid. I walked further and after consoling myself that I had reached the heart of the forest, I stopped. I looked around as if someone would still manage to reach me. I had been so frustrated from the ill-treatment of the daughter of my foster parents that I could not help but run away from the dreadful place I was brought up in.

Their daughter would pull my hair, snatch my chocolates from me and take away all my favourite things to her room without even asking. And what would my foster mother do? With would laugh and say her daughter was becoming clever! I had packed my bag with my books, clothes, some of my stuff, and a photo of my parents which I had managed to steal from the foster people’s room. Why did I take their photograph with me? I didn’t know myself but I just felt I should and so I did. I sat on the wet damp grass and wept a little, not because I was afraid but because I dreadfully missed my parents. I was only four when my parents died, but I still remembered the little memories I had collected. They used to feed me, play with me, taught me and we had happy times. I didn't remember how they died. I didn't know whether they had died at all. My foster mom had told me they had died in a car accident.

I never believed it was true but I had no proof to prove the cruel woman wrong.

The walls of the room seemed to be restless the last night. I wanted to scream or wail or anything but my voice had gone. Why? I don’t know but it was just gone. And to this day, I remember how many tears I had shed, fighting the world with my back to the wall. I had always wanted a family. House, job, money, or anything can not satisfy the needs of a family. After having such a family as that of my past foster parents, I had always wondered what a home with real parents felt like. The emptiness of a family was still fresh in my heart, even if many years had passed. I had no friends, never made any. I was scared they would make fun of me if I told them about my past or they asked me about my parents. I hated to tell anyone that I was an orphan.

 I reluctantly pushed away the covers and walked to the window. Fresh air and sunlight entered the room as I drew away the curtains and opened the window. I looked down at the garden which was blooming with lovely flowers but it didn't make me smile as it used to every day.

I realized I had to get to my work. I was a designer in a textile company. It was near the seaside and the view from the window gave a pleasant scenery to look at and I always started my work after looking at it. It was Sunday, and an off. I was a part-time writer too, not only because I loved writing but also because I wanted to earn more money. I freshened myself up and got ready. After having a light breakfast, I sat at the desk beside the window. My diary was kept in front of me and I took a pen from my pen holder. I wrote the heading on the page: Thoughts I stared at the blank page, waiting for an idea of a story to strike me but nothing came. I fell in the chair and sighed. Suddenly, I remembered the photograph I had kept of them in the drawer. I rarely looked at their picture as it only made me more gloomy and I missed them, even more, when I saw them. I still picked it up and looked at it to get something to write. "My parents," I whispered. "I wish you were alive."

I ran my hand on the photograph and faintly smiled back at the two smiling faces. I looked at them, not feeling like taking my eyes off them but my diary looked at me in a way that I kept it back and picked up my pen, determined to write something .

"I will write something about my own life," I said decidedly.

Though I haven't seen my mom since she died when I was 4 years old, I am sure she is the most beautiful woman. She has… I lifted up my eyes to the photograph to see my mom's eye color but looked at something else. The photograph was peeling out of the frame. I picked up the frame. I pressed the photo to make it stick back but it remained the same. I tried again and again but it started coming out more.

"It won't stick back," I said. In order to make it look better, I started to take the photograph off from the frame so at least I would be able to keep it safe somewhere. I took it off carefully, centimeter by centimeter, and when it was completely out, I looked at it with a satisfied smile. I opened a drawer to keep it in when a strong wind blew and it flew from my hand and landed face-down on the floor. It revealed something I never would have expected in a place I never would have looked before; on the back of the photograph was a worn-out note, the ink almost erased. Perhaps I never saw the note because the back of the photo was stuck to the frame and hence, covered the note.

Shivers rippled down my spine, the hairs on my arms rose when I read the note. It said:

Dear Bella, Leaving you in the hands of foster care people was our greatest regret, but if only we had any other option… We were poor when you were born and could not afford to bring you up as you should have. We hope you could find it in your heart to forgive us, and we will be glad to have you again, for we hope with all our might that we will afford to have you in years to come. If you find this note, know that we deeply care for you. Below is our address and rush to us whenever you choose, it would make us the happiest parents in the world… I had struggled to find information about my parents before. But the foster people had said they had lost contact with them and weren’t sure where I could find them. They suspected they could be dead. Now I was sure they were alive and waiting for me to get to them.

My eyes welled with tears. I read it again a few times and checked the address to see whether it was real. I believed it was and with new hope, I rose from the floor. I cleared away my tears and walked to the window. The sun seemed to shine brighter than ever as if it too was happy from the incident which had come upon me. I looked at the garden below, knowing I would leave it soon to return to the home I was meant to be in!