You left me. You left me with love. The kind of love that they write about in romance novels. The kind of love that most people search for their entire lives. The kind of love that burns right through your heart and ignites your soul. The kind of love that cannot be quenched even if it were surrounded by water. You left me. You left me with anger. The kind of anger that smothers any joy with a stare. The kind of anger that kills any smile with a knife. The kind of anger that wakes the dead. The kind of anger that needs to be locked in a cage. You left me. You left me with wisdom. The kind of wisdom that conveniently comes to those when they most needed answers. The kind of wisdom that many people wait years to acquire. The kind of wisdom that comes from those with salt and pepper hair. The kind of wisdom that continues in tales to tell for numerous years to come. You left me. You left me with questions. The kind of questions that come from unsolved mysteries. The kind of questions that leave you puzzled and confused. The kind of questions that go unasked from fear of embarrassment. The kind of questions that no one wants to hear the answers to. You left me. You left me with compassion. The kind of compassion that makes you feel seen. The kind of compassion that holds you as you speak your darkest truths. The kind of compassion that frees you from the chains of judgement. The kind of compassion that warms you with an embrace. You left me. You left me with indifference. The kind of indifference that feels cold and leaves you feeling abandoned. The kind of indifference that makes you feel that you might be invisible. The kind of indifference that refuses to say what needs to be said. The kind of indifference that keeps you with your head down and your walls up. You left me. You left me with strength. The kind of strength that is seen in superheroes and war stories. The kind of strength that not only comes from bravery but also muscle. The kind of strength that surprises you from an adrenaline rush. The kind of strength that overcomes hurdles that are taller than any skyscraper. You left me. You left me with weakness. The kind of weakness that buckles you to your knees after losing all hope. The kind of weakness that makes you convulse on the floor of your bathroom. The kind of weakness that cowers from the monsters hiding under your bed. The kind of weakness that resembles a child who is scared of the dark. You left me. You left me with power. The kind of power that conquers battles and conquers kings. The kind power that rules over nations. The kind of power that silences any opposition. The kind of power that leaves humans indifferent with blood on their hands. You left me. You left me with impotence. The kind of impotence that allows leaders to destroy you. The kind of impotence that is easily overpowered. The kind of impotence that frustrates the most angelic and patient souls. The kind of impotence that leaves a person frustrated and unfulfilled. You left me. You left me with joy. The kind of joy that exudes on the face of a brand-new parent who just met their baby. The kind of joy that comes from opening presents on a Christmas day. The kind of joy that you find at the end of the rainbow. The kind of joy that fills the air after grand festivities and celebrations. You left me. You left me with despair. The kind of despair that is felt when the winter months have left you isolated and frigid. The kind of despair that murders any signs of triumph. The kind of despair that makes you want to claw out of your skin and dig your own grave. The kind of despair makes you beg the reaper to take you. You left me. You left me with laughter. The kind of laughter that comes from time with an old friend after too much wine. The kind of laughter that moves your entire body and shakes within your spirit. The kind of laughter that erupts loudly like a siren wailing unexpectedly. The kind of laughter that keeps you awake even after hours have passed. You left me. You left me tears. The kind tears where you feel as though you are drowning in a self-made ocean. The kind of tears that feel like a tsunami that no one warned you was approaching. The kind of tears that soak the pillowcase but drop loudly like hail. The kind of tears that make you wonder if your eyes could ever produce any more. You left me. You left me with companionship. The kind of companionship that is as comforting as another pair of feet underneath the sheets. The kind of companionship that brings you your coffee without having to tell them your order. The kind of companionship where home is not a place but a person. The kind of companionship that is a hand pulling you in after almost walking off the ledge. You left me. You left me with loneliness. The kind of loneliness that makes you a hostage to your thoughts. The kind of loneliness where your thoughts become the enemy. The kind of loneliness where all you have is enemy in the mirror. The kind of loneliness where you the only one who can rescue you, is yourself. You left me. You left me with completion. The kind of completion that comes after wedging in the final bit to a three-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. The kind of completion that satisfies your thirst after running a marathon. The kind of completion that gives relief after a much need conversation. The kind of completion that checks off the final box of your bucket list. You left me. You left me with pieces. The kind of pieces that leave you knowing it is indeed possible to die from a broken heart. The kind of pieces that are shattered after a fragile vase was knocked on the floor. The kind of pieces that are fractured from the crushing of a bone. The kind of pieces that cannot be repaired by glue or a cast. You left me. You left me with gratitude. The kind of gratitude that comes from a sunflower that can finally turn towards the light once the clouds have cleared. The kind of gratitude that the desert radiates following a shower during a drought. The kind of gratitude that you find in the eyes of feeding someone that was starving for a meal. The kind of gratitude that comes from the handshake of the destitute being gifted the most basic need. You left me. You left me with bitterness. The kind of bitterness that lingers on your tongue without anything to drink. The kind of bitterness that builds into your skin and seeps into your bloodstream. The kind of bitterness that makes others flee from your scrooge-like demeanor. The kind of bitterness that feasts on you like a parasite. You left me. I wish you hadn’t. You left me. I’m also thrilled you did.


Cara Stones sat in school, waiting for her teacher to tell her the stupid resolution thingy. She sat, waiting. Here it came. Mrs. Walden opened her mouth; "Children! Today, you shall write of thy resolution!" she shouted. Cara plunged for her notebook. She started to write on it: Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats apples a million times a day. Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She always seems to have to go pee! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats like a pig. Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. I think she is a pig that pees out apples! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She needs some beads for her classroom because kids don't have no fun! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. Her turkey sandwiches are dumb! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats like a rhino and a pig! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth, she hates to do the jig! "Can I see yours, Mary-Allison?" Mrs. Walden was asking "Sure! Here. 'My new year's resolution is to be kind to my little brother and take care of my toys better!" Mary-Allison replied "That's a wonderful resolution, Mary-Allison!" Mrs. Walden replied. "Thanks!" Mary-Allison said back. Mrs. Walden moved up to Cara. "Cara! How are you getting along with your resolution?" she asked Cara "Um, okay. Not too well." Cara said back, hiding her notebook." Cara replied "Can I take a look?" Mrs. Walden asked; "Um, sure, wait a second." Cara took her pencil and hastily scratched out her "resolution". Too bad, it didn't do much good. "Cara?" Mrs. Walden edged on "Here," Cara said, handing her notebook over Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats apples a million times a day. Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She always seems to have to go pee! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats like a pig. Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. I think she is a pig that pees out apples! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She needs some beads for her classroom because kids don't have no fun! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. Her turkey sandwiches are dumb! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth. She eats like a rhino and a pig! Stupid Mrs. Walden with a big long loud mouth, she hates to do the jig! "How horrifying! Oh, my!" screamed Mrs. Walden, "detention, after school. The rest of the week. That is a horrible resolution!"


That’s the thing about this city—it looks like it’s made all of glass. The city seems so big and hardy, full of stretching alleys and ever-expanding secret holes and infinite dim-lit streets. And at night the skyscrapers, glassy and poignant, are the only things marking the path to the sky. There is the big one Mom and I called the Keyhole, because there is a gap at the top that some huge god-sized key might unlock. To where we didn’t know. Narnia, probably. Heaven, Mom always said. “El cielo.” She is like that.

She loves the city. It is Dallas, basically the biggest city in the state, but the surrounding wilderness—the Trinity river, the Cedar Ridge area—has always seemed intent on creeping in. You can see it at night. Vines growing up apartment building corners. Big cedars and live oaks shading small unlit houses in the M Streets. Grass pushing through cracked Lakewood asphalt.

When she could still walk, Mom went walking through alleys. She brought a gun with her, too, and had since she’d gotten the license the day after she got her visa from Venezuela. Small dark-haired woman, small dark alleys, small dark gun. I never went with her. I stayed under the blankets, praying she would come back.

After work I visit her in the hospital, at about four PM. Her small white hospital room smells of tangy soap and is quiet, except for a woman’s voice singing from the radio by her bed.

El amor que una madre tiene por su hija , the voice sings breathily. Es más fuerte, más fuerte que las montañas

Sí, mas que el viento de montaña…

Mom calls me chica and kisses my hands with her cracked lips. The fat IV bag dangles beside her.

“You look…” I say and hesitate. She looks so weak. She is so thin and small, so vulnerable, everything about her is weak except that which is hidden inside. But it is buried deep. Mom tries to smile when she sees me hesitate, though I know I have hurt her inadvertently. “You look beautiful,” I say finally. “I am not lying.” She smiles genuinely this time. My eyes fill with tears when I have to leave; on the way out she asks if I know that there will be a blood moon that night.

“No,” I say, though I do, and lie because she would have urged me to walk to a park or something to see it and I am too afraid to do that.

It is five PM when Medical City Hospital calls me.

I am sick the day Mom dies, ten years after diagnosis and three weeks after admission to the breast cancer ward. I walk to the hospital, teary eyed and pockets full of used tissues that I feel like I need to burn. They hand me papers and her new slicker and the shoes I’d given her for her fiftieth birthday, all of which I accept numbly. I say yes to an autopsy and no to organ donations and no to cremation; we are both Catholic and she would have wanted a traditional funeral. They call me a “cool customer” and pat my back because I did not cry and scream and demand to see her body. Then I walk home, with more tissues in my pockets than before, arms full of the last clothes she had ever put on, crying from both frustration and grief. Some part of me knows I am being pathetic.

It is a warm, bright Monday evening. My feet ache. When I get in the door I take off my shoes, pushing the heels off with the opposite toes, and kick them into the corner by the door. I drop Mom's things on the ground to think about later. My face feels tight. I haven't quite understood what just happened. The floor is warm on my bare feet. It is bare and swept clean as I stand on it, looking at my feet. I swallow hard. I am a cool customer because I don't know how to cry about her yet. The sun is pulling itself down behind the Reunion Tower, which I can just see if I tilt my head the right way below the railing on my little tenement balcony. I let my purse clank to the ground and pour myself a glass of water. I can’t take anything stronger past five. Whenever I drink a mimosa or something I think of Mom, with half a glass of hard cider at nine PM, her bare feet on the railing, watching the night flow by the city.

I get two ice cubes from the freezer, drop one on the ground, and look around as if anyone was there to tell me off before putting both cubes into the glass. I open the balcony door and settle myself in a wicker chair and wait for night to fall.

Mom had a honey jar once, one she’d brought from Venezuela. It was the color of amber, perfectly round and seemingly weak, made of tempered glass like the rest of Dallas. It was little but strong. I dropped it several times when I was little, putting it away from the dishwasher or on the breakfast table, but it never broke. Mom would look up, eyebrows high, when she heard it clunk on the linoleum, and then down again when I’d call “All good!” She knew it wouldn’t break.

Like she knew she could keep herself safe at night, like she knew the night was safe and good. Like she loved the city. She was a little, strong woman.

The first night birds sing in the live oak branches down in the street. Their sound is so familiar that it takes me a while to realize they have begun to sing. Mom told me, once, when I was still little and believed everything, that the night birds’ song is always the same, even between Venezuela and Dallas. She told me that exactly one year before cancer happened to her. Well, it wasn’t surprising, I think to myself, sitting alone on a lonely balcony on a lonely street. I’d had it before her. I got breast cancer at age eleven. I was the only breast cancer patient at MD Anderson for about a week, and then a little white-haired grandmother came all alone, sick and coughing and Mom was the only one who could translate her Guatemala-accented Spanish for the doctors to understand she had Stage Two. She joined me in the breast cancer ward and told me stories about La Llorona. Mom brought us honey in her amber jar to sweeten our hospital food. That unbreakable amber jar. I lean my head back and the sun soaks my eyelids as it disappears for the day. The glass sweats cold water onto my palm as the city night slowly envelops me.

When we first came to Dallas from Venezuela I was just seven, didn’t speak English or even read Spanish. Mom would walk from place to place in the city, from job to job, her face hard-set and shoulders back as the stars glinted above her. The breeze would be as cool as in Venezuela.

“You don’t know a city until you have seen it at night,” she would say, and she didn’t mean its nightlife. “Not just the big skyscrapers but the little, little houses in the neighborhoods. Where people sleep safe at night. The hogares . That is how you know a city.”

It was how she loved it, too. The night air cools around my shoulders. I relax a little bit; I’m safe up here from the dark streets. The glass slips out of my hand and shatters on the concrete balcony floor. I jump up, startled and gasping, and then lower myself back down.

“It’s nothing,” I mumble, though it seems to represent something I don’t want it to. I feel like that glass, old and broken, now that I know Bed 34 is empty in the Medical City Breast Cancer Ward. I sit there, my head beginning to throb on my small balcony with wet glass shards at my feet, as Dallas falls into darkness. I start to cry. I never knew the night, so I never knew the city. Or Mom. It is nine PM now and my tears are only just drying. When I walk inside to get ready for bed I pause. Something is broken on the floor. I hadn’t heard it crash, so it must have been there all day, I think.

I have swept up the dark glass shards and am about to throw them away before I realize it is Mom’s honey jar.

It has finally broken.


Clash! Clash! Bong! Swish! “This is getting boring.” “Better surrender soon then, pathetic pirate of the sea, Jaya.” the ugly Captain Roob sneered, puffing his chess and holding his black sword above his head. “First of all, its Captain Jaya. And every pirate is technically of the sea.” “You aren’t even human, sea monster!” “I am a sea person, ” I swirled my sword dramatically, “You wound me with words more than your sword.” I skillfully ducked another jab to the right. “I have hair, unlike sea monsters, though it is of different shades of blue, green, and a bit of purple, glittering skin that has a bluish glow, I am a Sagara , I am no monster. " “You are no natural human, you are a threat to all of-” he roared, but I cut him off, quite literally with a swipe at his wrist, his hand cut clean off. He howled in pain. “I am clearly a threat to your non-sword hand, ” I laughed as he crumpled to the ground, his sword thudding against the crickety wooden planks of The Prowling Sailor . “What,” I tilted my face, baring my fangs in a grin as he whimpered. “Can’t handle being unhanded?” He leaned against the wall and pushed himself, staggering from the rocking ship. Around me, my crew and the crew of the Sailor were dueling, my crew, of course was winning, with a few wounds. It wasn’t even us that invaded, we only signaled a basic hello. But of course… pirates. “Go drown!” He yelled, swiping but missing. “I literally cannot drown.” “Go drown in a volcano!” “Why don’t you?” He swiped at my black joot-leather boots, to which I danced away from. “Damn you!” He stumbled backward. “This is getting boring,” I feigned a yawn. “C’mon, old man-” “Old man?” “Yes, old man, I see white where there s’pposed to be whatever shade of shite brown your hair is.” I smoothed down my white button up silk shirt, bartered from a prince who wanted passage in our ship and didn’t have much else. “You old man, picked a fight with my crew, trying to board my precious Floating Palace of the Sea, hoping to slay me because you are so prejudiced against sea people,” I shook my head, my wavy short hair shaking with my head. “And all we wanted to do is break bread.” I said with mock dismay. “I’ll never break bread with a monster. ” he growled, a foot back, ready to charge. “Fine then,” I too got back into form, shoulders set and feet firmly planted. “Lets dance, old man .” He charged at me, yelling, his mouth revealing disgusting yellow teeth. Pirates. Blasted, unruly pirates. Can’t brush their teeth, can’t stop drinking rum, can’t stop fighting. Pathetic. Makes us calm pirates look bad. I turned to dodge the sword, missing my stomach by an inch. That’s how I play, on the edge. He knows he’s losing, because he’s pushing harder now, clarity and his need to win fighting to be in control. He immediately turns, waving his sword. Clang! I hit his sword with mine. I pushed, making him walk backward, but he did not falter. I raised an eyebrow, my only show of appreciation for his endurance. He lowered his sword and faked a jab to my right and swirled to stab me on the left. But that’s his fatal mistake. Sort of. My golden sword stopped his black one faster than a blink. I used the momentum to send his flying through the air, like a crow flying away in fear. His sword landed dramatically on the middle of the boat, sticking up from the floor, in plain sight of everyone. I pointed my sword at his chest, making him walk backwards toward his weapon. The fighting around us stopped, weapons falling around us. “It’s over,” I drawled. “You’ve lost a hand and probably your dignity. Surrender.” “No!!!” He screamed. “NOOOO!! I cannot lose!!” He unsuccessfully grabbed his sword, which refused to come out. He howled in pain again and fell to his knees. “I will never surrender,” he said with fake confidence. “Kill me.” My crew erupted in laughter, his crew was gathered into a corner. “What do you think, my mismatched crew!” I called out to them. “What should Captain Roob his crew be doomed for?” “Dragged by the boat in the sea!” “Cut off his other hand!!” “Take his eyeballs!!!” Different voices shouted out different ways to torture Captain Roob and his crew. All varying between bloody and partially humane. No one here has the heart for the death penalty, let alone for very bloody punishments of course. However, there is the case that this man is one of the worst to sail the seas and walk on land. He’s burnt entire villages, lead raiding parties on defenseless towns, kidnapped children, and harmed women in unspeakable ways. He’s got wanted signs pretty much everywhere. Even in my kingdom where I am the heir to the throne, I’ve had merchants and village chiefs complain about Roob. “Haven’t we seen his face on them wanted posters in many towns, laddies?” I called out. Resounding chants of “Yes Captain.” “I say we find the highest bidder and turn him in!” Everyone muttered agreements, but seemed confused. “Oi captain!” Sarge, a pale skinned former soldier who joined my crew after his military captain kicked him out, called. “Who’s the highest bidder? Surya is offering a plot of fertile land and a barrel of gold.” “What’re you going to do with a plot of fertile land sarge,” I asked, the mention of my kingdom bringing me memories of father declaring rewards for catching high profile criminals. “Besides, its actually the cardamom spice estates the king owns, north of the kingdom. The barrel of gold is correct though.” Father loves barrels of gifts. “Right…” “Cap’n Jaya, permission to speak?” A young man from the opposing crew asked. “Hmmm…” I took large steps toward him, the rest of his buddies taking a shuddering step backward. “Go on, speak.” “I believe,” he gulped nervously. “The kingdom of Sicily, is offering enough gold to fill a ship,” he paused and jumped backwards after looking at my eyes. “Your eye’s became purple, that’s not natural-” “Ah tut tut, my eyes are not the topic,” I rolled my lovely color changing eyes. “Besides, the color change is natural to me, considering I am not human.” “Right, erm… King Guiseppe doesn’t take kindly to pirates, even if they’re turning in other pirates…” “You don’t worry your head about it,” I spun back around to face my own crew. “Who wants a ship load of gold!!” I yelled, grinning ear to ear and raising my sword in the air. “US!!!” “And as for the crew…” I looked across the other crew, some looked scared, others looked angry. “Whoever is still loyal to Roobius Stupidius here can go with him, I’m sure Sicily has enough space in their lowest pits of prison for them. Maybe they’ll be forced to eat dirty rats!” I laughed, throwing back my head. “What about those of us who renounce our loyalty to him?” The same man that gave away the kingdom with the biggest bounty said. “Surely you’ll show mercy?” “I don’t know if you’ve heard of my reputation…” “You’re also known as the Blue Pirate, the Sagara Pirate,-” “I didn’t ask to know my nicknames, but yes…” “You mark any pirate crews that try to attack you with some kind of symbol, a you give anyone who surrenders that mark and give them a second chance. If they cross you, you hunt them down, and punish them.” “That’s right,” I crept closer to him, he flinched when I tilted his chin upward with my sword. “What’s your name?” “Simon.” “You seem well versed with the world, Simon. Did you get an education?” “I studied trade, Captain Jaya. I studied trade in France, and then I was,” his voice cracked, tears slowly flowing down. “He-he took me he-” I lowered my sword, my smile fading away. “He kidnapped you didn’t he?” “I haven’t seen my family in years.” His voice cracked. I put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s more like you aren’t there?” Hushed voices murmuring yes resounded. “Alright, well we’ll help you find your families, innit true crew?” “Yes captain!” “I’m still marking everyone, just because… Well I didn’t get this far by trusting everyone.” With that, I got to work. With my magical sea sapphire ring, I marked each person, a blue circle with a blue seashell in the middle. The mark stays blue for a whole day, and becomes invisible unless I or a different magic user touch it. During this ordeal, I had Roob strapped to a pole swinging off the back. He was shouting curses as he was tied with silver chains. At least I had the bleeding from the stump on his arm tied. After taking dive to my ship’s underside, where I kept enchanted seashells that force the truth from who ever is touching it, I tested each of his crew members to see who is loyal and who was kidnapped. Whoever was loyal was chained in different parts of their ship, which was towed to ours with an enchanted chain. Those who were kidnapped stayed on my ship, under careful watch. “Simon,” I got the attention of the young man, probably my age from what I could tell. “Since you were brave enough to speak up, I give you the chance of joining my crew. I could use someone versed in trade.” “I’ll uh think about it, sir-m’am, I’m sorry-” “Close, I prefer Captain.” I started to turn, but he cleared his throat to speak. “Captain Jaya, if its not too bold, um, where did you come from? They say you floated up from the sea and had the fish build you a magical ship.” I snorted. I could say I was born in the Kingdom of Surya, one of the southern kingdoms of South Asia. I’m the firstborn of the King, making me heir to the throne. A curse from centuries ago found its way to me, an ordinary human baby, turning me into a Sagara, whenever the scent of the ocean dares to entire my nose. I feared the curse, bullied by other children even though I’m a princess, until one day I decided the curse is truly a boon. And so I took one of my dear Father’s unused ships, decorated, and became a pirate captain. An identity with no history, only a future full of adventure and freedom. Someone who disappears and reappears, someone to be feared and to be respected. A crew full of ragtags just like the captain… “I am simply someone who ran away for freedom,” I answered, tipping my hat. “And I hunger for adventure.” “There has to be more, right? C’mon, no one knows where you come from!” I turned and laughed. “How very human. ”


The weight of time was heavy on her shoulders as she perched herself upon the outdated and torn cobalt vinyl-topped stool. She had been waiting for what he called "in the meantime" but for her this meant it was the end of their time. She was tired of hanging on the fringes of his lapsed moments and the expired memories of whom they had hoped to be. The sad thing, or rather it was quite pathetic, she knew at the beginning that this was going to be how it ended. He had slowly pulled his hand away from her even as the romance began. Each day, he offered less of himself, his life, and his experience to her. She was silent most days hoping that her love would be enough for the two of them, but she had been warned by many of their friends that he was barren in the ways of affection or romance. He was endlessly detached and preoccupied with nearly everything and everyone else around them. He never stopped to focus on her, not even when they were alone. Each time she was ready to concede and walk away, there was a moment, a glimmer of hope, when he would catch her eyes and she felt as if she could bottle those fragmented moments. Maybe those would be enough. Silence. Her gaze trailed off to the edge of the trees that were just outside the diner window. She wondered if he would even show up this time. She had been desensitized to the idea of being stood up and long ago decided that she would not allow his disregard for her to cause her mental anguish, but it was inevitable. She slowly realized that each time he did not show, did not listen, or pushed her to the side for other obligations it chipped away at her ability to love him and more importantly to love herself. She was drowning and choking daily on the bitter taste of regretful tears. In the secret moments of midnight, she would cry alone in the bathroom when no one could see her, and no one could hear the torment of her heart. She felt as if she had no place and every piece of her was consumed with pleasing him and vying for his affection. Still, the entirety of her attempts was never enough. As time passed, she felt her heart cripple. The stains of kohl smeared across her cheeks were the evidence of the years she had been left waiting. I’ll never be what he wants , she thought to herself. Wasted! All this time, all these tears, my whole life was just wasted; all because I’ve been left waiting . She checked her watch nervously anticipating her fated next step. She had made up her mind that if he left her waiting again this would be the last time. The fact that she had her suitcases already packed and waiting in the car was proof of what she already knew. He was twenty-five minutes late, and she decided after thirty minutes it was really over this time. She could no longer accept the disregard and apathy that he showed toward her. She was tired of living a life composed of obscured dreams and shadowed doubts. She never knew where she stood with him or if he even loved her. Sure, he would say the words, but his actions told the tales of listless affections. The fog of pain was forever surrounding her heart and she just needed to feel something more. She needed to fold bag the blanket of fear; the fear of losing him had haunted her all these years. She checked her watch again, only another minute had passed, and the slow sway of eternity began for the next four minutes. Her mind wandered, tracing the edges of the past years with thoughts of what she should have said and the things she let slide. She never wanted to be the needy woman who always asked for his time. She knew his job took a lot of his time but there was never anything left for her at the end of the day, or the week, or even at the end of the month. The times he would take off he wasn’t present and seemed to enjoy spending time with his friends or his phone more. Maybe if she expressed her hurt to him, maybe if she had said the words out loud, maybe…well things could’ve been different. But she was raised to never press these issues or act clingy. Until this relationship, she never considered herself insecure, but as time did its dance and her confidence slid, she twisted her back away from feeling enchanted and traded her dignity for a cloak of shame. Had she just said something, at least she would have known where she stood, and not wasted so much time. I can’t look back , she thought to herself. What’s done is done . Another minute had passed. The scars from hiding in the silhouettes of silence were beginning to shine through. The anguish of holding back her tears and her words was beginning to break from her with each tick of the clock. Saddened by what could have been, she readied herself to embark on her new life. Never again would she remain muzzled by anxiety. Only three minutes remained of this life. The sadness and regret of words left unsaid and her desire to know how he truly felt were fading as the smoldering embers of clarity were beginning to ignite within her. The fiery passion that she had once felt for him was now muted by her realization that she deserved better than being the forgotten girl that only looked good on his arm when he needed her. But she knew it was the mountain of ash that piled up from burned-out desires that choked the life from this love. He was now twenty-eight minutes late, and she thought to herself, am I really going to wait for these last two minutes? Will two minutes change anything? Even if he were to show up, I am already gone. She slid from the stool and heard the click of her heels on the tiles, it was the sound of freedom. Today she chose to no longer sit in a place of humiliation and disgrace. As she walked out the door she heard the diner bell ring behind her, and she never looked back.


The door to my room flew open but I did not look up. It was just a dream. There my mother stood a torch in her hand. She was wearing an apron and smelt distantly of warm baked goods. Somewhere inside the house, my brother was playing chess with my father. Both of them sipping tea from large mugs and nibbling lightly on cookies. They would be irritated that the lights had gone out. My father would curse and sigh and my brother would soon throw himself on my bed and break out into a long rant like he always. But, the house was silent. It was not a dream. But my mother really was standing at the doorway to my room. She wiped her hands down her apron and looked at me sadly. The world was still. The crickets had stopped chirruping, the evening birds had ceased to sing every living creature attempting desperately to answer the question that lingered in my mind. Why was she there? She knew I had no interest in speaking to her. We rarely exchanged words at all letting the tired moans of the old house fill in the silence. She stood silently as if she expected me to say something. I was grateful that the lights had gone out, that way she could not see the annoyance that had crept onto my face. “What are you up to?” she finally asked forcing warmness into her cold voice. I smiled. For a moment, we were just a mother and a daughter having a casual conversation. I would tell her about the painting of our house I was doing. How I had spent the whole day trying to get the perfect green for the beautiful grass that carpeted the garden. If someone stood outside my window and peered in what they would see was a mother and a daughter. To people who looked shockingly similar. Both with the same soft features. I wonder if they would see the coldness in our eyes or the hostility that now filled the silence. “What are you up to?” my mother repeated with the tone of someone who was beaten down and tired. “Are you busy?” she asked. It shocked me how hard she was trying to be normal, as if the three months we had lived together in that house in complete silence had not gone by. As if the only sounds that filled the house were those of the house itself. The dripping of the bathroom tap like a slow and steady drum, the distant creaking of the third stair that my father promised to fix but never got the chance to. I listened for those sounds but they seemed no longer to exist, as if the sound of human interaction made them retreat to the silence. Even if I wanted to answer her questions, I could not. The thick cloud of blackness had filled me and I was paralysed. The words were lost in my head like scattered puzzle pieces at the very thought of speaking my heart screamed, its high-pitched ringing bouncing in my ears. I wished she looked hurt, that she was offended by my silence but she stood with her soft gentle motherliness and soaked up the tranquillity like a sponge. “We’re going camping,” she said. I nodded. She stayed  still, waiting for me. I wished there was something I could busy myself with but there was none. I wished desperately that I could object, that I could say anything but despite my best efforts I could not form any words. I opened my mouth and let out a dusty groan like that of a car that would never run again. I felt tears of desperation well in my eyes and quickly brushed them away, but still she saw me. “Come outside nhanha, ” she urged the soft Shona words rolling off her tongue softly. Finally, I nodded and followed her out to the tent that sat in the middle of the garden. I saw a younger me linking arms with my brother as we rushed into that tent eager to make up long exaggerated stories and waste the day away. Sometimes I heard my voice soft, wispy, and other days loud and song like each day just a figment of my imagination. She placed a hand on my back and led me to the pair of chairs that sat next to the tent. I did not want to be near her. I wanted to climb into the tent and hide away from her but my stomach raged and rumbled with hunger and the food the boiled on the fire made my mouth water and so I sat. I kicked my shoes off and let my feet  graze the grass slowly and gently the long blades of grass tickling them softly. The ground was wet and had the familiar smell of the mud that came with the rain. I figured the electricity had gone because of the rain and hoped that it would return soon. She mixed the mealie-meal that was bubbling in the large pot and paused only to wipe the beads of sweat that formed on her forehead glistening like the stars in the endless night above us. “I could teach you,” she said looking at me expectantly once again. Before, she would have said that I needed to learn how to cook if I was going to get married. A small part of me wished she would become a mother again. That she would not look at me as if I were a ticking bomb that sat on the verge of exploding. I wished she would shout at me and point out the faults in everything that I did. I wished she would not present me with constant questions she knew I would never be able to answer. I could teach you, she had said as if I could simply say no and return to sitting and doing nothing. She could teach me, but it was up to me whether I wanted to be taught. I nodded and moved closer to her so that I could see her more clearly so that I could hear her explaining everything she was doing but I was not there. Instead, I was watching a memory play before me a memory that sat in front of me bright as day.  I reshuffled the deck of cards pausing every few seconds to use them as a fan. It was a hot day the type where your clothes clung to your body as if they were covered in glue and where the endless cups of ice cold water did nothing to quench your thirst. My brother sat with a triumphant grin as if he had won the game long before it had started. We played slowly each of us thinking our moves out carefully. In the next room our parents were fighting the sound of their raised voices echoing throughout the living room and bouncing off the walls. I wished they were not talking about me. About all the things that I had done. The door swung open and my mother looked angrily at me, I knew instantly I was in trouble. I was disposable to her, just a clump of flesh with which she could do anything she pleased. I closed my eyes bracing myself for the verbal abuse she was inches away from yelling. She told me to get up. Ignoring the violent shaking of my body, I got up and followed her to the kitchen. I stood up as straight as I could. I wanted to cry but my eyes had turned to sandpaper and scratched me every time I tried to blink. She touched my hands softly and traced the lines on my fingers. My heart was thumping against my rib cage, threatening to burst out of my chest. “You did this,” she said quietly. I nodded. It was my fault. She raised her hand and hit my cheek with all the force she could muster so that days later I would still feel the violent pang in my cheek as if there thousands of glass shards lodged into my face. “Disgusting girl,” she hissed. I nodded again. I already felt dirty, I wanted to claw away at my skin until it was all gone and I could finally be rid of everywhere her soft slender fingers had touched. “Now look what you’ve done. Your father is going now and he’s taking your brother,” she paused and moved so she stood next to my ear her warm breath sliding down to my eardrums. “Look what you’ve done demon child,” she whispered. I knew what she was going to say next. She was going to speak about the horrible curse I had cast on the family. How the shave that followed me would never let me go and would haunt anyone who got near me. It was then that I began to float as if time itself had stopped and I was floating in a dark glue. It was the Shave and they had taken my once again. Rudo tossed her diary aside and looked from the pill bottle that sat beside her to the rising and falling chest of her husband who slept next to her. She crawled out of the tent and sat looking up at the stars and the beautiful garden, which was illuminated by the soft kiss of the moon. “Ru?” her sleepy husband called before coming to join her outside. They sat quietly for a moment. “Have you been awake long? You should take the medication,” he said even though he knew she would not. Rudo was tired of all the doctors and specialists that tried hopelessly to find what was wrong with her and prescribed her to endless amounts of pills. ‘These will help you sleep’ ‘These will help you anxiety’ they assured her. Rudo did not want help fighting the Shave. They were, after all, her ghosts. She let them keep her up at night. She let them bite at her feet and hold back her tongue. She let the thick black cloud wash over her and she wore her memories like a heavy coat but she had stopped letting them steal her happiness away from her. They were a part of her now but she would not let them take anything away from her. “Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded and smiled happily at him before resting her head on his shoulders. She listened to the soft sound of his snores until the soft yellow disc finally rose from the end of the world.


Annabelle . The name catches in the corner of my conscious and jerks me to attention. I scan my surroundings, searching for the source of the simple word; the voice that brought it to life. The mother stands several feet in front of me, her hand clasped around her daughter’s arm, pulling her away from a colorful display of candy bars. Her long pink fingernails dig into the child’s flesh leaving tiny marks resembling a shark bite. Don’t touch that, she says. She glances in my direction and then pulls her child into a different aisle. I wonder what a small girl like that is doing out so late at night. Surely most eight-year-olds are in bed by now. The tired sting behind my eyes tells me that it is well past midnight. I nudge my empty cart down the aisle, past boxes and bags and bright stickers advertising big savings. I don’t need the cart. Don’t need anything in this store. Don’t really know why I’m here. Perhaps for nostalgia’s sake. You used to drag me out to the store once a week, and you would never go before ten. Said there were less crowds at that hour. I told you I was being deprived of sleep. You slapped my arm. You didn’t know how hard sleep was for me back then. The shapes in front of me begin to register and I wonder how I have managed to wander into the cereal aisle. Perhaps driven by hunger. But I am not hungry. And you made me stop eating cereal a long time ago. Too much sugar , you said. It’s bad for you. You were always telling me to stop doing things. I keep moving forward because it is the only thing I know how to do. Put one foot in front of the other until I reach my destination, even if I don’t yet know what that is. But I remember now. I came here to get you a gift. Tomorrow is your anniversary. One year ago you married Freddy, ran off to South Africa, and left me in LA. I lift my gaze toward the blinding overhead lights and blink against the stabbing brightness, searching the signs swinging from the ends of the aisles for what I need. I start toward the office supplies department. It was always your favorite place in this store. I know just what I will get you. I will not get Freddy anything. He already has the one thing I value most in life: you. But I cannot blame you for this. It would have happened eventually, with or without him. Our lives were not meant to be spent side by side forever. But I’ve never been able to keep a friend as long as I’d kept you. Just last year, we were all we had. I will never forget those memories. We never went to parties, or dances, or joined sororities. We holed up in our dorm room all year; you wrote stories for every publication imaginable, and I worked on my novel. When you got the scholarship for the semester abroad and I didn’t, you went without me. Which was logical. I’m glad you did. Now you are a journalist in Cape Town, and I am a waitress in LA. My feet move across the scarred linoleum tiles with purpose now. The back left wheel of my cart squeaks loudly. A few people glance up. I do not look at them. I focus on the red office supplies sign in front of me; a guiding beacon to my wandering body. Then I see them. If you were here, I never would have spotted them. You would have told a funny joke, or pointed out something else; anything to distract me. But you are not here. Haven’t been here for a long time. So I take a tiny box from the rack and toss it into my cart. You were always trying to get me to quit smoking. Hated the smell of it in our dorm. It’s not good for you, you said. I don’t care. You will when you get lung cancer. I might be dead before that happens. You might not. I don’t care. But after you left, I did care. I thought if I could clean up and make something of myself, you would come back for me. I was stupid. Am stupid. But stupid got me clean for eight months. That ends tonight. I want to feel the harsh cloud in my lungs again. Want to breathe away your memory with the hot tendrils of bitter fire. I take my time going down each aisle, trying to examine each pen and notebook with the enthusiasm you used to. You used to see the potential in everything. Maybe that’s why you were my friend. You saw the potential in me, and when nothing came from it, you bailed. I take notice of a small leather journal on one of the bottom racks and reach down to touch it’s smooth surface. Clutch it, turning the dark glossy book over and over in my hands, fingering the heavy pages and giving the pen loop a good stretch. I think I start to see what you might have seen. I drop it in the cart. You will have it filled in less than a month. Probably a dozen stories will be born in it’s ivory pages. And then it will be forgotten. Just like I was forgotten. I decide I need a card next. It would be the polite thing to send, despite the fact that I will always view this anniversary as the day you left me, forgot me, and not the day you got married. To the photographer who stole your heart. Who made your stories come to life with images, flew away with you to Cape Town, gave you something more than friendship. More than I ever could. It is the anniversary of when I lost my friend. I’m not sure what I hope to gain by sending you a journal and card. Perhaps it is a last desperate plea that you remember me. Tell your children about me one day. About our friendship, however brief, however imperfect. Perhaps I hope that it will cause you to remember me. To reach out after nearly a year of silence that has stretched between us, pushing us further from each other than physical distance ever could. But I don’t need you anymore, and you don’t need me. We used to, though. There is no shortage of anniversary cards to choose from. I reach for one with two animated pears on the front, smiles like they’ve just won the lottery, mustache and bow identifying the genders. You’re the perfect pear, it says. It’s perfect for Freddy. You would hate it. You never bought into that kind of cheesy, over-the-top clichè. I return the card to it’s slot. I settle for a plain white card with a swirl of pink hearts across the front and an all too cheerful Happy Anniversary! I toss it into the cart. It’s one thirty in the morning. I drag myself to the front of the store, eyes stinging harder now from lack of sleep. I blink rapidly to stay awake. An unenthusiastic cashier with dark circles under his eyes is ringing up the mother with the pink nails. Her small daughter watches me; the girl who shares your name. I wonder if she will turn out anything like you. Like my Annabelle. I stare at her. She stares at me. What do you want? I want to ask. To scream. As if she’s read my mind she points a confident finger at my near empty cart. Those are not good for you, you know, she says. I follow the line of her finger to the box of cigarettes. I know. Why are you buying them? The little girl’s mother is finished paying now and she shushes her daughter, pulling her away from me. She shoots me the same judgmental glance you used to give me all the time when you caught me smoking. They leave the store. I buy the card and journal. I don’t buy the cigarettes.


On the Way to Easy Street Jolene and I have this deal. No matter what our week was like we go out on Saturday night. Nothing big. Just a restaurant, maybe a movie. We get some time with each other and away from the kids, and they get time away from us.

I love our kids. But a four-and five-year-old can suck the life out of you faster than a vampire on speed. Steven, the older one, likes to make believe I'm a ladder and climb to my shoulders. And Lynn tries to do whatever her brother does. So I have these two kids climbing all over me.

It's fun for about five minutes. Of course I'm at work most of the day, so it's really on Jolene. She's amazing. I'm surprised the church hasn't declared her a living saint. It was her idea to stay home when Steven was born, and it seemed natural for her to keep staying home with Lynn.

She says she doesn't regret it because the kids are so well-behaved, at least in public. Steven is already reading and Lynn sounds out everything she sees.  She's always asking, “What's that word? What's that say?” after making “t-t-t” or “b-b-b” sounds.

Which also offers five minutes of fun before it grows old. Jolene is looking forward to Lynn starting kindergarten. Steven started this year. Jo wants to go back to work full-time. She was a legal secretary before we married, and she's worked a little part-time since. But she says it's not the same. I tell her she can go back anytime, we'll find a way to work it out, but she wants to wait until Lynn starts school in the fall. She's really a great mother and wife, but lately she hasn't been herself. I figure it's this flu bug that's been going around. Maybe going out tonight is what she needs to get out of her funk.

"What do you want to do tonight?" I ask. "Your sister'll be here soon. You want to eat and see a movie?" "I don't care. You decide."

I check the movie schedule and there's something we both want to see starting at 7:30. "We could eat at six," I say, "and have plenty of time to get to the movie, especially if we go to that Chinese place near the theater. The one we have a coupon for."

She says she doesn't want to eat there.

 "What's wrong? You still have that virus?" I try reaching out to her, but she pulls away. "No. I don't have a virus."

When she's angry or hurting, she wrinkles her forehead. Now her forehead is so wrinkled she looks like she's wearing an old lady mask, the kind kids wear on Halloween. She doesn't say anything. She just looks at me like she's trying to remember who the hell I am and why I'm in the same room with her. "If you're not feeling well, we could call Pam and stay home." "No. I want to go out." "So name another place. Isn't Red Lobster near the movie theater?" She makes a face. "I don't want seafood." "Italian?" "No." "Then you tell me what you want to do." I raise my voice a little. The kids had been playing in the other room, but they come to the kitchen to find out what we're fighting about. "Why you talking loud, daddy?" Steven asks. "Because your momma's being a pain," I say. I try putting my arms around her waist to show the kids I'm not really mad at their mother, but she has the same look she had before. Only now she doesn't want me on the same planet with her. She tells the kids to go play while she fixes dinner. And she tells me to go to hell. Just like that. At least she waited for the kids to leave the room. "Me? What'd I do? I just wanted to take you out. The hell with you."

I start to walk away, but just as I do, she says, "I'm pregnant, damn it! You made me pregnant!" #

Not the most romantic way to learn news like that. I remember the first time, with Steven. We were in bed and she was resting her head on my chest. She asked if I want to have a baby, and I said, "Sure."

She whispered, "How about seven months from now?" "Sure. You want to start trying in seven months?" I can be real thick sometimes. "No." She lifted her head and looked at me. I can still remember the way she was smiling, kind of nervous and shy, like she looked the first time she spent the night at my apartment. It suddenly dawned on me. "Seven months is good," I said. "Real good." And we started kissing and laughing. We made love after that. I said it was to make sure it took. When she told me she was pregnant with Lynn, we were eating breakfast on a Saturday morning. Steven was in his highchair making a mess. I poured coffee into a mug she had on the table and started drinking. After a while, she asked, "Do you like the new mugs?" "Sure," I said, only half looking, because I need at least two cups of coffee before I'm human. Then I saw that nervous smile on her face again. I looked at the mug and it had "Expectant Father" written on it and I looked at hers and it had "Expectant Mother" on it. I didn't say anything at first. I just put down my mug, grabbed her hand, and said, "I love you."

"You better," she said, and we laughed like two children. Steven started laughing, too, and I thought how I must be the luckiest man in the world. When Lynn was born, I said, "She's a beautiful girl. Now we have a matching set." "Shop's closed," Jolene said. "No more deliveries."

As soon as Steven started kindergarten, Jolene spoke with Bernie Nagle, her old boss, and he said he'd be happy to have her back full-time. To be honest, I started figuring how we could make double payments on the mortgage with the extra money or save for the kids' education. I make decent money, enough for us to live on, but not enough for us to move to Easy Street. I think about how we could take a good vacation. The kids are old enough to appreciate Disneyland and I know Jolene always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. With two salaries, we could do some of those things, instead of just talk about them. So when Jolene said she was pregnant again, this time we didn't celebrate. #

"Are you sure?" I ask. "Of course I'm sure."

I put my arms around her. "We'll make it work."

She backs away and whispers, like she's afraid of anyone hearing her. "What if I don't want it to work?" Her nose is red and her hands are shaking. "What if I don't want another child?" I just stare. I know I don't really want another baby either, starting all over with diapers and all, but hearing it out loud scares me. It's weird, but the first thing I imagine is my mother's face. I see her squinting her eyes, the look she has when she disapproves. "A baby is a gift from God," I hear her saying. I realize I'm staring at Jolene. Worse, I'm squinting.

She turns from me and starts making dinner for the kids, adding tuna and peas to leftover macaroni and cheese. It sounds terrible, but it's the kids' favorite. As it warms, I try talking to her, but all I can say is, "It'll be all right, honey. You'll see." She pulls away and tells the kids to wash for dinner.

I pour two glasses of milk and get plates and silverware and put them on the kids' place mats. Then I sit down at the table. We usually join them when they eat, even if we're not eating.

"You want me to make you something?" Jolene asks. "No," I say. "I hope we're still going out." She looks at me with the saddest expression I've ever seen in my life. "I didn't know if you still wanted to go out with me." I swear it was everything I could do to keep from blubbering right there in front of the kids. # We decide to go to a new restaurant that opened nearby. It looks expensive, but we don't care. The waiter takes our drink order. I get a beer and Jolene orders vodka with club soda and a twist of lemon, but then she calls the waiter back and asks for cranberry juice instead. I don't say anything. We stare at each other for a long time. Finally, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a pamphlet. I see Woman's Clinic printed in bold lettering. Underneath it, I read, "You Have a Choice." I see the word, "abortion," but nothing I read registers. My heart feels like it's decided to stop backing up the other organs and take a solo. "When did you get this?" I ask. "Yesterday. I went there to make sure I was pregnant." She points to the pamphlet. "I talked with a counselor." "And this was her idea?" I don't like the tone in my voice, but I can't help it. "No, it wasn't her idea."  Jolene presses her lips together so tight she almost can't squeeze out the words. "I asked for the information. She told me it's a simple, safe procedure." I take her hand. The back of my throat is burning. "Could you go through with it?" "I don't know," she says.

Then she starts crying. I feel my eyes filling up, too. The waiter comes with our drinks and I turn away, like I'm looking at the menu. Jolene doesn't care. She lets the tears flow. I wish I could. I don't even remember what we ordered. All I know is we talk and talk, and we both finally admit we don't want another baby. "Aren't we being selfish?" I ask.

"What's wrong with being selfish?" Jolene looks at me and I see wrinkles under her eyes I never saw before. "Don't we deserve to be a little selfish? We're good parents. We're good people. We just need time for ourselves." I nod my head slowly. I admit how I'd been thinking about her salary and what we could do with extra cash. "It's not like I want the money to buy a Jaguar or something. I just want things to be easier for us." "I know," she says. And she starts crying again. # That night, we talk about God and sin and hell. Neither of us is what you'd call religious. My family is Catholic, but they hardly ever go to church. My mother used religion mostly to scare us as kids. She'd say that God was always watching, so we better do the right thing. I guess it worked because I tell Jolene that I feel God is listening in on us right now. "And I don't think He's happy."

As soon as I say that, I hate that I said it. The last thing I want to do is use God to make Jolene feel guilty.

I apologize. She says she understands. "But if there's a God, why would He do this to us? Why would He give us a child we don't want while Pam's been trying to get pregnant for eight years now? It's all so random."

I know nothing I could say would make any sense, so I just hold Jolene and let her cry.

# A day later, we're sitting in a small, stuffy room filled with files and boxes of rubber gloves, talking to a counselor about our "options." Jolene is sitting there holding a tissue, hardly saying anything. I know I'm talking too much. I do that when I get nervous.

Jolene grabs my hand, but her eyes don't meet mine. I see her bottom lip twitch when she tries to speak. At first, it's like she lost her voice. She moves her lips, but makes no sound. "God forgive me," I hear her whisper. "I don't want another baby." The counselor talks about adoption as an alternative, but Jolene shakes her head. I know she isn't listening because her eyes have the same look she gives me when I talk baseball. We spoke last night about having the baby and letting Pam adopt it, but Jolene said it would never work. She'd always know it was her child and she'd want to raise it her way. And if she gave the baby up for adoption without offering it to Pam, it would destroy their relationship. Finally, the counselor looks to Jolene and says, "There's no need to decide today. Why don't we make another appointment in two days? If abortion is your choice, we can make arrangements then." I feel like I'm going to throw up. The counselor comes around her desk and hugs Jolene. I'm just sitting in my chair afraid to move. I finally stand up and go to Jolene. I tell her I love her. I kiss her and squeeze her tight. The counselor smiles and holds out her arms to hug me. "I was talking to my wife," I say, and we all laugh.

It's good hearing Jolene laugh, even though her eyes are red and puffy, and I'm shaking. We walk out of the office with our arms around each other. I can't say for sure if I'm holding her up or if she's keeping me from falling, but together we make our way out of the clinic, shading our eyes from the sun.


Jacob hadn’t wanted a lot out of life—maybe a place to call his own, a nice family and a little time to make art. He certainly wasn’t one of those people with drive and ambition, destined for big things. He was okay with a small life, as long as it was a happy one, but apparently, even that was too much to ask. He was forty-three now, and still hadn’t really settled in anywhere. He changed apartments each time another job fell through, and he did so on his own. One by one he had watched every relationship he had go sour and the small dreams he was after collapse in on themselves. Now, after twenty-five miserable years on his own, he was doing the one thing he had always sworn to himself he would never do—he was going back to stay with his parents. He was embarrassed as he drove into the old town. There was no one in the world with dreams small enough for Westland, not even Jacob himself. It had once been a farming town, full of men taming wild land to their own advantage, but a few years of drought and recession had hit the town hard. Not many people remained, and even fewer were happy to be there. The houses were run-down and many were abandoned. They were cheap at least, which was enough to trap what little population they still had. If you could survive the featureless landscape of the town, you could at least do so cheaply, and most of the people left in town simply didn’t have the money for anywhere else. Now, Jacob thought, that probably included him. He had mostly come to terms with moving back in with his parents, but it still stung his ego enough that he wasn’t ready to go straight there. Westland had exactly one bar, and he easily remembered where it was. He had spent half his time in high school handing around the place, flashing a fake ID that none of the bartenders bother to check. He headed there now, hoping he had enough money left to buy a couple of drinks at least. The bar was exactly as he remembered it, which somehow made him feel worse. If he thought back to the last time he was in this bar and compared it to now, all it did was remind him of the ways in which things had gone so wrong. He almost turned his back, but he didn’t think he could go home sober. He was sure his dad had a whole lecture planned about the merits of farming as a career. “I’ll take whatever’s cheap,” he said, collapsing on the first stool with a sigh. Everything in the place was cheap, but it was a popular request so he wasn’t questioned. The bartender slid a single shot glass his way. The candid liquid lightly rose and fell from side to side for a moment and reflected the dull humming lights from the bar back at Jacob, who couldn’t bring his eyes to look anywhere else. It felt as though the weight of the world took a taunting perch atop his shoulders and he had no choice but to succumb to it’s will. “What is this stuff?” he asked the bartender without looking up. “You don’t want to know.” Jacob nodded and took the shot. It burned his throat as it went down, and he nearly coughed in surprise. He’d had alcohol plenty of times, but not like this. The alcohol content wasn’t so much a problem as the acrid flavor that invaded his nose and mouth. He shook his head to try and clear it, the after taste was bitter like vinegar. Jacob finally looked up at the bartender for the first time. He had been meaning to ask for another drink, but his words caught in his throat. He knew the girl behind the counter. “Maddie?” he asked, surprised to see her in an apron. Really he was just surprised to see her at all. She shot a forced smile at him. “Actually, I go by Madison now.” “Right,” Jacob repeated. “Madison. It’s good to see you.” “I guess,” Madison said, reaching behind her and pouring him another drink. “This isn’t exactly the scenario I would have preferred if I was going to see you again.” “Looking for a little more drama?” Jacob asked, swallowing down the next shot with a grimace. “Looking for a little more success,” Madison admitted. “Hard to throw a successful life in your ex-boyfriend’s face if you haven’t got a successful life to brag about.” “If it makes you feel better, I haven’t got a lot of success going on either,” Jacob admitted. “You walked into a bar and asked for something cheap. I kind of figured,” Madison said. “I think I’d be a bit embarrassed if it hadn’t been so long,” he admitted. “What’s it been, twenty-five years since high school?” “Twenty-seven since our last date,” Madison said. “We broke up sophomore year.” “Right,” Jacob nodded. “I forgot about that.” He wished he could say he remembered that day clear as ice, but he really barely remembered it at all. He thought there had been something to do with a Valentine’s day dance and some comments she had made about a football player. It all seemed so high-school, looking back. He looked up to comment on that to Madison, but she had already moved on. She was serving the only other customers in the bar, two teens who were giggling over their shots and couldn’t possibly be overage. Jacob wondered if he and Madison had ever looked like those two kids, hands all over each other as they found relief from the dull town in each other’s arms. He couldn’t remember if they had ever really kissed. As soon as Madison was done with the teenagers, she returned to Jacob. She poured him another shot that he wasn’t even sure he could afford, but he didn’t drink it yet. He rubbed his thumb along the smeared edge of the shot glass and looked back up at Madison. He felt like he should say something more, continue their conversation, but it had been so long since they last talked that he had no idea what to say. “So are you in town long?” she asked, seemingly thinking the same thing. “Or just dropping in for a while?” Jacob really didn’t want to admit his living situation, but there was a genuine curiosity in Madison’s eyes. He figured he would have to get comfortable telling people at some point, and he could always avoid the bar later if she was cruel about it. “Hopefully I’ll be out of here soon,” he said. “I ran out of options and money, so I’m actually coming back to live with my parents for a while.” Madison grimaced, but she didn’t seem to be mocking him. She pushed a stray hair out of her face. “That sounds really rough. I know you fought for years to get out of this place.” “I guess you can only fight for so long,” Jacob said, finally drinking the shot she had poured. He looked up at her. “That’s probably all I can afford.” “I’d offer you some on the house, but the bar can’t afford that, and neither can I,” Madison said. “It’s fine,” Jacob said. He hadn’t been looking for a free drink, he just really couldn’t blow more money here. “I just needed enough liquid courage to get me through my dad’s lecture.” “Well you were always a lightweight. Three will probably be enough.” Jacob smiled, and he found that he wanted her to stay and talk a little longer. She was sweet and understanding, and something about her made him long to stay close to her. He couldn’t even think of a reason why, but he wanted to keep talking to her. “I’ve laid my cards out on the table and they aren’t very good,” he pointed out. “Now’s your chance to do that bragging you were talking about. You don’t even need a lot of success to throw it in my face.” Madison smiled and shook her head. “Still not a lot to throw at you. I’m not living with my parents, but I am still living in Westland, which is practically the same thing. I think I told you in high school that I wanted to be a stock-broker, and as you can see, that didn’t work out.” “Maybe not,” Jacob said. “You’ve still got a shot at it though. I think most stock-brokers are pretty ancient.” “What did you say about only being able to fight for so long?” Madison said. “I think I’m a little too old to run off chasing a pipe dream.” Jacob would have said the same thing in her position, but it felt bad to hear her give up like that. It made the world feel just a little darker than it had before and a little more unforgiving. “I guess you’re right,” he said, shaking his head. Madison returned to the teenagers and gave them a bit more to drink. They were only getting louder with every glass they poured them, and a normal bar probably would have cut them off by then. This one simply didn’t have the money to refuse a paying customer, something that Jacob himself had taken advantage of quite a bit in his youth. “You know, I don’t really have a lot of friends left in town,” Madison admitted when she came back. “Westland is the kind of place you move away from, so everyone I used to know is pretty scattered. If you wanted to go get coffee or something I’d be down for that.” “Does Westland even have a coffee shop?” “Oh, yeah, they built it like ten years ago. The coffee is horrible, but they’ll let you hang around for as long as you want. Really friendly staff,” Madison said. Jacob smiled. “That sounds great. If I managed to survive my dad’s lecture, I’ll be there.” They exchanged phone numbers and a couple more hours of pleasant conversation. Jacob was beginning to wonder how he could have forgotten her. She was sweet, and honest and genuine. He didn’t know whether their plan to get coffee was meant to be a date, but the more he talked to her, the more he hoped that it was. Madison could be the first good thing to happen to him in years. “I should probably be heading out,” he said, staggering to his feet. “Won’t make my dad any happier if I’m late.” “Keys,” Madison said without explanation. “What?” “Give me your keys,” she said. “I’m not going to let you drive.” “I had a couple of drinks a few hours ago,” he said. “I’m not even tipsy anymore, and even if I was, there’s no one else on the road.” “You make good conversation,” Madison said. “I’m not going to let you throw that away by driving out of here.” Jacob groaned, but he handed off the keys. It would be a long walk on his own in the dark, but Madison was probably right. He probably should not be behind the wheel. “I can give you a ride if you can wait a bit,” Madison offered. “Bar’s about to close, so all I’ve really got to do is get those kids out of here, then I’ll be free.” “That sounds great,” Jacob said, and he meant it. All in all, it took Madison about an hour to close up the bar and get the kids on their way home. She took their keys too, though only one of them really had a car. She waited until there was someone there to pick them up before she was ready to go. “Your parents still on that old house by the river?” Madison asked him, getting into the driver’s seat of his car. “Yeah,” he said, leaning his head against the headrest. “Nothing much ever changes in this town.” They drove down the old road, Jacob’s car thrown around by every bump. It was too dark out to see much of anything, and the farmlands passed in a blur outside of the window. There was house to break things up every once in a while, but they were nothing more than dark blurs against an indistinct background. “Do you remember what it was like when we were dating?” Madison asked. It was the one thing they hadn’t really talked about in the bar. They had commiserated over failures in life and whined about the dreary town, but they had not talked about the one experience they had truly shared: high school. “Not really,” Jacob admitted. “I remember you yelling at me about the color of my tie, then shoving a rose into my hand. I still have a mark where the thorn pricked me.” Madison grimaced. “I forgot about that.” Jacob felt bad for bringing it up. “I’m sure there are a lot nicer things I could remember.” “Yeah,” Madison said. There was a bit of a lull, then she continued. “Do you know what I remember most? I was sitting in the cafeteria, and you came in with this big goofy smile on your face. You had bought these really cheesy heart shaped chocolates from some convenience store, and you couldn’t wait to see my reaction to them.” “I don’t remember that,” Jacob admitted. “I figured you wouldn’t. I didn’t even really react to the chocolate—I didn’t think it was a big deal. I guess it wasn’t, but you were so enthusiastic that I feel a little bad for not giving you a little bit more.” The car stopped then and Jacob recognized the house he had grown up in. He didn’t want to go back. if it was up to him, he would stay here with Madison and laugh about the past forever. Neither of them moved yet. They weren’t ready. “You know, I always thought we would be dating again by senior year,” Madison said, filling the silence. “The way we broke up was so stupid, and I felt like we would get another chance at it before we graduated.” “I guess we never did,” Jacob said. “Not before graduation,” Madison said. It took Jacob a moment to realize the gravity of her words and he looked over at her. There was twinkle in her eyes and just enough moonlight was seeping in through the window to light her from behind, like his own personal angel. He found himself leaning across the seat towards her and she noticed that she was doing the same. When their lips met, it was as if a puzzle piece had finally clicked into place. All his time struggling out in the world, all his failures, everything he resented about his life had led him here, back to Madison. They pulled away for a moment and Madison smiled at him. “I look forward to that coffee date,” she said, opening the door. Jacob smiled, and when he walked up to the front door of his parent’s house, he wasn’t feeling so lost anymore. In the span of a kiss, Westland had started to feel a lot bigger and a lot more interesting.


“Through Floating Mists of Time” It’s Saturday afternoon. Bake a cake Saturday. It was a tradition that began when I was about 4 years old with my Mum but now it’s with Grandma who came to live with us after Grandpa died. We’ve made pancakes, florentines, cup cakes with pink icing and hundreds and thousand sprinkled on top. Lamingtons with raspberry jam and lots of cream. My all time favourite. Today it’s Grandma’s famous chocolate cake. She’s won so many awards for her cakes and jams, shiny silver ones, big and small that line the kitchenette shelves. I think she’s very happy to have won so many. Her cakes are really delicious so I guess that’s why. When I started school she always put some of her special cakes or biscuits in my lunch box that I would sometimes share with my friends. We’ve begun and I stand beside her barely tall enough to see above the bowl as brown sugar crystals fall, releasing wafting scented veils of caramel. Eggs cracked on ceramic bowl’s rim splinter shells whilst slippery, clear albumen and balls of sunshine gold escape to soak the sugar crystals below. As Grandma beats the ingredients I reach into the bag of flour to fill the measuring cup but there’s not enough. Only half a cup that I shakily spill and the fine powder covers the bench top white. Grandma says it’s ok we’ll clean it up later and asks me to fetch another bag of flour from the pantry. I skip quickly into the gloom of the pantry as shadows lay thick upon the floor and laden shelves. I reach for the flour but it’s not there. But it is there. The bag is where it always has been but then again I see that it’s not there. Disappearing to reappear again when suddenly my hand and all of me slips through the thin walled paper bag into the floury space behind it and I dissolve into mists of powdery white nestled deep within clouds of silk. All around me I see clouds stretching to the horizon some small, large floating high above in colours bright and so wonderfully magical. I wonder where I am. I turn and ahead of me I see a gathering of people young, old, and carried on the wind children’s laughter drifts toward me. I step out upon a cloud as it becomes a candy pink coloured winding path that leads me to them. I see a tall lady standing a little apart from the others. She turns  her arms are outstretched in welcome and knowingly I run into her loving embrace that holds me ever so close and I feel her tears upon my cheek and I hear her trembling voice say “I love you so very much my precious daughter”. My mother who left us, me and my father. Slipped away not that long ago escaping her pain. Pain I did not, could not understand. The pain my father could not explain not hers nor his. I missed her so so very much then. It hurt so much and the emptiness of her inside me never filled. I’ve missed her always since. I never knew why she had to go. I was a toddler still and couldn’t understand, not ever.

I am here and I breathe in her smell. My mother’s smell that wrapped around me as I was born and never left. It’s always been with me. Mine forever. It’s the bond that is nurturing and ever timeless even when there were no arms to hold me, no lips to brush against my brow nor fingers clasping mine. She was still with me and sometimes I thought I saw her shadowed figure walk into my bedroom or sitting on my bed with a favourite book she used to read to me. Then she and the book would fade away leaving behind a lingering trace of her special smell. No one else could see her and I didn’t tell anyone because she was letting me know that she was still here, with me and the knowing was mine alone. Now I look into her eyes that swallow me up and feel the tears, warm, flowing with mine into the well that holds our sorrow. Hers and mine entwined with the rising overflowing well of joy and boundless love.

How did I slip through the membrane of reality of there and here. Through the white powdery mists of flour. How and why was my mother able to change this fabric of reality to have me with her again and her with me? I hear her words flow within me. Of her love for me that never fades. Words that tell me a little of why she left at a time when I could not comprehend her leaving nor my loss with nothing to replace it. She infuses me with a knowing that gently unwraps revealing her truth that allows me to know it, a small part of it. Enough to absorb for now. Memories shared till I know all that I need to know to close the door upon my lingering threads of pain and loss.

I sense the time to leave is close. A wrenching pain passes between us till love extinguishes it and we float lightly in the eternal knowledge that this moment will live within me for always. She reaches for me, her arms folding about me cradling me and I’m again her child just born. I feel her precious love that will from this day ease my pain and loss of her. A gift I will treasure that will be with me forever.

In the shadowed pantry unaware that I’d slipped through the brown paper bag I reach up, take it from the shelf give it to Grandma who takes out some flour leaving mists of powdery white floating in the air between us and in that mist I see the shadow of my Mother whose arms wrap around me and she whispers “I love you” and all of a sudden I feel so light as happiness surrounds me.


*A/N: I just read The Fault in Our Stars ...leave me alone lol.* The day she died, I knew I was a lost soul. The moment the last breath left her body, I knew that it was going to be a long time before I loved people again. The second she left, I felt a stabbing pain in my heart, and then nothing. Absolutely nothing. *** I graduated high school with straight A's, even though I never studied for tests. Even though I spent all my after school time with her, running in grassy fields until dusk. After she was gone, I lived life in dull colors. I no longer paused to watch a leaf flutter to the ground, or to watch the last rays of sun disappear behind the looming mountains. I tried to pretend I was okay, knowing I was anything but. So one cold day I pulled out a notebook and a pen. The bare trees were outside my window as I wrote. *** Monday: 1/17/2018 Dear Future Me, I don't know how to start this letter, just like I won't know how to end it when I get going. I guess I'll just start with what has happened since she left. I can't believe it's been four years already. It seems like just yesterday. I don't like Subway anymore. It's crazy how the two of us used to go there all the time after school. I watched this new show called Stranger Things. She would have loved it. I'm sorry that she didn't get to see it. There was a solar eclipse last year. I watched it by myself, but I wasn't paying attention the way I should have. She would have been so pissed at me. I've been out of high school for three years, and I'm slowly working towards a master's degree in drama. She always told me I would be excellent on the stage. I thought I knew sadness. I thought that the gentle aching on the surface of my heart was all there was to it, something that could be removed through a kiss on the forehead by my mother. I suppose that was rather stupid of me. After she got sick, I didn't let myself think of the unthinkable. She was so strong, so powerful. The person least likely to get sick and die. But she did. She fought it for a long time, but one day her spirit died like a birthday candle, dragging her along with it. I've always felt like I don't have a right to be sad about it. Her parents were destroyed and they moved away; I haven't seen them since a week after the funeral. If you could call it that. She didn't want to be buried and have everyone wear black and be all "mopey". She wanted to be cremated and have a huge ash scattering party on Mt. St. Helens. She got very metaphorical and thoughtful after she got sick; we talked a lot about deep things when she was in the hospital. She compared herself (and the cancer) to the volcano. She said there were warning signs that went away (or so people thought) but then erupted, taking those close to her (and the mountain top) with it. I didn't realize how right she was until the funeral. We tried to have fun, but we were all too hollow. I got to throw a handful of her ashes into the wind. I had to throw the burned pieces of my best friend on the top of the symbolic mountain. But sadness reaches a different level at some point; your heart sinks away and you feel so much that you don't feel anything. She was more than my best friend. I'm trying to laugh thinking about her instead of feeling that numbness, and I'm only barely getting to that point. I try not to think about her sunken face and bluish eyelids. Instead I try to remind myself of her splendid hair, the color of a raven's wing. Instead I try to remind myself of her laughter, which will always be my favorite sound. One time a few months before she got diagnosed, she told me that she loved storms. So I asked her why. She told me, "I love how every clap of thunder makes your heart race and every flash of lightning makes you gasp a little bit. And afterwards it smells so fresh and the world seems brand new." That was when I knew how important you were to me. We'd been friends on and off for years, but that was when I really knew. You were more than my best friend. So I kissed you and you kissed me back as the storm raged outside. And it was, and still is, the best moment of my life. It's been hard to come to terms with your absence. Even now I still find myself scrolling through my contacts to send you a meme before remembering you won't ever see it. I still find myself turning my head when I'm walking and think of something before remembering only your ghost and the wind is with me. The last text I sent you was "I love you". And the last one you sent me was, "I'll see you tomorrow." But you died that night. I rushed to the hospital as you entered your final minutes. I was there when your soul left. And I can't get it out of my head. Even after all this time. I guess I've been running from these feelings for four years. Maybe that's why instead of writing "her" I started writing "you". Maybe I've been wanting to tell her this ever since she died. Now I feel like I have. I've felt her presence with me as I've been writing this. She's been guiding the good memories through my mind as I tried to remember all the wonderful things that came of our friendship. Now I can. I remember everything. I remember the fireflies and the popsicles and the hair blowing in the wind. Now when I think of her, those are the first things that come to mind, not her hands going slack in mine. Now I'm smiling as I write this, despite the ink splotches dotting this page like fireflies at twilight. I'm crying, but these are happy tears. For the first time ever. These are the tears she deserves. She deserves to be remembered for the fireflies and the rain, not the cancer and the volcano. So I'm going to give her what she deserves, finally. Maybe now I can finally be at peace. Maybe it will take some time, but hopefully I can do it. I'm in the production of Romeo and Juliet at my college, I should have mentioned that. She/you would have been so proud. Love, Me *** The crisp air of autumn blows on my face as I stand on the peak of Mt. St. Helens. This is where we scattered her ashes seven years ago. I came to burn this letter and return the words of devotion and heartache and hope back to her. She deserves them more than I do. Her memory will always be bittersweet, but with more sweet with each passing day. Taking a deep breath, I strike the match that is more than a match, the match that means acceptance and peace and hope.


We few -- No. No, we are many. We are strong. We are not pitiable.

We stand here today, few in number but strong in will --

That’s better. From the top. We stand here today, few in number but strong in will. We do not desire any unneeded violence. I make my --

Sorry.

We make our stand for equality, for our rights.

Did I say stand twice? Oh no, I’m being too redundant. Should I be writing this down? I lost my notes so long ago. I shouldn’t dwell. I’m wasting time. The static is waning… The people here have suffered at the hands of greed. We are starving, homeless, cold. This is how it is, this is what we were taught is life. What has damned us? Who decided, before we drew our first breath, that we must work our life away to take our second? This is life. The toilers have suffered this life since necessities were priced. Our mothers cradled our heads, sang us to sleep, and whispered that this was life. As we tried to sleep, our mothers wept from the pain in their bones. Is this your life? Wait, no. Don’t refer to a specific entity. General statement, general audience. We would have borne this life. Our bones were prepared to ache. Alas, we are here. Alas, we ache in new patterns. And it has become unbearable. We few, our numbers dwindled and frail, drained by man-made evils, stand here. Hundreds more, thousands more, sleep. Millions. They cry. They twist and turn and sweat and die. They spit blood on floors built by their own hands, their ancestors’ hands… Is this life? Is this the life that we were born into? Was this inevitable? Would you like to hear this story from the beginning? The sickness came in through the water, they say. Those scientists, in their ivory towers, proclaiming the truth without seeing her face.

Too emotional. I must be taken seriously.

The sickness was predicted. It was written in newspapers, broadcast on TV. But we didn’t have a spare dollar to buy the news these days, and our TV only gets cable when you hit the side just right. I mean, honestly. In this economy? No comedy. I have to be taken seriously. Appeal to emotion, but be professional. Was it written in newspapers? Or is that just what they tell themselves so they can sleep soundly? Was it whispered at the formal parties, announced over private government gatherings? Nevertheless, the infection drove on, burrowed deep. We learned, eventually.

And yet, this is life. Our strength was sapped, our breath was stolen, and yet. We woke, we dressed, and we locked our doors, if we had them, behind us. And we served you with smiles.

Don’t use you! You, you, you. If only there was just you. One killer, one perpetrator. One drink to poison…

Time is running out. Before we could make our demands, we were given our crumbs and told to fetch. And that was life. Our mothers sang and chided us, preached to us to appreciate what we have. And then she went to work. And then she fell sick. And she went to work. And then she died. And I went to work the next day. Did you think she appreciated what she had? Did she die wearing the same smile she carved for her livelihood? Oh, fuck it. This doesn’t matter.

I hope you know what we demand now. Do you understand? I don’t want your mother to ache. I don’t want crumbs. I don’t want what was life before, what is life now. I don’t want what you have. I want you to understand. I want you to look at me. I want the blood cleaned off the floor. I want the water to be clean. I want to wake with a smile that I didn’t carve. I want my mother back. And I want so badly to crush your skull. So completely that your tears run red and you can’t form a thought. But I won’t. That would kill only you. And then your child would take up your staff, and run me through, claiming justice. And worst of all, when I died, my mother would be so, so disappointed.

We are not few. We are one. And I am the last. I never went to law school or got gold stars on my grammar quizzes. I’m not sure if you understand this concept, but I am here out of desperation. I am here out of love.

And I am here because I am the last one. I won’t tell you my mother’s name, but know that she died crying. In her last moments, was she filled with compassion, empathy for you? No. The only thing she could feel was pain. At least she didn’t die screaming, like my sister. At least she didn’t die in a ditch, like my father, too far from home for me to recover the body. I sat shiva alone.

What I want is not possible in your eyes. I understand. This is life. So instead, I will tell you what will happen next. Not a demand, just a truth. I will die. Painfully, slowly, by your hands, or by the throes of your disease. And you will have to make a decision. Will it be your children, next? Will it be the lawyers, the bankers, the mathematicians? Who will be chosen to work? Who will build the floors that they will die on? You will die. But your children’s children’s children will be here as well. They will stand before someone like me and will have to choose who is next. And slowly, slowly, slowly, your numbers will dwindle. Twisting and turning, sweating and crying and dying in the trenches that you put them in.

And then it will be you. And then maybe you will understand.

We are many. I am you. The work will always need to be done.


“There’s Always a Cassandra” by Elizabeth Fenley He always apologizes, the Babadook whose name he told me is Ensos, for bringing me the dreams. I ask why he has to bring the dreams at all—and why bring them to me? He says solemnly, “You are now the Cassandra. There must always be one.” He stares at me with vacant eye sockets, his skeletal face stretched tight with thin-sheeted rubbery pale skin. His black top hat, worn, crumpled, dusty though it is, gives him an air of dignity, of reserved poise, even grace. When his long skinless boned fingers stretch to remove the hat, the nightmare begins. I write them down when I wake up from them—sweating, panicked—in the middle of the night or by the screech of my unforgiving alarm clock. I’ve heard anyone with especially vivid dreams should keep a dream journal, and then you could look back at your dreams and decipher the symbolism found in them. Only my dreams aren’t symbolic. They are foretellings. The people are real, the events are real. The neighbor’s mother fell on the icy front steps of the house while I was having a snowball fight with my boyfriend. The ambulance took her away. Patrick couldn’t understand why I was so upset. I pulled him inside, shaking off snow and ice. I showed him the entry in the journal from two nights before. It was identical. I remember the image. Watching it happen in real life was like déjà vu; if I hadn’t written it down, I would have shaken it off as a brain malfunction—short term memory accidentally rerouted to long term memory. Patrick read it, skimmed it really, and then looked up at me shaking his head. “It’s just a coincidence. You knew there would be snow. You must have heard your neighbor telling your mom about the visit.” “No, I didn’t, she didn’t---” “This says she died in your dream. She didn’t die. So it’s nothing. Just your subconscious processing shit you haven’t gotten around to. Nothing to worry about. Did I tell you about that time I dreamed….” He told me about his weirdest dreams and a few nightmares from his childhood, mostly about monsters, snakes in his bed, getting trapped in a closet full of spiders, while we sat by the fire drinking hot chocolate. I listened, dropping little marshmallows in and stirring them around, watching them congeal and melt, sipping the froth off the top and then adding more. The next morning, my dad told me Mrs. Matresse’s mother died before they got to the hospital. We all signed a card for the flowers my mother took over with the turkey tetrazzini. I texted Patrick when I heard, but he told me not to “be all caught up in the dream.” My own boyfriend wouldn’t even try to believe me. I didn’t tell anyone else. After the fifth dream about someone dying, I asked Ensos why all the dreams were about death. “I am Babadook, bone built of grief. Death is my companion. I am Her messenger.” “Do you take death nightmares to other people? Or just me?” He stood silently for a moment. He was always careful in developing his words. “There is only one Cassandra for each time, each plane of existence.” “Plane of existence? What are you---” “I have visited others for millennia. Now, I bring you The Sight. There have been many before, as there will be many after.” “After what? After I die? What happened to the last one?” Empty bone somehow conveyed his sadness. “The last dream I will bring you will be of your own death. When it is time.” He removed his hat, placing it somberly across his chest as he faded, and the next nightmare began. A family of five killed in a car accident on any icy bridge driving home from Thanksgiving dinner. Again, I showed Patrick the dream journal entry from two days before Thanksgiving and the story on the news website to match. He accused me of writing the story down after it happened. “You’re calling me a liar? I’m telling you these horrible things I dream about, and then I walk around just waiting for them to happen. Can you imagine how that feels? To know somebody’s going to die, and you’re the only one who knows, but there’s nothing you can do about it? Why the hell would I make that up?” “God, dramatic much?” “You think I’m doing this for attention? For sympathy?” “Either that or you’re killing them yourself and this is some kind of insanity defense,” he replied with a stupid grin on his face—one I almost slapped out of existence. “Or maybe I’m just crazy! Maybe that’s it.” “Listen, Alexandra—” He reached out to grab my hand, but I flung his hand away. “No. I won’t listen to you. You don’t believe me. My own boyfriend won’t even fucking believe me. You know what? Fuck you then.” Patrick spread his hands, as if to say “See?” “Get out. Now.” He stood up, dropping my journal on my bed. “Major. Drama. Queen.” “Whatever. Just leave.” That night, Ensos brought me a dream of a school shooting. Sixteen students, four teachers, and the principal killed. Twenty others injured. When I woke, I spent an hour throwing up. I didn’t bother checking to see that it was true. December was full of fires from faulty Christmas lights and one about a candle from a Menorah. The week before Christmas, armed robberies of shoppers putting newly-purchased gifts in their cars and families killed in their homes for the presents under their trees. On Christmas Eve, a man who had lost his job killed his entire family and then himself rather than face a joyless, giftless Christmas. Seven kids, his wife, and her elderly mother. After that I stopped keeping the journal. When an unknown respiratory virus killed a dozen babies in the NICU, I burned it. I asked Ensos to stop apologizing, to just skip right into the dream. He did not speak, simply lowered his hat and his head. My parents took me to doctors and therapists when I stopped sleeping. I thought if I didn’t dream, it wouldn’t happen. After a few nights, I fell asleep on the couch—even though I’d used up every K-cup of coffee. The doctors found nothing wrong with me—underweight, exhausted, stressed. They suggested melatonin, yoga, guided sleep meditation, and ironically, journaling. And they all referred me to a therapist. I didn’t tell the therapists, of course, about Ensos or the dreams or the journal. I made up things, exaggerated about school stress and breaking up with Patrick. Otherwise, I would end up in some mental hospital on Lithium and sleeping pills. I dropped out of college my junior year after I dreamed about a suicide on our campus. I worked as a waitress, took shifts in retail during holiday seasons. My parents were disappointed in my failure “to reach my potential” and wanted me to go back into therapy, but they couldn’t make me. I avoided serious relationships, never spent the night. I had acquaintances at work, but no real friends. I couldn’t go through the questions, and I wouldn’t chance telling anyone again—not after Patrick. The night before I turned thirty, Ensos spoke. “This will be the last.” I cried through the whole dream. Relief. It was someone else’s turn to be Cassandra.