Please note: This story contains use of strong language and adult themes. Marti returned to the register, the beer from the six pack dropped by the local drunk causing her shoes to stick to the floor. “Hi,” she acknowledged, hoping to avoid as much conversation with the plump, middle-aged man as possible.

“Why are you in such a bad mood? You should smile more. You’d be so much prettier,” he admonished.

“You need gas? Where you at out there?” She eyed him indifferently, ignoring the comments so typical of insecure men. It was like they were reading from a script.

“Maybe you should be nicer to your customers, you little bitch?” He leaned across the counter.

She took a step back, her shoes making a loud peeling sound. “You need gas? Which pump?” She jabbed at a key on the register. “Are you the Escape or--”

“The silver one,” he interrupted.

A hint of a smirk crossed her face. “Okay. Paying for everyone.”

“Listen here, you little smart ass—what’s your name? Give me the number to the store. I’m going to call your boss and report you!”

“Keep in mind that I get paid $5.15 an hour, so go for it. Now, do you want gas or not? ‘Cause if you don’t, please leave. I got stuff to do.”

The door buzzer sounded and Marti was almost relieved at the interruption. “Hey! It’s you!” a voice exclaimed.

She looked over and pretended to be glad to see Gary, a regular from her former job at the hardware store. “Hay-ey.”

Gary stepped in front of the middle-aged man. “You done here, man?”

“Good luck with that little bitch! She got a terrible fucking attitude!” the man retorted as he slammed his palm against the glass of the door, leaving a print behind as he left. “You little cunt.”

“Yeah, fuck you too!” Gary hollered after him. He leaned an elbow on the counter, smiling broadly. “I got you, girl.”

Marti sighed. She really didn’t want to ask. “How you been?” she offered. She glanced into the lot. Empty. Great.

“Aw, you know how it is. Keeping busy—hustling.” He curled his chin towards his shoulder. “You’re looking fine,” he continued. “You should go out with me. My woman left, so I’m all yours, baby.”

“Treasure the thought,” she countered, “but I’m a lesbian.”

He shook his head, raising his eyebrows and looking at her chest. “I’m okay with that. I’ll treat you right. You and your fine little ass.”

“That means I don’t..like..dick.” Oh, mama—why, why?!

“I’ll make you change your mind. Come on, baby. Marry me.”

“Listen,” Marti demanded, her voice rising, “If you were the last fucking person on the earth, you still wouldn’t have a chance with me. Now, if you don’t mind, I got shit to do.”

She took two long, sticky paces towards the end of the counter before the phone rang. She stomped her foot. “God!” As she padded over to the phone, she glanced at the clock—1:32. Less than half an hour until Brant would arrive and she still hadn’t even gotten a chance to count cigarettes, yet. “Salem bp. How may I help you?” she cooed.

Static crackled momentarily on the other end of the line. “Hello?” she wondered.

“Hey Marti. It’s Brant. Hey, I’m not going to be making it in today.”

“Did you call Pam?” she demanded. Sure. Less than half an hour before he’s supposed to be here. Great. Stuck here ‘til 10:30 pm? Probably.

“Nah, man. You can call her. I gotta go. Later.” The line went dead. Marti snorted.

“Bad news?” Gary wondered. “You gotta stay late? I’ll keep you company.”

Marti glanced out the window. The lot was filling with cars. She rushed around the counter, over to Gary. As forcefully as she could, she pushed against him. “Get out!” she demanded. As she pushed him towards the door, he grabbed her butt cheek. She smacked him in the face before turning and padding back around the counter.

“Alright, baby. I might be back later. You like McDonald’s? I might bring you some food.” Gary responded, over his shoulder, bumping into a short older lady, who was attempting to come through the door. “’Scuse me, ma’am.” He nodded at the lady, before pointing at Marti and clicking his tongue.

“Hi, dear,” the lady began. “That pump out there isn’t working. Could you help me?”

Marti smiled. “Sure thing.” She followed the lady to the pump. Just as she thought. Why did people always stall out at selection of the grade? “You want regular?” she wondered.

“That should be fine, dear.”

Marti pressed the button for 87, squeezed the handle, and let the latch slide into place.

“Oh, bless you, dear,” the lady offered.

“No problem.” Returning to the store, she was greeted with a line.

“Twenty,” the man in front demanded, throwing a wadded bill on the counter. He pushed past her, knocking her in the shoulder as he went.

“Where?” she yelled after him, as the door closed. “Whatever,” she mumbled. She made her way to the end of the counter.

“I need a pack of Marlboro,” the second man demanded, before she even reached the register.

She took a few more sticky steps. Peering out the window, she searched for the first man.

“Did you hear me?” The second man reached across the counter and waved his hand in front of Marti’s face. Annoyed, she grabbed the wadded twenty off the counter.

“Did you see where he went,” she asked the second man. Gawddamn customers. She returned her gaze to the lot as the door buzzed.

In the doorway, the first man reappeared. “Hey, I’m in a hurry. I ain’t got time for this! My pump isn’t working.”

“That’s ‘cause you didn’t tell me where. What number?” she wondered.

“I ain’t got time for this,” the man repeated. Holding out his hand, he rushed to the counter. “Forget it! I’ll go somewhere else! You just lost a customer! Gimme my money back!” He yanked the wadded bill from her hand.

“Have a nice day,” she responded.

“Pack of Marlboro,” the second man demanded, again.

“Full flavor?” she wondered, stepping to the rack and fingering a pack. No response. She plucked the pack from the rack and returned to the counter. The register beeped as she scanned the pack.

“How much?” the man demanded.

“Three sixteen,” she responded.

“Damn, you guys expensive,” he complained. “I can get a pack at Speedway for two ninety-seven.” He threw a five on the counter as Marti offered her hand. He picked up the pack as Marti scooped change out of the register. “This ain’t right. I needed menthol,” he stated.

Marti closed the drawer and attempted to hand him his change. He offered his hand, before jerking it back. Coins scattered over the counter, some rolling onto the floor.

“Did you hear me? I told you menthol,” he repeated, gesturing towards the rack.

Marti laid the bills on the counter, grabbed the pack, and returned to the rack. “Marlboro, right?” she wondered. She pointed to a pack.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Impatiently, he held out his hand.

The door buzzed and suddenly, the smell of gas permeated the store. Marti handed the man his pack, then looked over to see the little older lady, her clothes permeated with gas.

“I just don’t know what to do,” the lady fretted. “My husband just died and he always used to pump the gas.”

Marti glanced outside. The nozzle of the pump the lady had been using was lying on the ground, gas still gushing from it. Fuck! She ran around the counter. As she passed the customer at the counter, the woman reminded her that she had been “waiting for quite a while.” How many more things can go wrong? It was impossible for Marti to avoid stepping in gas in her new Adidas to get to the pump. Figures, she thought, bitterly. Maybe things were finally looking up. At least I won’t stick to the floor after this, she thought.


The circle of life dictates the survival of all species. It tells us how to choose a mate, where to find safe abodes, how to replenish nutrients, and for some even when to take a trip. But I will ponder these facts at a later moment, for now, I must fly. I feel the call of a red trumpet. A yearning propels my wings towards the sweet nectar. Drifting closer to the source of the call, I am relieved to find that no others have found it. Polishing off those glorious tubes of nectar will add the much-needed weight for the annual trek. The air is growing colder so the time has come to follow the instinctual paths to winter’s warm home. With the hurricane season over, I must hurry along, following coastlines all the way to the Protected Natural Areas to the south that my mother told me about. Let me hover right here while I lap up the sweetness. Not a drop spilled on my iridescent gorget. Mama was wrong about me always needing a bib.

This will be my first journey so far from the nest. I listened carefully to all of mama’s instructions, from what to eat to how to molt. Mama said, “Julius, I cannot go with you”. So, my first trek will be made solo. Look over there, I spy some mosquitos. Let me grab them real fast. My body is growing bigger with all this nibbling and lapping. Momentarily satiated, preening time for all this iridescent plumage. Time for my daily bath but first to the check for mites. Probing through my feathers always fluffs them up. A quick scratch on the neck and head to chase any mites into beak’s reach. Properly preened now, the final step of bathing is to splash in the water. Admiring himself in the water, Julius saw the bright red gorget and white belly underneath. Maybe a visit to the bee balms before I settle in for a night’s rest. After lapping up all that sweetness I will have pleasant dreams tonight of the Yucatan peninsula. That Sweetgum branch appears to be safe for the night. Let me grab on tight, then concentrate on controlling my torpor as mama taught me. As the torpor increased, the bird’s position on the branch shifted until he was hanging upside down like a small bat. Julius slept soundly through the night. Even the crowing rooster in the early dawn had not roused the tiny bird. He had heeded his mother’s teachings on using torpor. Pangs of hunger eventually roused Julius from the Yucatan dreams. Julius broke fast with nectar from nearby blazing star grass. He then flew over to the window with the bright red and yellow feeding station. Peering through the glass, Julius could see the lady moving around inside. He was going to miss her and hoped that she would be here when he returned. The quick beats of his wings propelled Julius backward as a good-bye to his human. He headed away from the bird sanctuary that had been his home since hatching. His mama had given Julius four things to remember. To double his weight before crossing the Gulf. That tailwinds are best for crossing the vast expanse of water. Fewer predators would be around during the night. And to always stay on the flyway. Heading south, Julius began his trek from North Carolina to Yucatan, following the southern flyway. Along the way, there would be plenty of bee balm and salvia for nectar, and mosquitos, flies, or arthropods for sustenance. He was prepared to battle bees for sweet nectar or use woodpecker holes to find insects. The first half of the flyway goes through the Okefenokee Swamp before heading to the Everglades. Over the Okefenokee Swamp, Julius noticed people walking on wooden walkways. He was briefly drawn to the vibrant flowers that covered a woman. Following her away from the flyway, Julius searched for fragrant aromas of nectar. But when he smelled none, he returned to the flyway. Leaving the Okefenokee Swamp, Julius found he had to maneuver through densely populated areas. He remembered the woman and the nectar that she would put out for him. She had one of those transportation vehicles used to follow the pavement. Although, her vehicle was quieter and less intimidating than some of these.

By the time that Julius entered the Everglades, he was quite weary. Being that this was his first migration, he did not have flight strength like the older birds had. Julius spied a logged lying in the water that looked like a good spot to take a moment’s respite in. He made a circling descent towards the log. Suddenly, the log jumped out of the water. A gaping mouth outlined by sharp pointed teeth snapped closed behind Julius’s narrow escape. He flew to the branches of a spreading cypress tree to count his feathers. Julius had heard of jumping snapping logs but this had been his first encounter with one. He knew he would have to be more careful in the future. Reaching the tip of the Everglades, Julius found the Flamingo Center. This was the last point of land before the flyway covered the Gulf’s water. Julius found protection for his rest before making the big push of his flight. Fearful of what the water might contain, Julius stayed within the branching range of the local trees. After a couple of days feeding on the local delights, Julius had doubled his weight and was prepared for the rest of his journey. Following the cues of His circadian rhythm, Julius safely slept most of the day. The little red-throated bird was ready to continue towards the Ria Celestun biosphere reserve, where he would find his winter home. The sun was setting when Julius woke to the sweet call of a hanging feeder. Hunger urged him to the red and yellow flowers surrounding the base of a clear cylinder. He tested each flower before settling on one to drink from. When another hummer showed an interest in the flowers, Julius chased him away. The wind was blowing away from the shore as Julius finished up his meal. With heart racing from the meal, it was time to catch the tailwind across the water. Julius beat his wings quickly as if to escape a hawk. He felt the wind on his back, pushing him towards a distant shore. During Julius’s flight, the sun rose. Looking all around, the only thing that Julius could see was water. Not a tree in sight to perch on. Though the tailwind helped with the journey, Julius was tiring. He briefly dipped towards the water but quickly recovered his altitude lest a fish jump out to nibble him down. The sun moved across the sky as Julius flew across the water. Julius saw some large fishes breaking the surface of the water. He thought it was amazing how they could move through the water like they did. And some of the fishes seemed to fly, as they jumped over the water. The moon sparkled off the water as Julius finally made land at Quintana Roo. The long trek to a winter home was almost over. The flight over the water had been informative for Julius. The tailwind had pushed him along the way keeping him safely out of reach of predators reach. Then finally depositing safely into a palm tree on the awaiting shore. Julius rested the remaining hours of darkness on the palm branch. Hunger was edging in but the weariness in his wings needed to subside before he sought out nourishment. Night sounds comforted Julius as he went to sleep. There had been few sounds while Julius had flown over the water. He went to sleep wondering how fish communicated with each other. The sun was shining when Julius finally woke up. He found some spiders scurrying along the tree that made a delightful breakfast. During the flight, Julius lost weight as he used the stored reserves for energy. He would find nectar along the way to nourish himself. But Julius had not had a good preening since the Everglades. Julius carefully went through each of his feathers ensuring that none had been damaged or misplaced during his long flight. The early morning fog had left the feathers damp enough to lay flat, so Julius did not need to find a water source yet. He found it a warm relief in scratching his neck and head with his small feet. Rested, fed, and preened, Julius proceeded along his journey to winter’s home. It would take Julius another week before he would arrive in the Biosphere Reserve. While crossing from Quintana Roo to Ria Celestun, Julius found remarkable flowers in all colors. Although the red and orange were his favorite ones. Large looming trees offered Julius shelter from the creatures far below. He was adapting to his habitat by learning a brand set of survival skills. When Julius arrived at the winter home in Yucatan, he had fully matured. The first migration had been thrilling for the little bird. Now, he settled into winter’s life. Flitting from flower to flower, lazily preening feathers in the afternoons, and sleeping in late would allow Julius to prepare for the flight back to North Carolina. Finally, the day came when Julius molted his feathers. Julius was now grown into an adult. And he knew soon he would leave Yucatan.


Mrs Edwards scraped a nail against the mouldy window sill and sighed. She’d scrubbed it only a few weeks ago, but the mottled wood had bucked and bloomed in the heat. The tree was wilting too, a bushy, dark-leaved thing stuck in the corner, placed there after she had received a letter from her sister. “We do not entirely agree with inviting the whole tree into one’s home.” Her sister had written, “But one must trust in Queen Victoria and not fear the peculiar customs of her Germanic relations. I enclose a print of Her Majesty’s Christmas for your instruction.” Her sons had taken the print into the forest and returned with this tree, with all the pride and fanfare of a successful hunt. Adorned with sprigs of red pōhutukawa flowers and candlelight, it had enchanted the children, but now it wept sap onto the walls and shed its leaves onto the floorboards. We are both in silent protest of this custom, Mrs Edwards thought. She swept a few dead sandflies off the sill and brushed the hearth as best she could, avoiding the eyes of Her Majesty, whose portrait hung above the fireplace. They’d decorated the hearth with the linen samplers of her needle class, designed to help the daughters of the Missionary Station learn basic stitch work. Her own daughter, Maria, had done a fine sampler, the stitching was neat and accurately sized, but there were several embellishments to the border which looked strange, swirling patterns that seemed to move in the corner of your eye. Mrs Edwards had never seen the like of it before, and Maria should not have either. She bent down to sweep the dead leaves from behind the grate, cold since October and full of Paua shells from the beach, when she heard a scream come from the kitchen. She stood up as fast as her stiff knees would let her, just as her second youngest charged full pelt into the room, followed closely by James, her second eldest. “Run Piggy!” James bellowed, raising a long stick up to his eye, “Or my musket will get you!” Piggy, nick-named after his upturned nose and round cheeks, dove behind his mother’s skirts. “James!” Mrs Edwards cried. “Stop that at once! I’ve not finished in here-” They were already running out, but before her gangly son’s frame could disappear into the garden, she called him back. “Have you brought out the long table from the barn?” “Yes, ma. We moved it just now.” “And the doorway? Does the Reverend think it will do?” They had been unsure of how to solve the dilemma of the doorway. Traditionally, as the clock struck midnight tonight, the Edwards’ front door would be opened to let out the old year and welcome the new, and they would be visited by friends and neighbours bearing gifts and glad tidings for a felicitous year ahead. It was imperative a man took the first footing over their threshold, preferably with coal for their fire and bread for their bellies, and if he were a good-willed stranger of handsome height and dark hair, so much the better.  But there were no strangers in the Missionary, just three humble families, all of whom were attending tonight’s party. And as for the knocking on their front door, the heat and sour air within the cottage had forced them to host the party in the garden, on a long table made just for the occasion.  Rather than have their guests wait for midnight in the discomfort of the cottage, it was the Reverend who had the idea to make some form of doorway outside which the men could step through, to give candied fruit and toys to their families. “He’s still fixing the archway with the flax, but it looks better now.” James answered, tapping his stick against the flagstones. “It should be rather fun. Will I get to do the first footing this year?”

“Not likely, while your father lives. Now on with you, go see if he needs help. He’s been working like a carthorse all day.” She watched her son as he ducked into the garden, swinging his stick like a dandy in Oxford Circus. All he needed was a gentleman’s hat, Mrs Edwards smiled, and then she remembered Maria. “Oh, James! Have you seen your sister?” “Not since breakfast.” He called over his shoulder. Mrs Edwards put a hand on her belly, feeling some knot there shift and tighten. Beyond their garden fence, in the shimmering heat, she could almost see Maria walk through the long grass to the gate, her hair whipped out its pins by the sea wind. But the mirage melted, and the cicadas laughed her back into the cottage.  * Maria was breathing heavily, with every inhale she felt her damp corset press against her skin. The boy’s finger was hovering over the linen neckline, close enough for him to feel the fibres against his fingerprint. He traced the embroidered flowers, an inch left, an inch right, never fully touching, before descending a slow line towards where her navel lay. He tapped the stiffness of her corset, a frown crumpling his brow. “It’s whale bone.” Maria breathed, “I hear they are from your whales.” “Your dress … it is whale?” Ari asked, feeling the rise and fall of the ridges beneath the cloth. “Yes. From the whalers in the Bay of Islands. My father tries to convince them to come to church on Sundays, but they just laugh.” Ari was staring at her again, how much he understood, she’d never know. “It must be terribly lonely. Father says they often lose their boats and get marooned on the islands for years.” Ari shook his head, rocking the feather in his head band, and sat to face the sea. She followed, pushing herself up from the shingle, and watched the rising waves catch the sinking sun. Like holding amber to the fire, the waves were veined with silhouettes, the shadows of sea creatures, weeds and shell. “We make this, from whale bone.” Ari said, lifting a curling pendant from his neck to show her. “Matau. For fish.” He hooked his finger into his mouth. “May I?” Ari nodded, and she bent closer to inspect the pendant. The maker had carved mesmeric patterns into the bone, capturing the arc of the surf and the whorls of a river eddy.

“It looks how water looks.” She said, feeling foolish, but he smiled. “It is a gift, a Matau. From my hapṻ, we live by the sea.”

Maria nodded, and carefully placed the pendant back against his chest. She had moved nearer, they both knew, and as their eyes met she felt that curious sense of loss, as if she was parting with something she had never known she owned. “A gift!” She jumped, grateful to move away. “I almost forgot, I have one for you.” She began to search her skirts for her pocket. “It is here somewhere-” But a dark-skinned hand stopped her arm. “No gift.” Ari said, frowning once more, “I do not…” He searched for the word, muttering a language that sounded to Maria as clipped and melodious as the birds in the forest. “Win. I do not win a gift.” “Do you mean earned?” She asked. “That’s ok, no one does really. But today is the eve of the new year, this is our tradition, my family, my whānau.” She gently moved her arm out of his grasp, to produce a piece of thick, folded paper from her pocket. “We give each other gifts today to say thank you. It’s fun.” Slowly, she placed the paper in his left palm. A moment passed, until his fingers closed around it. “Tēnā rawa atu koe.” Ari murmured. He unfolded the paper and became still. It was a drawing of a Tui bird, cocking his head with a mischievous eye, his white collar bulbous beneath the beak. “It is the Tui, do you remember? The one I said looked like a Reverend had been caught by your gods and turned into a bird for his Christian ways. Ha!” She shuffled closer, inspecting her work. “He’s an odd thing to draw, I thought I might have got the beak wrong, but I was quite pleased with the wings. I did a Weka for mother too, that’s a joke really because she hates them coming into the kitchen.” Still Ari did not speak, only the Kaka’s startled cry could be heard over the forest hill. Maria bit her lip and began to talk faster. “The new year is fun because we get presents and have a feast, and oh! We do the first footing, that’s silly but I like it because father lets you stay up late to see who will knock on your door first.” The boy at last titled his head to her. “It’s a tradition, after midnight, everyone runs to visit your house, and the first visitor brings gifts with them to bless the family. Mama says a man who is tall with dark hair and carrying riches is the best, but I doubt we will have many of those knocking on our door!” She laughed, hoping for a smile from him, but he looked solemn.

“Do you… do you not like it?”

Ari took one last look at the drawing, before carefully folding the paper and tucking it away into his piu piu. He stared at her, just as the year’s final sun started to slip into the sea. “Maria.” * Piggy had run away. He had run as fast as his legs could carry him, which, compared to his brothers, wasn’t that fast at all. But seeing as they were all so busy, he only had himself to race, and he happily made his way through the forest without fear of being beaten.

Pulling a bun from his pocket, he slowed down as he neared his secret beach, the one between Giant’s Rock and God’s Arc, where he knew the tide would have left all sorts of treasures to discover and covet. He crashed through the bush, frightening a Kaka from its nest, and broke through the grassy cliff overhanging the beach. The sun was just slipping into the sea, and he raised his arm against the blinding light. Below, shrouded in gold sea mist, he saw them. Piggy dropped his bun.  * He drew his lips from hers, taking her soul with him, she thought. Who knew what magic the Maori possessed? Perhaps she had been bewitched, for she had never shared a breath with another, nor one that filled her lungs with such lightness. It was as if she had inhaled the sun itself, and she wondered, is this how God feels? Is this Heaven?

She leant closer again, but a movement up on the hill caught her eye. A round, pale face and what looked like a white ball, bouncing down the rocks. She locked eyes with Piggy. And then he was gone. “PETER!” Maria screamed. *  The light was fading, but Piggy knew his way to the meadow well enough. He ran back through the forest, the cacophony of birdsong spurring him to go faster. Just imagine, Piggy thought as he ran, how clever ma will think me, and how jealous James will be, that I found out why Maria had been so absent these past few months… Piggy stopped to catch his breath at the edge of the field. He could see the thatch of their roof, see the smoke twist from the kitchen chimney, and hear laughter rise into the dusk air. A few paces closer, and he spotted his mother, alone, laying the plates onto the table. He wiped the sweat off his brow and started to run again. * Night had fallen in the Edwards’ garden, and the table was aglow with candlelight and red faces. Handfuls of smoking eucalyptus leaf hung from the posts, warding off insects and releasing a drowsy scent.  A little way from the table, the new year’s doorway had been constructed over the meadow gate that separated the garden and the field beyond. The gate was flung wide open to let out the old year, and the Pratts’ girls had decorated the arch with ferns and white-belled Kaihua flowers. The Reverend and Jimmie had already been the subject of much praise for their handiwork, and even Mrs Pratt had commented it was pretty enough to make do for a May bride.  The port had been uncorked, the Apple Jonathan dish licked clean, and Maria, whose swollen eyes were noticed only by her mother, had been called to the head of the table. “My friends, it is almost midnight.” Reverend Edwards said, checking his pocket watch. “Let our sweetest voice sing us into the new year with Auld Lang Syne, Maria? If you please?” “Perhaps Maria is too tired to sing tonight.” Mrs Edwards muttered to the Reverend, “I hear she has had rather an adventurous day.”

“Nonsense, she by far has the best voice of us all! Would you rather our James sing?”

The table burst into laughter, James shouted mock protests, and the Reverend had laughed so much he’d had a coughing fit. “Come, Maria,” he gasped, waving his kerchief at her, “Sing for us.” Maria swallowed, and stepped forward, out of the bruising gaze of her mother. Her voice carried through the valley, the echo of the hills created a gentle canon to her words, and their guests looked about them in wonder.

We too have paddled in the stream From morning sun to night But the seas between us broad have roared From auld lang syne... She took a breath for the final verse, but stopped, a look of shock on her face as she stared at the archway. Both her mother and father turned, the rest of their table peered around to find the cause of her distress. There Ari stood, bare chest, in his skirted Piu Piu, cupping a cloth bag in his hands. “I have brought you a gift, Maria. For your whānau.” He said, stepping through the gate.

*


I’m in a room. It’s a small room. If I was taller, and I stood in the center and spread my arms wide, I would almost be able to touch the walls. Oh, the stark white walls. Stark white, and plain. Nothing adorning them. Nothing to look at. The windows too high to reach or see out. The only furniture is a bed. And the bed is bolted to the floor stuck in place. Even the blankets are white

and so are the sheets and of course a white pillow. It’s like being stuck in a blizzard of boring.

I’m so bored.

The door is locked and I can’t go anywhere. My meals are brought here. My pills are brought to me here.

No one talks to me.

I don’t even have books to read.

I’m not allowed to have anything. All I can do is sit or lay on my bed and watch as the room darkens with the movement of the sun that I’m not even allowed to look out at.

This is torture to me. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here now. Based on the shagginess of my hair, it’s been a while. I used to have a clean undercut. But that has grown out by at least an inch. I can only imagine how scruffy and ragged I must look.

I used to be wild. So wild. I did what I wanted and went where I wanted. But now, I’m confined. A caged bird stuck in a white cell with nothing to even sing about.

The pills they bring me do little to take the edge off. My mind races all the time.

I pace sometimes. I jump and try to see out the window.

I yell. I sing songs I remember hearing on the radio. I talk to myself. I recite passages of books or movies I had seen before being trapped here. It passes the time sometimes, but usually, it just incites my rage because I’m starting to forget. I’m slowly losing the memories of outside. I’m becoming dulled by this lack of stimulation.

And then, just like that, it’s night again. The lights are dim. The nurse I hate most comes in. “Clara, it’s time for your evening pills.”

“Fuck off. I don’t want them.”

“Sorry you feel that way,” She mumbles.

She’s not sorry. I can tell.

“Open up.” She hands me a paper cup with the pills.

“I can’t take all of these at once.”

She rolls her eyes. (I thought nurses were supposed to show compassion.) “Take them however you need to.”

I take one pill at a time, and chug water from the paper cup with it. Before I’m halfway done with the pills, the water is gone.

“I need more water,” I informed the nurse.

She gives an exasperated sigh, and turns to leave. I stealthily follow behind her with my cup of pills.

Before the door snapped closed behind her, I jammed a pill into the lock where no one could sense it. She wouldn’t know I didn’t take all of them. I don’t know which of the eight pills I’m required to take twice a day I was sacrificing, and I didn’t care. I checked the latch, and it held.

I ran back to my bed and sat patiently waiting for the nurse to return.

She came back in with a fresh cup of water. “Thank you Nurse Wretched.”

“I think you mean Ratchett.” “No. You are worse. You are Wretched. It was intentional.” She rolled her eyes again, and I swear she probably saw her brain, and I downed the rest of the pills in one swallow. She hastily left.

I sat and waited for lights out.

Once all of the lights dimmed (they never go all the way out) I made my way back to the door and pulled the handle slowly and looked out into the hallway. It was quiet and there was no one present. Just a long hallway of sealed doors.

I padded along the hallway slowly and carefully.

The light overhead flickers and I freeze and stifle a laugh. I can see the nurses’ station at the end of the hallway, circular and surrounded by monitors and charts. One nurse is sitting there, scrolling on her phone absentmindedly.

I crouch low and scurry behind the desk. She is so distracted on her phone she doesn’t notice me at all as I spot a set of keys left haphazardly on the counter. There’s a key card attached to the lanyard, one that is used to go through security doors.

My luck is too good tonight. I make a mental note that if I make it to the street, I need to play the lottery.

My hand snakes up to the counter and I noiselessly get the lanyard into my grasp. The entire time, my breath is held and my eyes are glued to the distracted nurse. She’s giggling at a video that is playing before her eyes.

I pad my way quietly down another hallway. This hallway has the janitor’s closet, laundry, and the meeting room that has crime scene tape blocking it off. That was the meeting room where I killed my court appointed therapist a few days ago. I opened it with the key, the coppery smell of blood hung in the air, and it was still blood spattered. They had yet to clean it up. I’m sure it had been photographed already, more evidence against me.

I giggle to myself looking at the paintings I created in her blood, swirls and flowers that were bright red when I painted them, now dark brown and dry. I close that door and head over to the laundry and let myself in. I should feel bad that I killed the pretty therapist. But I don’t. I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done. The plethora of therapists I’ve seen say I lack empathy. They call me a sociopath and a narcissist and there’s a long list of other diagnoses. I don’t know that I disagree with them, necessarily. But I also don’t care what they think. I guess that makes me textbook. But whatever.

I stripped out of my white inmate pajamas and put on a pair of a dark blue scrubs that the cleaning crew use as a uniform.

There’s no shoes, but how often will someone look at another person’s feet?

I put the lanyard around my neck and head down the hallway. The nurse is still on her phone, and now a security guard is leaning over the counter peering down at her phone with her. They laugh at whatever is on the screen. He makes an excuse to reach over and touch her hair. He obviously likes her. He’s so absorbed in her, and she in her phone, I continue to go unnoticed as I slip into the stairwell.

I open the door to the floor below mine and head to a random room. I use the key card and open the door and look inside.

An inmate is laying on her bed, sleeping soundly in her white pajamas. She’s so drugged it’s almost as if she’s dead. I watch her sleep for a minute, but I’m bored.

I close the door and wander the hall opening doors and looking for someone who is awake. I strike out with each room I peer into, but I do find the room where the pill machine is kept. I look at the ID card and see it is for a nurse. I laugh out loud as I swipe the card over the machine and suddenly all of the uppers and downers they use to ply us patients with is at my disposal.

I unload handfuls of the uppers into my pockets after ingesting a few. I’m not trying to die, I just want to have fun.

I look at the clock on the wall, I know they do bed checks sporadically throughout the night. I wonder how much time I have to get outside. But I don’t want to go alone. I hate being alone. I’m alone all the time in the room.

For a moment, I almost regret killing Dr. Bennet. I would have liked to show up at her house if I make it out of here. But, she was leaving me. I was going to be alone. I didn’t like that.

They still haven’t found another therapist for me. Everyone is afraid of me, I guess. I really don’t mean to hurt anyone. But in the moment, when I’m angry, well, I just can’t control it. Oh well.

I keep going down the hallway opening doors until a nurse comes down the same hallway to do bed checks. There is nowhere for me to go. I smile at her. “Is this the floor that called for the clean up?” I ask thinking she will buy it that I’m a janitor who is hoping to be in the right place.

“Um. No.” She looks at me confused. “Where’s your cart? … And your shoes?” The lightbulb goes on over her head. Her eyes get big.

I just laugh and take off running. My sock feet make it hard to gain traction and I don’t have time to stop and remove them. I scramble past her, but she has shoes with rubber soles and traction. She’s also got a few inches on me and reaches me quickly, tackling me to the hard floor.

I’m still laughing as my

head hits the floor. “Ouch!” I’m gasping for air as I’m pinned to the floor by the nurse. She manages to pin my arms under her knees as she sits on my chest. This could be fun if circumstances were different, but suddenly I realize the gravity of the situation. She’s pulled a radio out of her pocket and she’s contacting security.

“C’monnnn.” I beg. “Please don’t do that.” I writhe under her trying to buy some leverage, but it’s to no avail, my sock feet keep sliding against the floor as I try to buck her off of me.

She doesn’t even look at me, and she refuses to speak to me. My anger is mounting, but it goes nowhere. Two security guards have appeared and the bite of the needle is in my hip and my world goes black.

The next thing I’m aware of, is being back in my white cell. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Will I try again? Of course.


Some of my friends say I’m odd. They all probably think it. But they make a point of saying that it’s nice  odd. It’s not the kind of odd that’s embarrassing or awkward.      “Sometimes I can’t quite make you out, Irene,” my friend Sonia said the other day. “You’re a conundrum. A contradiction.” Irene is an aspiring writer and a darned good writer too, but she does sometimes seem to feel compelled to prove the fact by over-use of alliteration!      “How so?” I asked, though of course I knew the answer.      “Well, sometimes you seem to be miles away, and yet you have a capacity for getting things done quickly, too.”      Such a practical reply was both reassuring and vaguely disappointing. Deciding there was no harm in recycling a good phrase, I said, “Well, perhaps in some ways every one of us is a conundrum and a contradiction.”      I think Irene and I would probably have been friends anyway, but we also, well, at least on the surface, have a great deal in common. We’re both mature students, but unlike some of our fellow mature students, we don’t have commitments to care for children or elderly relatives. The best of both worlds, you might say. But it also means we don’t necessarily “fit” into the convenient groupings. My Grandma, a golden-hearted but plain talking Yorkshire woman (sometimes the stereotypes are right!) used to describe such things as Neither t’other nor Which . At least, I always used to think that was what she said. I bear a certain resemblance to her. The unusually high forehead, and the figure that kinder folk call “rounded”. There’s a lot to be said for fringes and loose tops.

     It was quite a difficult decision for me to leave my job in the Health Food store (though the owner, Merle, never liked that term) and take up my interrupted education. I was happy there. I had found my niche, and Merle knew perfectly well, and acknowledged, that I knew more than she did about – well, let’s say certain elements of the work than she did, but I had no interest in the admin side, so was quite content to remain her assistant. But I suppose it was something that I’d known all along I was going to do. “And I won’t stand in your way, or try to,” she said, “I know what you’re like with your history, and if you don’t take this chance you’ll always regret you didn’t.” Perhaps I should explain what she meant by this chance . There was a window when the local council were offering grants for mature students – to finance their retraining. The theory was that it was to help fill skills shortages, but I was lucky enough to deal with people who interpreted that loosely. Though another of Gran’s sayings was that we make our own luck.

     I like my course, and am putting in the necessary work, and my tutors are happy with me. But I’ll make no secret of the fact that access to the university’s resources and archives is at least as appealing as any return to the groves of Academe or the thought of the qualification (useful or otherwise) at the end of it.

     The History department isn’t one of those that completely ignores Kings and Queens and Presidents and Parliaments and Wars and engineering feats on principle. And I have no problems with that. But they’re very big on local history and social history and all that, and that suits me absolutely fine.

     My thesis is on the “hidden feminists” in village life back in medieval and Tudor times, and how women were often not just the power behind the throne but the power behind the farm and the power behind the loom and sometimes in front of them. It’s interesting and revealing, but I’m not going to pretend it was triggered by wholly academic interest.

     I hope this doesn’t sound condescending, but I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for anyone who grew up entirely without their Gran’s stories. And I hope this doesn’t sound like boasting, but I reckon you would search far and wide to find someone whose stories equalled the ones Gran told!      She was, of course, perfectly literate, and sometimes read to me from her favourite books, many of which are still my own. She was a good reader; never flashy, never pedantic, her voice low but clear. Still, both of us preferred it when she put the books to one side and told her own tales. She sometimes joked, resignedly, but without rancour, that she was bilingual, she could either talk Yorkshire or talk proper depending on the circumstance and the listener. It was true, but if wasn’t even a quarter of the story. There were nuances and transitions, and sometimes she spoke with an accent that was neither proper nor Yorkshire, but seemed to come from other times and other places. In interviews and on forms I might well say that my grandmother originally piqued my interest in social history and genealogy.

And that, too, is true. But there is a difference between the surface skim of truth and the layers beneath it. On both sides of her family, quite a few people had married and borne children late, so living memory “at one remove” went back further for me than it did for many people.

     But though I loved the stories of Great Great Grandmother Sybil who delivered the Lady of the Manor’s firstborn when the doctor was held up in the snow, and of Great Great Uncle Leonard who went down the pits when he was only 13 but ended up as a schoolmaster, the ones I loved best went back further than that. Much further. Gran sometimes used the phrase I don’t know how many greats  and I suspected that she probably did, but was too interested in the story to hold it up with repetition and tedious chronology.

I don’t know how many greats  Aunt Betsy, who was always called that, never Bessie or Betty or Beth or her full name Elizabeth, lived in the time of the English Civil War.

     “And rum times they were, too,” Gran said. “She lived down Suffolk way, I reckon near Lowestoft as is now.”      Gran’s attitude to the Civil War, on which she was a bit of an expert though she said she had never studied history since she was 14, was somewhat ambivalent. She said that the Cavaliers were probably the lesser of two evils, “But neither of them had much time for our sort, and that’s a fact. Still, it was worse in other places.” When she said that, her eyes, which were generally bright and beady right into old age, seemed to have a shadow in them. “What is it, Gran?” I asked, when I must have been about 10 or 11. “Just – thinking, lass,” she said. “Just thinking.” One of her most prized possessions was a picture – well, a copy of one, of course – that might have been a likeness of Betsy. “I can’t vouch for it,” she said, “Our sort didn’t generally have their likenesses painted, and some reckon it’s Wilhelmina Marriot – little Lady Wilhelmina – from the Big House. Betsy’s Mam was a servant there, I’m not sure if she was a lady’s maid or a parlourmaid, and it seems, though in a way it pains me to admit it, that the nobs treated them well enough, and Betsy was allowed to play with Wilhelmina when the two of them were lasses, though they put a stop to it later.”      “She certainly has the family fringe,” I said, weighing up the image of a little girl that was faded, and not even that well-painted, but still had something intriguing and wonderful about it.      Gran looked uneasy, and for once, flustered, as she said quickly, “Well, I wouldn’t go reading too much into that. You know what little lasses are for copying each others’ hairstyles and I reckon it was always that way.”      Later on, after Gran’s death, I managed to find out a bit more about Lady Wilhelmina, and it was a sad story. She was married – and the phrase married off  sprung to mind – to a man called Ambrose, who was more than a decade older than she was. Though I only had the bare bones of a family tree and no evidence at all that he ill-treated her – for all I knew he could have been a loving husband – I wove my own story round her. Anyway, she died in childbirth, and the baby too. I say there was only the family tree, but other stubs and snippets of tales told hundreds of times over had managed to slip through the cracks of time, and one of them was that in the throes of labour she cried out, “I want Betsy! Only Betsy can help me!”      That was the only reference to Betsy I could find at all, yet she was more real and alive to me than the unfortunate Wilhelmina.

     Gran’s stories could go back even further than that. Betsy had an I don’t know how many times great  grandmother (or possibly Aunt) called Hepzibah, who – according to the story – had been quite inspirational in her home area (which was still Suffolk, or possibly Norfolk) in inspiring and ministering to the participants in the Peasants’ Revolt.      “Like a kind of Joan of Arc!” I exclaimed.      There was that flash of darkness, but even darker, and Gran merely muttered, “You could say that, lass.”

     “I wish I’d known your Gran,” Sonia said, “She sounds like a real character.” At first I wasn’t sure I was happy with that, as a real character  can be a kind of code or euphemism for someone who’s frankly tiresome, but I was pretty sure Sonia didn’t mean it that way, and didn’t bristle, only saying, “She was, though she said herself she was only one link in a long chain.”      I was genuinely fond of Sonia, and was distressed when in our second year at the university she began to develop frequent and debilitating headaches. As anyone would, she put them down to stress or eye-strain, and fretted that she might be developing migraine – her Mother was afflicted with it, and so she knew exactly how horrible it could be. Finally she gave in and went to the doctors about it, and was sent for an EEG, and was far braver waiting for the results than I ever would have been. You can imagine her relief – and mine – when they found absolutely no evidence of a tumour. “So I suppose I’ll just have to put up with it and take painkillers, not that they always do much good,” she said. “I’m more inclined to think it’s NOT migraine, as I don’t have any nausea – I suppose I should be thankful for that, at least! – and have found out on the Internet about Cluster Headaches – men have them more often, but women can.”      Well for all my good intentions and for all I was quite happy, thank you, with my normal life, I couldn’t let a friend suffer when there was at least the possibility I could help. Still, I didn’t know how she would react when I made the offer! Generally very good natured, she could be scathing about what she called snake oil  though she was never actually rude about my former employment. “Sonia,” I said, almost too casual, “Why not let me have a go at helping you? I know you’re not into alternative therapies,” (I intensely disliked that term, but made myself use it) “but they can’t do any harm.”      “Irene, I’ll try anything, unless it’s potentially poisonous or from an endangered species,” she said, “though, no disrespect, as a lot of it’s probably the placebo effect, that hardly makes me an ideal patient!”     I could have told her what a fallacy that was, but she wouldn’t have believed me. Mind you, she wasn’t entirely wrong. Though the calming fragrant tea I made her and the poultice I put on her brow might well have some sedative effect and were very pleasant, they were only what Gran called trappings . If needs must I could have managed without them. “Well, if nothing else I’m being pampered,” Sonia said. “I could get used to this, though I don’t suppose I’d be allowed a glass of wine instead of the tea!”      “I’m afraid you’re right,” I said, whilst thinking that it probably wouldn’t make that much difference either way. Then I concentrated on the matter at hand.      I hope this doesn’t sound like bragging, but Sonia was decidedly more surprised than I was when it  seemed to be working. She went a couple of days without a headache, then a week, then a month. “Oh, Irene,” she said, giving me a little hug, “You’ve well and truly converted me!”      “Don’t talk daft, as Gran would have said,” I replied. I’m not keen on that word convert. It has unfortunate connotations, though of course Sonia had no way of knowing that.

     There is satisfaction, though, in a job well done, especially when it helps a friend out.

     I had the hint of a headache myself earlier on today, and, it’s just one of those things, my methods don’t work so well on myself. That’s normal enough, Gran said, and yes, it could be bloody vexing. Still, it wasn’t that bad, certainly not like Sonia’s suffering, and I decided that at least some of it was the heat. It’s turned suddenly warm and at times like this I wish I didn’t have to wear that heavy fringe.      But I do, of course. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to see my third eye. My witch’s eye.


My first thought was, he has to be joking! I wish now I’d just come straight out and said it. Well, maybe worded it a little bit more tactfully (or maybe not) but did I really have to say “That’ll be lovely!” Perhaps it slipped out through force of habit or before I had thoroughly processed exactly what he was saying. Anyway, Leon certainly didn’t seem to detect any note of sarcasm in it and looked delighted. There are a couple of things I have to remember before I start feeling too bad about wishing I’d told him that he had to be joking. I’m not over-demanding. I’m genuinely not. I didn’t want to be invited to a five course meal in a posh restaurant, or for a helicopter flight over a local beauty spot, or to a night at the opera (though actually that would have been wonderful, as I love opera, but opera houses are somewhat thin on the ground round here …..!) A walk in the woods, weather permitting, or a quiet drink in the pub – I’d have had no problem with something like that. And I’m genuinely fond of Leon’s much younger brother Charlie (though there’s 12 years between them, they are full brothers and not half Their parents separated and then got back together again, which I think is rather touching, even if my friend Leah does describe it as the triumph of hope over experience). He’s a great kid, and we’ve had some (not ironically meant!) very interesting conversations about one of the passions in his life, dinosaurs. I’d even have been quite happy about having Leon in tow as a little chaperon going to an exhibition at a museum about dinosaurs, but that would be just as hard to find as an opera house. But an under-13s football match is not my idea of a first date. I don’t even like football. I know a lot of women do, and of course I think that the women’s game finally being the attention it deserves here, long after other countries, is a thoroughly good thing. But I don’t “do” football. I don’t even “do” watching Premier League or World Cup games on a large screen in a comfortable pub, let alone under 13s in the park on a Sunday morning. It’s not even as if I‘d mind Leon going! And postponing our first date to another day. As he told me, their Mum and Dad are away at the moment, as his Grandpa has been taken ill. So of course Charlie wants someone from the family to cheer him on. And I would have no issues with congratulating or commiserating as appropriate. I just don’t want to actually BE there. I know what youth football in the park is like. I have inadvertently witnessed it before hurriedly going on my way, and finding refuge in the little café in the pavilion. Somehow the football pitch in the park always manages to be sodden and muddy, even when it hasn’t rained for weeks and there’s a hosepipe ban. I swear they could save the world’s drought problems by inserting an underground pipe to the football pitch in the park. The roses can wither and the leaves turn yellow, but there sits that pitch like an unwanted oasis. Then there’s the bad sportsmanship and bad language, the fighting and jostling. And I mean the parents, of course. Oh, they’re not all like that, and Leon has admitted that it can be a problem and they’re experimenting with the refs showing yellow and red cards to the spectators. I tell myself to woman up. It’s not as if he’s taking me pot holing (he knows all about my claustrophobia) or has suggested something like paint balling that to me sounds as much like fun as walking over hot coals, though come to think of it, that IS some people’s idea of fun. “I’ll tell Charlie!” said Leon, beaming from ear to ear as he took his leave. “He’ll be so pleased!” Oh well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it? If I don’t turn up then I let down a great kid whom my Significant Other loves dearly who is no doubt missing his parents and worrying about his Grandpa, though he’s a plucky lad. “ Did she say yes, Leon?” Charlie asked, his puckish little face lit up. “Did Louise say yes?” Well, who knows, maybe before too long he’ll be wondering that about another question. I love the way he and Louise get along so well. She really has a way with him, which is surprising as she doesn’t have a little brother, and she’s never taught in junior school or anything like that. But they’re what Grandpa (and oh , how I hope he’ll be fine, though he’s as tough as he’s gentle, and the phone call last night was optimistic) calls “LIKE THAT”, crossing his fingers. Well, my fingers were crossed too, but for a different reason, when I asked Louise along to the football match for what we both consider our official first date. We’ve not talked about it (there are any number of things we’ve not talked about, though sometimes it seems as if we’ve talked about everything) but I somehow thought she wasn’t wild about football. But she said “That’ll be lovely,” straight out. I must pick her up a hat and a scarf in the blue and white team colours of Tallthorpe Under-13s. Not that they have merchandise as such, of course, but some of the Mums and Grandmas (and some of the Dads and Grandpas, come to that!) are keen knitters and there are usually a couple to spare. I wish the weather forecast for Sunday morning were a bit better. Temperatures below average, with heavy showers, they say. I tell myself that they get it wrong sometimes, and of course they do, but not nearly as often as we sometimes like to make out, and to some extent I learnt my lesson when I was stuck on the road for two days during the “Beast from the East”. Charlie is quite pleased about it. Tallthorpe have a reputation for being a good team in what, in horse racing, they call “heavy going”. And the opposition don’t. Their pitch is Astroturf. I don’t tell him that the fact they can afford an Astroturf pitch means they’re considerably better off and have more resources than Tallthorpe. I suspect, and I love him for it, that Charlie is the Eastern Coast Junior League’s equivalent of Matt le Tisier and very much a one-team man! A novel I once read used a plot device of chapters starting with “Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse” and to this day I can’t make up my mind whether I thought it was funny or whether it became a bit tedious, especially as it was patently obvious that Our Heroine was going to end up with everything positively peachy anyway. But now I find myself echoing the sentiments. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse …… Leon presented me with a knitted hat and scarf in the blue and white colours of Tallthorpe Under 13s. It’s not that I have any objections whatsoever to knitwear. On the contrary, a woolly hat is a fine thing if it’s cold. But not necessarily if it’s raining. And I have even been known to knit myself a scarf on occasion, though I have long since resigned myself to the fact that I will never come any where near Mum’s skills, despite her patience in teaching me, and Mum would be the first to admit that patience isn’t generally one of her virtues. Still, I can see things through her knitter’s eye, and the wretched things aren’t even that well made. There are threads hanging down that she would have neatly sewn in! Still, I might as well admit it. It’s not the slipshod finishing that bothers me, nor even the thought of a sodden woolly hat, but the fact that I have this horrible feeling you don’t bestow a team’s colours on someone who is only going to watch one match. It sends out a message and it’s a message I don’t want to hear. We might not use the term Soccer Mom here in the UK, but they undeniably exist and I have seen them, and don’t even have any wish to be a Soccer Sister-in-Law – though even that is getting ludicrously ahead of myself. I have put the things on (I was going to say tried them on, but you don’t exactly try on a woolly hat and a scarf, do you?) and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought I looked vaguely ridiculous. The hat is also too small and I don’t think I have an especially big head. Well, not physically! What next, I wondered. Will he present me with one of those rattles? Do they still make them? Will he try to explain the offside rule to me – though if he did but know it, I more or less know it anyway, not through any interest in soccer but because it comes in handy in a pub quiz team! Or at least that’s the theory, though I’ve never actually faced a question on it. And if he does, do I pretend I don’t know it or tell him I do? The former would lead to temporary irritation but the latter might make him jump to the wrong conclusion! The news is still excellent about Grandpa, but Mum and Dad are staying just a couple of days more. “We’re so grateful you’re going to Leon’s big match,” Mum said, “And it’s great that Louise is going with you. She’s a lovely girl.” Well, I’m most definitely not going to disagree about that! And it means something from Mum, who is generous to a fault, but doesn’t lavish praise for the sake of it. I detected a slight emphasis on the “she” and more than suspected she was comparing her to Felicity. They were always scrupulously polite to each other, but they never hit it off. The most unkind thing she ever even said ABOUT her was, “Felicity is very fond of shoes, isn’t she?” She was right, of course. Oh, she wasn’t some local version of Imelda Marcos with thousands of pairs of them, but how much was lack of inclination, and how much was lack of space and finances, I don’t know. And I don’t think she had a pair with a heel less than two inches. Even her boots were the kind that they described as “nice little boots” on shopping channels even if they’re a size 9. I couldn’t imagine Felicity at an under 13s match. But Louise – that’s another matter. She’ll have suitable footwear and a raincoat that’s not just for decoration, too. I wonder just how water-logged the pitch has to be for the match to be actually called off. But in the first place that’s being mean to Charlie and in the second place I have my suspicions that if the surface were more suited to water polo the match would still go ahead anyway, with the players furnished with snorkels, just in case. I thought about sewing in the offending ends as they were irritating me (Mum would be proud of me!) but decided there would be something symbolic about that and I wasn’t sure I liked the symbolism. But no I’m not going down the road of a scarf unravelling representing a relationship unravelling. Am I? I’ve not mentioned it to Charlie yet, but I’m wondering if I should check about the match going ahead. There’s a difference between heavy going and a swamp, and I don’t doubt the Astroturf brigade will be having the vapours, as Mum says when someone is getting all het up and feeble, though sometimes people do a double take when she says it as it sounds like folk using e-cigarettes. She says it affectionately and ironically and I don’t doubt she would be the first to minister to anyone who actually was having the vapours. I didn’t need to mention it as he did first. “You don’t think those sissies are going to complain about it being too wet, do you?” he asked. I knew I should have gently told him off for saying “sissies”, but I also knew that the way his chin jutted out but was shaking ever so slightly had more to do with worrying about the big day being cancelled than being rude about the opposition. The match is off! “They had no choice, I suppose,” Leon said, mournfully. “To be honest, I’d have been worried about our lads, never mind the opposition. That pitch just wasn’t safe, and I wonder if any spectators would have turned up apart from us, anyway!” What does he mean, apart from us, I thought. All the same …… “How has Leon taken it?” I asked. “Badly, though he’s trying to put a brave face on. I’ve told him there will be lots more opportunities, and Mum and Dad will be there as well, but he was all keyed up for this.” Louise is really coming up trumps! She arrived with a big bucket from KFC (okay, I think technically Charlie has had his fast food allowance for this week, but have a hunch this will operate on the “don’t ask, don’t tell” basis) and a DVD that she couldn’t have judged better – a 12A rated adventure movie that’s just edgy enough for Charlie to think he’s being treated like a grown up but doesn’t go too far. The combination of the fried chicken, the movie, and Louise (if he were a couple of years older there might be some serious sibling rivalry going on here!) perked him up considerably. I wonder if they put something in that chicken! After we had finished it and, almost too predictably, licked our fingers, and paused the DVD while Leon had a bathroom break, Charlie turned to me and said, “That was lovely, thank you, Louise.” “You’re more than welcome.” “And Leon told me not to be upset – the match will be re – re scheduled,” he smiled proudly at remembering the correct term, “And Mum and Dad will be there to watch it, too. But you’ll still come, won’t you?” “I’d love to!” I said. And the weird thing was, I meant it!


It was the cold breeze blowing over my cheek that woke me. For a moment I was confused, did I fall asleep outside again? I’m sure I didn’t get that drunk last night. As I forced myself to open my eyes the tent slowly spun around me. Yep I clearly drank way more than I had anticipated. That wasn’t good. I would have to go back into town and buy more booze if I didn’t pace myself better. If that would happen I might run into my parents and they would force me to come home again. When the spinning subsided I noticed a big tear in the orange canopy. I could have sworn that it hadn’t been there yesterday. It had been whole when I laid down to dream of him. With a slight growl I sat up and pushed the open sleeping bag off me. The tent looked the same as it did last night. My backpack next to the opening, clothes spread out next to my flimsy mattress, and empty bottles of booze all around. The now empty vodka bottle lay next to my pillow, and somewhere in my brain a tiny voice tried to make me feel guilty. You should have stayed home. Should have talked to people instead of running a way in denial like a coward. Should have let your parents help instead of isolating yourself. “No, I did the right thing for me!” speaking the words out loud made me feel better. More in control. I made a move to get the water bottle out of my bag and winced when my head started to pound. Sadly the warmth of the alcohol had given in to the withdrawal. My body craved the poison that I had been feeding it for the last three days. Instead of the water my hand searched for more alcohol. Praying that I hadn’t run out. Not today. Tomorrow I would face the world again. Maybe. My hand got all the way down to the bottom without touching anything I wanted. Annoyed I took the damn thing and emptied it out. Matches, couple of power bars, water, two old patches for the tent and a bundle of clothes lay before me. I ripped the bundle apart and smiled. Gin. I had a beautiful bottle of pink gin left. Although that meant that I would actually have to go back to town tomorrow to shop. After a big swig I turned my attention back to the hole in my canopy. There was no way that I had done this myself. This was a big rip, about 12 cm long that looked more like someone had cut it open from the outside. Not something that I would have done, no matter how drunk I got. It was disturbing thought. I was supposed to be all alone up here in the hills. Far away from everyone. That was what I had wanted. I even walked far away from the campground. All to be alone to grieve in peace. But now the tiny voice was smugly telling me that maybe I wasn’t as alone as I had assumed. There is someone watching you. Just waiting for you to get blackout drunk again. You should go home! It was getting harder to tune it out. And what if it was right. Someone had to have made that cut in the canopy. For a moment all I could do was sitting there staring at the sky through the hole. It was cold and dark but I knew the morning would soon light it up. The gin bottle was getting dangerously low when I finally started moving again. It was now or never. If I didn’t fix that hole now it would still be there when I sobered up again. Reminding me how useless I am. Just like Jake always told me, before he couldn’t take it anymore and left me. He was in a better place now. New city with a pretty girl on his arm. Someone that didn’t need to be taught how to dress and act. Someone who knew all his needs and desires before he even could voice them. The perfect opposite of me. I could feel my mood turning from sadness to something much darker. With a firm headshake I pulled myself back. Happy drunk trumps sad drunk and happy one I was going to be, even if it killed me. And dying had never been on the agenda. I still had my pride. Dying would only confirm everything he had ever said about me. This was my last stand. No matter what I would stay alive and after my boozy stint in the wild I would go back home to my parents and build myself a new reality without him in it. I could still hear my parents screaming at me, trying to get me to stay home and felt a ping of regret. Maybe they hadn’t been all that far off the mark. Maybe he had been keeping me away from them. Though I would never actually say that to them. Better to keep that tiny bit of information for myself, for my tiny little glimmer of dignity. The patches were on the floor next to me and with a big, determent breath, I gathered them up and opened the tent zipper. I was a grown up and could take care of myself. No matter what anyone thought. The canopy was moving in lazy circles as I stared up at it trying to keep it still so the patch would go on just right. I knew that there might be a better way but really one on the inside and one out there should make everything perfect. There was no way it wouldn’t work. Just like putting a paper inside of plastic and sealing it up. Instant water resistance. Although it was a bit more of a chore than I thought it would be I got it to stick. And felt damn good about myself. Next time I would be sober while fixing things and doing it perfectly. There were only about three good sips left in the bottle when I finally got myself outside and for a moment I was tempted to close my eyes. It would feel so good to sink into the warmth of the booze and the nothingness that was occupying my mind. But that tiny voice kept pestering me. Just finish that one thing. You can do it . You will feel so good when you wake up . So with a sigh I kept my eyes opened and took in the breathtaking scenery. It was almost morning and the sun was starting to rise over the hills far away. Everything was bathed in a soft light orange glow. I suddenly felt so alive. The cold, fresh air, cut through the alcohol fog and suddenly I wished that I had taken this trip with my friends. It would have been so much better than being here all alone with my thoughts. Jake would have hated this. The only good morning for him started with a cigarette in bed at noon. Me on the other hand had always loved waking up with the sun. Going fishing with my dad. Playing outdoors, sitting around a warm fire at night, without the alcohol. I looked down at the bottle with contempt. Before Jake I would never have touched that stuff. I flung the bottle away. When I would wake up next I would never touch the stuff again. I will never know how long I sat there watching the sun waking up the world. All I know is that suddenly I jumped at a rough voice speaking behind me, somewhere behind my tent. “Well, well, well. What do we have here. The little princess is actually awake. And here me and my friends thought you would slumber all through the exchange.”  My skin was crawling as I slowly looked back and saw a dirty, middle-aged man with an unkempt beard down his chest. Behind him where two younger guys that looked just as bad, like they hadn’t seen a shower in weeks. My fear reduced a bit when I saw Jake walking over to us. He would help me get rid of them. It felt like destiny that he was here, just like the prince on a white horse to save his true love. He walked right by them towards me. Hugging me sideways and looking me over. “Honey, you know I have told you time and again to watch how much you drink. You are no use to them if you pass out before they start having their fun. They could just as well have bought a blowup doll for that.” It took a moment for me to register his words. Use to them? Who were they? How was I supposed to be of any help to them? The grim reality sent my world spinning once again. He wasn’t here for me. He would never have come here just for me. The ice-cold words he spoke next sealed my fate. “It’s really all your parent’s fault. If they would have just let me have you to begin with I would have gotten rid of you ages ago. Instead, I had to groom you for two whole years before you finally rebelled. You were such a pathetic daddy’s girl.” He looked down at me with something aching to pity in his eyes. “Don’t worry little princess. If you are lucky some old dude will buy you and treat you well. If not, you should have applied yourself better. The best sluts do as they are told. Not that you were ever any good at that to begin with.” With those horrible words he all but threw me into the bearded man’s hands. “Hold on to her while I set this tent on fire. Best to get rid of all the evidence. Her dad is sure to come looking for her.” I could only watch as Jake rummaged through the tent, taking my wallet and phone and leaving the rest inside. When he was done searching, he came back out and asked if anyone had matches. He then poured the rest of the gin over the opening of the tent and set everything on fire. Jake winked at me. “Sorry honey but you know how it is. Business always comes first.” I desperately tried to fight but they were too strong. With a punch to my face they had me almost knocked out and through that black haze I felt them carrying me away. We hadn’t gone very far when I heard voices, ghost like whispers coming for us. I can see her. Never mind the fire. She’s right there . Later my dad filled me in. He had gotten so worried that he made his friends in the fire department, as well as a couple of policemen, come with him to look for me. I was only seventeen. Just a kid really, that had been missing for two whole days. Thankfully they found me just in the nick of time. God knows where I would have ended up. Jake is in jail now, along with those three men. Hopefully I will never have to see them again.


MOTHER KNOWS BEST Martin and Frank were two old friends who morphed into the geezers they are today. Since they now wear their lifetime achievement badges, they’re never ones to stop what they’ve always lived to do and that is to tell people what they don’t want to hear, because they know everything about anything and everyone. Both of their middle names are busy body. However, today was to be a different day. Each time they met at the Dog and Pony Bar & Grill, which would be every Thursday on the dot at high noon, the talk would be the same. When they greeted each other, it was as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. They got their usual table and the talk went on and on as they tucked into the luncheon house special. Today’s highlight of conversation began about a recent newspaper article that they both had read. Martin was the first to pipe up with, “Get a load of that high-brow thinking in that story on the front page. Right?” he snickered and added, “How to Make Things Work Better My Way.” Just because he’s got that piece of paper from that hoity toity school, you might think he knows more than us learned folk?” Frank laughed loudly and agreed with his friend. “I think,” he added, “we need to get in on his idea. How about we come up with, Make Things Work Better OUR Way.” The two badgered each other about the endless possibilities until they came to an agreement. The one thing two old geezers felt they needed to change in this modern world of so much technology up the wazoo running everybody’s life, is how every house has a sideline pet that went by the name of, ALEXA. Martin was adamant in coming up with a game changer, in his new way of thinking. He thought back to a time when his mother was a totally different type of Alexa. She brought him up with a no nonsense attitude. You did what was expected in and around the household. No questions. You wanted something, let’s see how much effort it took to get you a dollar to buy that toy or that snack. Frank agreed, nodding vigorously. He liked the idea but had another way to make the whole idea sink in to make an impression for the good of all and not just the next generation. The two knew that their time was up, since lunchtime was long over. So they made a plan to find the dweebs they needed to concoct the plan. Where were they hanging out? Easy answer. At the bookstore coffeeshop for sure. Gotta have your fancy double shot espresso latte skim milk mochaccino. They agreed to meet there early the next day to find the one they were looking for, whoever that might be. Before they split, Martin said, “ What are we doing? Aren’t we just supposed to relax, meet up for lunch, and do a whole lot of nothing? We’ve earned this time.” Frank nodded but added, “So, if we could be something other than that, why not? We have to break out of our hum drum every now and then. Can’t forget to throw in a little fun. We can be the new geezers on the block. OK?” The next day was here and the two were at the street corner where the bookstore was in plain view. They noticed the ones coming and going were exactly the right dweebs. Now to solicit the right one for their hairbrained but needy ideas. It didn’t take long before the right person who happened to have the right book, caught their attention. It was, in a strange way, the right theme. Shakespeare. “To be, or not to be: that is the question.” “Nothing will come of nothing.” “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” Before long, they engaged in a conversation with Nate, and their plan was laid out. The young dude was totally wrapped up in their thinking and had a friend who knew a friend who could, without a doubt, create their ideal model. While Martin’s plan was hatching, Frank’s idea was taken into consideration as the next best blend of the same two thoughts. They agreed that these would spark an interest like no other, make a point, and put the message out there to one and all. Would it be funny? YES! and It would be a good way to add a mix of old and new thinking to make a point that should not be forgotten. Martin got ahold of folks he knew from the senior center who were so like him and Frank with the same attitude, in the lackadaisical way society has turned, especially with the young people. Now the time was here to address that for the good. Before long, the three met up again and with the process worked out, and simplified, it was time to make a statement. Now Martin and Frank had to stoop low and use some technology and with Nate’s help, created an online presence and soon found a film crew who agreed to get on board with their unique idea. Before long, they had created a way to adjust the style of the famous, ALEXA. Martin had one way, Frank had another. “Are we ready for this?” Frank wanted to be clear about this new investment of their lives that was about to change. His senior friends had already did their part and were as giddy as kids about their role. They were told to keep a lid on the project until it was a go. “We need to stay in the game. You’re dead a long time and so we got to do this now! Since we got Nate, we’re good with all the techy stuff he’ll need to keep us up on.” Martin knew it was time to unfold this plan and their new business venture. One by one throughout the day the film crew, Martin, Frank and Nate went house to house in various neighborhoods where they already got the okay to stop by. The first house became their claim to fame with their new invention, MOTHER KNOWS BEST. Nate was brought to see their ALEXA and attached the computer chip. The activation was priceless as he spoke, “Hey! Can you get me a take-out order of pizza?” The voice was one of the senior ladies who answered, “Excuse me young man. But you need to be polite when addressing me. If you need to eat, save your money and eat what’s in the refrigerator. And please clean up when you’re finished. MOTHER KNOWS BEST.


They say the truth will always come out but Clementine hopes she can change her destiny or more likely her brothers. “Clem! Get down here we have to be at the house in an hour that's what the landlord said. Clem?” yelled Tess. “I’ll be down soon T!” Clementine screams back. “Alright but if we're late it's your fault.” mumbled Tess. Clementine hurryingly grabs the rest of her boxes and runs out the room almost tripping over a coat hanger she didn't see. “This house ughh glad to be outta here.” She said to herself in a frustrated tone. She stumbles down the stairs and grabs her iced coffee off the mantle. She takes a sip and makes her way to the kitchen where Tess is standing, not acknowledging the fact clementine is behind her. “Boo!” shouts clementine. “What the hell clem.” says Tess flustered. “Well you better get used to it. We are moving into an old, creepy house. We should prepare ourselves for all the creepy pasta, right?” clementine asks. “Not this again i told you we are moving there because it's quiet we cant keep coming back to this clem he is gone!” she says sternly. “I know but i just can't forget him, maybe we can contact him and…” she is cut off by Tess “NO!” she yells “he's not here not there not anywhere! I’m sorry clem but it is just the truth.” she exclaims walking away and leaving clementine in the kitchen alone. A single tear runs down Clementine's face and she proceeds to quickly wipe it off. Before getting into the car clementine makes her way back upstairs again and stands motionless in front of a door with a goofy no entry sign on it. She pushes the door open and reveals a packed up boys room. She sits on the bed clenching a football t-shirt gently sobbing into it and her eyes wander around the room looking at all the photos of her and the boy around the room. “Goodbye Liam I'll miss you big bro” she says her voice cracking. After leaving the room she wipes her tears of that are now streaming down her face quickly and goes outside. “I'm here sorry forgot a box” she mumbles. “No problem clem.” Tess says. “Ok lets go.” exclaims clementine gathering herself. A few hours later they arrive at a small ancient looking cottage and begin to unpack. Clementine grabs a box and cuts it open revealing a spirit board she quickly snatches it away to not let Tess see and runs upstairs and sticks it behind a loose ceiling beam. “Clem you alright?” Tess questions. “Yea I'm fine, I just needed the toilet.” she answers. A couple minutes later clementine walks back downstairs smiling at Tess and grabbing another box after which she runs back upstairs alone. “Weird.” Tess mumbles and ignores her best friends mysterious behaviour as she goes back to unpacking the kitchen. Meanwhile back upstairs clementine is unpacking the toiletry box. “So call me mmhmm find me a mmMmMm true loves kisses.” she lightly hums. “CLEM HELP ME!” she jumps up immediately slightly frightened. “LIAM?” she says shaking. No answer she calls again no answer she brushes it off and goes downstairs for a break. “Oh good, your downstairs dinners ready.” says tess. “Great.” says Clementine, still a bit shaken. “Are you alright clem?” Tess asks worried. “Its just...its stupid but i thought i heard him...its fine lets just forget about it like you said earlier he isn’t here he cant be right right?” she speedily exclaims. “Oh clem you just miss him its ok it gets better now let's eat. After they finish eating the leave to go to sleep in their own rooms, night t. '' says Clementine, rubbing her eyes. “Night clem” answers Tess opening her bedroom door. Clementine slowly dozes off to sleep. A couple hours later at around 2 am the spirit board thuds to the ground waking up Tess and clementine the both run toward the board and see the planchette in the middle they hesitantly place their hands on and a shiver runs down their spines. “Is anyone here?” asks tess. The planchette slowly moved to yes. “What's your name?” asks clementine. The planchette slowly moves to the letters spelling L-I-A-M. “Are you touching it tess?” says clementine in an annoyed tone. “Noo...oo.” whispers tess. The girls look at each other in horror and something in the darkness grabs Clementine's leg and starts pulling her towards the darkness that is now consuming everything. “HELP ME! TESS!”

Clementine screams but Tess sits there like she is possessed senseless and drops to the ground as Clementine is trying to tug her shoulder to not get pulled into the darkness. “I told you cc what is done is done.” says liam. Clementine knows its liam only he called her cc she screams as the darkness consumes her and her final screams echo throughout the house waking up tess who is now shaking on the freezin k floor surrounded by deep claw marks in the floor. She jumped up and still in her pyjamas gathered her things and left to call the police but everyone thought she was lying. She couldn't prove anything and she got stuck in a mental asylum to help her get better but she never did. Everyone thought she was a crazy lady who imagined that her best friend made a deal with the devil but things went wrong and instead of one soul it took two but that isn't fair. On the hand no one said the devil is a righteous chap with a cheery soul because he doesn't have one very often at least but this year he has two. He must feel very lucky he has the soul of a sister who sold out her brother to the devil and accidentally her guilt took over her and she sold out herself. So just a reminder if you're dealing with the devil don't feel guilt or darkness just might consume you.


That day was supposed to be like any other and my curiosity as a child created grand ideas of a magical adventure. Were there goblins hiding under the city well? When will I be able to learn magic? I picked up a stick with my right hand and started to wave it around like I saw in that one movie. I had hoped a spell would come out, but the only thing the stick did was make a swish noise through the air. I noticed another sound as well, the sound of dripping. I had my mind focused on a lot of things and didn’t notice my melting popsicle! It soon slipped off the stick and became food for ants. I had wished a melting treat was my biggest worry that day, but I was wrong. I was in the fenced-in backyard of my house when it happened. I saw a thick plume of smoke coming from somewhere in the city. Was there a fire? I thought. Sirens soon started to blare from firetrucks and disappeared into the distance. I was about to forget about it when I heard another noise. It was the muffled sound of guns firing in the city! Fear and anxiety overwhelmed me as I looked on with horror. More and more buildings started to smoke as they eventually ignited into flames.

I could see the devastation from the suburbs while another horror came to mind. My parents were in the city! I didn’t have long to decide what to do as I noticed something speed towards my house from the sky! I mustered up the courage to run, and run I did. I was able to get inside my house when it struck. Everything went black soon after as I lost consciousness. *** That was the last memory I had of my old life. They say that day was the day World War Three started. I had long since forgotten the cause of it. Even though It was finally over after all these years, the devastation of the pure chaos still left a wound on the world. The fate of humanity relied on the future, but the horrors of the past called me back. I was standing in that same yard where my old life stopped, while the hellish one began. The grass was overgrown, and thick vines crept up the side of the house and fence. However, the thing that stood out the most was the massive hole where the backdoor used to be. I suffered severe injuries that day but was eventually nursed back to health. I never understand why they helped me; maybe they wanted to condition me into the perfect warrior. Regardless, I fought well and hard. I was happy the chaos came to an end, but it felt like I was still grasping at dust. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. I thought this city could provide me some direction. I stepped into the house and looked around. The windows were shattered, with broken glass littering the floor. Nature had swept in from the massive hole and covered nearly everything in green. As I looked at the living room, memories flooded in of movie nights filled with laughter and fun. I remembered the feeling, but it felt foreign and strange. I looked around once again and saw something that nature hadn’t reclaimed; it was our family picture. I picked up the frame and wiped the dust off. A ten-year-old me was in between my mother and father as we all smiled. None of us ever thought something like this would happen when we posed in front of the camera all those years ago. I never got to say goodbye. I set the picture down and looked around once more. I saw the entrance to my bedroom and stepped in with a hint of hesitation. I walked in with my eyes closed and only opened them after a long moment. The view that reached my vision wasn’t what I expected! Much of it was how I left it as various action figures populated the shelves while posters adorned the walls. I sat on my bed and grabbed a nearby comic. I blew thick dust off the cover and flipped through the pages. I never really understood these superheroes, but I loved the pictures back then.

After a while of reading, I sat up and put the comic down. It was nice to remember the past, but I needed to search the city before it got dark; I was looking for something. I got out of the room and exited the house using the front door. As soon as I stepped out, a cold breeze swept through the empty street. I got out my map and had to hold onto it tightly as the wind tried to take it away. I traced the route to the city and headed towards it with anticipation and fear of what I might find.

Like a slowly marching caterpillar, I advanced towards the city step by step. I could always see the tall skyscrapers from the suburbs, but stepping right up to them made me feel smaller than any ant. I was now at the mouth of the abandoned city and scanned my surroundings. Multiple buildings were charred black and had crumbling supports. The roads weren’t any better as rusted cars cluttered them. I took out my map once again and focused on my destination. There was an old general store around here that I was trying to find. I carefully compared the map with the city and planned out a route. The debris of fallen buildings and pilled up cars required me to make a detour. With my map in hand, I cautiously navigated the apocalyptic jungle. The sounds of my footsteps clashed against the forgotten city and reminded me I was truly alone. Places like this appealed to me as a kid, but that was before the war gave them any meaning. Now, they served as a reminder of the death and destruction that took place. I weaved and shuffled my way through the city before I finally came up to a square building. I checked my map to verify if this was the right place. The shopping building was scorched but was in good shape overall. I stepped forward with a tense body and entered it. A little bit of light spilled in from the outside, but it wasn’t enough to light up everything. I fumbled through my pack and brought out a flashlight. I turned it on and shined it through the empty void. At first, there was nothing. Empty shelves and boxes littered the floor. I carefully stepped over them and walked towards the back of the store. The dust was slowly cascading through the beam of my flashlight; It was so thick that I ran into something. I waved my hand through the air to clear the dust. That was when I saw it, a skeleton! It was still wearing its work clothes as if business was still open. You didn’t deserve this, none of us did.

I stepped around the skeleton and the ones that came after. I eventually made it towards the back of the store and stood before a locked door. I made an audible gulp as I took a key from my pocket and struggled to open it. My hands were shaking slightly, but I was able to unlock it. Click ! The door opened with a creak as I stepped inside. The rectangle room wasn’t as spacious as I remembered. I scanned around with my flashlight, hoping I wouldn’t find anything. I had almost searched the whole room when I found something I didn’t want to. In the far-left corner of the room were two skeletons! They were clutching onto an old photograph; it was a copy of the same one we had in our house.

I fell to my knees as an emotion I hadn’t felt for a long time welled up inside me. I had hoped that they were able to get out somehow. I always feared it, but never got the chance to see for myself until now. I sat there for a while as the tears streamed down my face. I was overwhelmed with sadness but felt slightly relieved at the same time. Now I could say goodbye. I got up and walked over to my parents. I wouldn’t let this be their final resting place. I carefully moved their remains outside and towards the back of the building. I went back inside for a shovel and started to dig. The wind blew away any tears that tried to form. I didn’t know how long I had dug for, but I knew it was enough when a large grave started to form. I carefully placed them into the grave along with the picture they were holding. Bit by bit, I covered the hole with dirt. It was harder than anything I had done in the war. I filled the grave in the end and said two things. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you can rest easy now.” With my last words, I slowly turned around and headed out of the city. I finally got to say goodbye.


JR Wolfgang was not always an enthusiast of art. The interest sparked after the trial. JR was what one would consider to be a lost man; like most people in this world. The one difference between JR and most people was that JR could not accept this concept. JR could not stay lost. He spent a long time running from the feeling in any way he could. Escaping by means of any sort, substances being a major one. Through this toxic remedy he only wandered into a land of nearly no return. He only walked deeper into the woods. By the time he finally dealt with the wreckage of his past he was left with a stoic mind and hardened heart of stone. Scared of any feelings good or bad. A soul that longed for love, but a mind that longed for safety. JR was fairly young; 28 years old. He forced himself to step outside of his comfort zone at times. He could hardly go in public without acting and feeling like a complete alien. He had become institutionalized and fearful of unfamiliarity, even though what had become familiar to him was isolation which was synonymous with misery. A major conundrum, one that would torture his body and mind. In his efforts JR ventured to a museum in Connecticut. A small art museum, nothing renowned, but nonetheless a step for him. There was no particular reason he chose to do this. He simply researched things to do near him online and came across this exhibit. He decided not to go, the same way he did with everything. However, at the last minute something told him to do it and he listened. JR was tired of emptiness during outings. But he also feared the consequences of not pushing himself. He paced the exhibit aimlessly, more interested in observing the people than he was in the art. A young foreign looking girl (around his age) that he noticed seemed to not understand something and approached JR with a look of confusion but also a look of familiarity and a look of things that are hard to explain. He said nothing even though she looked at him directly, he had trouble maintaining eye contact. She looked for longer than someone normally would without speaking. Instead of saying anything she held her phone to his face. The screen displayed a translating app with English words that asked him if he knew how to "escape" this place. JR became concerned after reading this but also couldn't understand her lack of urgency in regard to her question. JR was a very tech savvy man, he was just an incredibly intuitive man in general. A master of creative problem solving and a master of thinking. Thinking was in fact his greatest strength and greatest weakness. JR was a double edged sword. He studied very far into Spanish while in school and began studying it very seriously in college, this is prior to his downfall and early dismissal of education. Therefore he concluded before responding that the translating app must have been misinterpreting a certain word she used. He figured she must have wanted to leave the museum. JR could not help but laugh; this confused the already confused girl even more. He was able to quickly understand the way the app worked and saw that the language originally spoken that was translated to English was Portuguese. He assumed Portuguese was the same as Spanish and attempted speaking Spanish words, this was to only half avail. she seemed to somewhat interpret his sentences. He immediately realized that the two languages must be much different than he thought originally. JR tapped the microphone button displayed on her phone but when he spoke into it odd and unfamiliar words were being written on the screen. He realized he needed to change the language to English in order for his words to translate to Portuguese the way hers were translating to English. He asked if she was okay, just in case she really was asking how to escape. She responded by asking why he would think she wasn't. Rather than explaining he just let it go and said, "never mind." He told her that he would show her how to exit. She followed him and they continued to communicate in this fashion. She was initially drawn by his patience with this and his ability to navigate something that has been a struggle to her since coming to the area. He understood more than most about the language and the way the language was structured from understanding Spanish, and was able to quickly adapt to the Portuguese. By the time they had reached the exit a connection was building. Something that would appear as an obstacle to most was something that was fun to these 2. It was something that immediately showed them a lot about each other. Before even knowing too many specifics about one another's lives, they knew what kind of person each other were. And were not distracted by the unimportant things. The girl asked JR to help her go to a restaurant that she wanted to go to due to her difficulty with things like this. It was more of an excuse to stay around him which he suspected and hoped for. He nonetheless agreed. JR sometimes (most times) would speak before thinking about what he was saying. JR struggled with impulsiveness. Therefore this means of communication that would hinder many, was benefitting him greatly by allowing him to process things first. Sentences needed to be carefully constructed and worded in order to translate correctly; he knew this from Spanish. This also gave her the opportunity to see JR's true self, something that JR did not allow often at all. JR was the kind of person that gets better with time. He got better as you learned more about him and his talents. JR wouldn't let anyone get to that point. Dinner went well and they were forced to sit close. Next to each other rather than across, in order to be able to communicate. This led to physical touch which was something that JR really liked and felt very comforted by. She felt the same way. The 2 kept creating excuses to get together in ways like this and the communication only improved. This process led to a connection a level deeper than words allow. An obstacle became an opportunity. JR Wolfgang and his wife built a life together. They built something unique and unmatched. They didn't have to overcome anything, because the only thing they saw when experiencing this journey together, was the fact that they were together.